Dull, pin-drop silence. Then somebody—sounds like Trace—roars, “Yeeeaahh!” and stomps the bleachers. Everybody joins in, making our own stampede until the response is deafening. Sage, Bree, and I lean together, laughing, covering our ears.

When the storm breaks, Mr. Mac is flushed, warily pleased. “Right. Good. Thanks. So, we’ll be hosting the Brewer Witches this weekend, and I hope you’ll all turn out to watch our Lady Elks beat the tapioca out of them on the soccer field Saturday.” Another pause. “Oh, yeah. And the football game, too.”

Silence. Poor Mr. Mac. Rode the high of his opener a little too close to the sun.

“But”—shuffle, shuffle, flush deepening, brows drawn—“speaking not just as an assistant coach, but as a member of the PTA and the neighborhood watch committee, some stuff has happened at past homecoming games that we don’t want to see again. No alcohol or controlled substances on school grounds. Park your cars only in the provided spaces at the athletic fields or here in the student lot. No foul language or fighting in the stands. I’ll be there, of course, but so will other volunteers from neighborhood watch, and they will be paying attention. Okay? We love you guys, and we want you to be safe.”

Trace’s voice from somewhere, low and crooning: “Wuv ooo tooo . . .”

Mr. Mac collects his notes and returns to the bleachers, applauded only by the soft friction of his pant legs. I spot Mrs. Mac in the corner of the room, shooting him an enthusiastic double thumbs-up.

Crackenback reclaims the floor. “Allow me to second Mr. Mac. Please try your darnedest to be the soul of courtesy and good sportsmanship as we host the Witches. Not like last year. Or the year before that. Or any in memory.” Finally, he raises his eyes to us, a nearsighted gaze that somehow manages to be penetrating. Sage’s fingers go to her jeans pocket where the note is, her expression kept carefully blank as she looks back at him. “That’s all. Back to class.”

Our exodus is the opposite of our arrival: molasses-slow, clotting around the double doors, barely moving, bodies pressed against bodies. Sage catches my elbow, whispering in my ear. “Feel like Chinese food?”

We run, frosty wind ripping back our hair. Five seconds to make the trees or somebody’ll see, Bree told me as we hid in an empty classroom close to the English wing exit, waiting for the hallways to clear out for first lunch.

Don’t trip, Sage said. If you fall, you’re a dead soldier, and we can’t stop for you. Sorry.