“Uhhhhh . . .” Chad picks up the book like he’s never seen one before and then slams it down. Leans back in his chair and fixates his beady blue eyes on me. “I want to hear what Livingston thought of the reading.”

“Benj—” Ms. Kingston gives her head a little shake. “I’m sorry . . . Jake.” She almost called me Benji. “Anything you found exciting or meaningful about the pages?”

Her tone is condescending, like she already knows I didn’t read. Which I didn’t. But not because I can’t read, like she thinks. Just because The Great Gatsby is a snoozefest, and if I’m gonna read words, I’d rather them be by Octavia Butler, Tananarive Due, or Stephen Graham Jones instead of the guy who wrote a story about the tragedy of being rich.

I’m silent. Fiona raises her hand, but Ms. Kingston doesn’t acknowledge it.

Ms. Kingston pivots her utterly offended frame toward me. “Have you arrived late and neglected to read as well?”

At this point, there’s no denying it. “Yeah.” My voice is a mumble. “Sorry.”

“In that case, why don’t you go and sit outside and read?” She flicks a finger at the door like she’s commanding a dog. “You can spend the period catching up to the rest of us.”

I’d rather not be here anyway, but it’s embarrassing to have to turn my back on everyone and hear the silence crackling with judgment as I leave.

“Okay! Let’s try that again.”

Ms. Kingston’s voice quiets as the door hisses shut.

The hallway is creepy when abandoned. Too silent and big for one person. I feel like a piece of food tossed through a giant’s hungry intestine.

The ceiling lights are bright enough to rip right through my corneas, so I close my eyes. “Ah, peace,” I whisper. “St. Clair’s diploma will set you up nicely for a college with an impressive national ranking. Or something.”

I want to be a cartoonist, but I’ve never thought of a degree as an important part of taking people on visual adventures. In fact, school never feels very important at all. I have no friends here—not that I had any friends at my old high school either, but this one has less fights and more potential, as Mom would say.

I open my eyes, kick a pencil across the floor, and listen to it roll. Each classroom I pass has some teacher warbling on like a robot, and I’d hate to be one of the kids in there.

A documentary drones from within a dark room. A flute creates a tune in the auditorium. Trumpets and tubas and triangles add a questlike whimsy. The intensity builds, and more instruments join. A clarinet. Drums grow in power, rising like a tempest.

A gunshot.

A gunshot?

The music collapses to a stop. More gunshots sound off.