Mike and the Minions were howling, and there was no way Héctor could bore them if he was now going to be used for target practice.

So much for his new strategy.

He passed through the double doors and ignored the noise behind him: The laughing. The whispering. All the gossip and pity. His face burned, his stomach hurt, and a rage swirled in his chest. He passed Ms. Heath, who said nothing to him, even though there was clearly some sort of white substance on his shirt. She barely registered that he was there. He didn’t necessarily want her attention, yet it still stung. The evidence was right there, and she just . . . didn’t see it.

Héctor slyly pulled his phone out to use the camera to see the damage, and there was a text.

Sophia: hey boo, miss you. sorry I been so busy. talk soon?

A pang of sadness hit his chest. He missed her—and Tim—so much. But then he thought of replying to her, thought about telling her what had happened, and that sadness became an ugly shame. How could he tell them about his life here?

So Héctor stuffed his phone back in his pocket. He had intended to go to the boys’ room, but there, on his right, sat the door. JANITOR.

And for the first time since he’d come to this school, the sight of the janitor’s closet brought him dread.

This was not how he wanted to see Juliana again, but there it was: the Room. Beckoning to him. Maybe . . . maybe it knew. Somehow, it knew what had happened.

He had to clean himself off regardless. And he did feel comfortable around Juliana. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew that she wouldn’t judge him.

So Héctor swallowed his fear and stepped inside the Room.

Juliana rose from the couch, an expectant smile on her face. “There you are!” she said. “There’s been a—what happened to you?”

She was definitely looking at the pudding on his hands and his clothes. Fantastic.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Just dropped some food on myself on the way to school.”

Juliana frowned at that, and her colorful skirt twirled around her when she spun and walked to her backpack. She came back with some wipes and began to help Héctor.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“Please,” she said. “Lemme guess: Someone threw this at you?”

His mouth dropped open. “How did you know?”

She pointed a yellow-painted nail at his shoulder. “It’s on the back of your shirt, bruh,” she said. “How would you spill something back here?” Then she was silent for a second. “And kids used to do that to me.”

The words were out of him before he could think twice. “How did you get them to stop?”