AT THE START of second period, the intercom gives a burst of nasal kazoo buzzes, like they’ve got a gigantic fly stuck on a pest strip in the office—“Assembly,” Mr. Spille translates—and it’s Friday, so the herd is rabid. None of the teachers brought their cattle prods; they’re shouting, drowning in the rush, soon to be trampled into unrecognizable smears that the custodians will have to sort out later, a pocket protector here, a shard of bridgework there. I’m slammed and bumped so many times between history and the gym that I fight for sheer survival, scraping shins with my heel, stabbing my elbows indiscriminately.

The wooden bleachers are swarming, but Bree, Sage, and I find one another like we’re magnetized, heads together, chatting hard and fast and snarling at anybody who steps on our fingers or drives their knees into our backs. At one point, I see Landon sitting up above, legs crossed, foot bobbing as she scans the crowd. I give a half wave, but she doesn’t seem to see.

Crackenback’s walk to the podium is achingly slow, like all the cartilage has worn from his joints; today, his carnation is white. He talks for nearly a minute, with us shouting, “What?” at him before someone realizes the mic is unplugged. Whine of feedback; then his dry, funeral-dirge voice: “—ever vandalized the boys’ bathroom to come forward to either myself or a teacher you trust. We want to get you the help you need.” Clears his throat. “We’ve had another trash-can fire on school grounds. Fortunately for you all, Ms. Hyde was swift with a bottle of Dasani and the school was saved. If you, or anyone you know . . .”

Someone nudges me, and a thick triangle of paper with Sage’s name scrawled on it is stuffed into my hand. I pass it to her, and she unfolds it in her lap, below the line of teachers’ vision, a full sheet of notebook paper with only two words written on it that I can see: Song’s run. Sage smiles, folds the note away.

Crackenback stands, head bent over the podium, before stiffening back to life. “Now, my cherubs, if you could give Mr. Mac your undivided attention, he has a few reminders about homecoming weekend”—bellows and whoops—“which is almost upon us.”

I think I misheard the name until a beefy middle-aged guy with short-buzzed hair, wire-framed glasses, and a casual-Friday outfit of polo shirt, wind pants, and squeaky-clean running shoes gets up from the front bleacher. I can totally see him being married to Mrs. Mac. I can also see him playing gin rummy for toothpicks and keeping issues of Reader’s Digest on the back of his toilet. He has actual notes, which he taps against the surface of the podium until they’re nicely edged. “First of all, I’d like to say”—he pauses, his voice quiet—“rage on, Elks.”