A teacher raises her voice in the hallway, followed by the unmistakable clack-rollll of a skateboard’s hard plastic wheels hitting the floor, heading in the direction of the steps down to the English wing and east exit. As I look over, a colorful distortion streams across the pebbled glass pane in the bathroom door; maybe the black, red, green, and yellow of a Baja backpack. Kincaid.

I’m there in an instant, staring out into a now empty hallway, dappled with echoes like rings on a pond. Moments later, there comes the distant sound of a door closing.

Old-man car is idling in the student lot as I’m swept outside in the rush after the final bell. A shave-and-a-haircut honk, flashing brights, wipers scraping over a dry windshield: Trace’s version of a subtle come-hither.

I glance over at my bus, where kids are piling on fast—there won’t be any empty seats left soon—then jog over to the car. Trace hangs his arm out the window, beating a rhythm against the door with his hand, saluting in the side-view as other upperclassmen honk their horns and pull around us, yelling insults. Sage leans across Trace’s lap, waving me in.

Giving Trace a suspicious look, I climb into the backseat, finding Bree, sitting with her feet pulled up to keep them clear of the fast-food takeout bags and soda bottles covering the floor. I fasten the heavy lap belt and settle back, looking at her across yards of tan upholstery. “You seem really far away.”

We laugh as Trace cuts off a Prius and guns out of the lot before we get stuck behind the buses. His eyes find me in the rearview mirror. “What’s it gonna be, Clarabelle? Ass, gas, or grass? Nobody rides for free.”

“I do,” says Bree.

“Yeah, but I’m scared of you.” He honks again, throwing his hand out the window as we pass a group of kids walking home. “Okay. Quickie mart first to pick up ‘the goods.’” He lets go of the wheel to do air quotes.

Sage snorts. “You are such a dork.”

“Yeah, but I’m the ‘only one’ who ‘has connections’ to ‘get the merchandise’—”

“Will you steer?” Bree waits until his hands are back at ten and two, then turns to me. “Sorry if we were downers this morning. With Gavin and everything.”

“Hey, I asked. Not like I was expecting warm fuzzies.”

“Damn it, you told her already?” Trace spins the search button on the radio, settles on some spit-spraying talk-show host having an aneurysm over tax hikes and the minimum wage. “I wanted to tell her.”