“I’ll see you both tomorrow,” she said. “My mom is waiting for me outside.” Then, after a pause: “I’m sorry he won’t leave you alone.”

Then she ran off.

Héctor picked at something slimy on his arm. “I really thought it couldn’t get worse,” he said. “And now look.”

Jackson didn’t respond to that. He guided Héctor to the boys’ room, but they only made it a few steps before her voice stopped them.

“Mr. Muñoz!”

This day truly cannot get worse, Héctor thought. But apparently it’s about to!

He and Jackson turned, and Ms. Heath strode up to them. Today’s tracksuit: the all-yellow one. Kinda resembled the banana peel that Carlos had picked off him.

Ms. Heath examined the pile of garbage at his feet and the stains over his clothing.

“Mr. Jackson, why are you not leaving campus?”

Jackson’s eyes went wide. “Well, I have to help Héctor with—”

“There is no loitering after the final bell rings,” she interrupted. “You know the rules.”

“But Ms. Heath, it’s not fair that—”

“Would you like to debate fairness with me in detention tomorrow afternoon?”

Jackson sighed. “No, ma’am.”

She pointed down the hallway. Didn’t say anything.

“Sorry,” said Jackson, and with a small wave, he left Héctor behind.

Ms. Heath then focused on Héctor, who was doing his best not to let his anger show. “I hesitate to ask why, but . . . why are you standing in a pile of trash?”

He sighed. He could give Ms. Heath the truth, but would she even care?

“If you’re thinking of concocting some bizarre story again, save it.”

Well, that answered that.

“I just had an accident, that’s all,” he said, and even as the words left his mouth, he knew how terrible that lie sounded.

Ms. Heath clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Please clean up after yourself and the floor before you leave.”

And she walked away.

Clean up after himself? He wanted to punch the wall. He had never had an urge like that, but Ms. Heath . . . ugh, why was she like this? Did she think he’d dumped garbage on himself? Who would do something like that?

It felt so painfully obvious to Héctor that he was being bullied. Trash! There was trash all over him!

A creak echoed in the now-empty hallway.

The door to the janitor’s closet inched open.

Wiping his filthy hand on his jeans, Héctor then gently pulled on the handle. Would he have to face his friends in this state?

It was the Room, all right. But this time, it had fashioned itself into . . . well, it looked like a fancy dressing room. To the left was a rack with clothing hanging on it, and Héctor did a double take. The black T-shirts and jeans were the exact ones he was wearing, as were the solid black Chucks.