The pages are brittle and drawn over. A big red 6 is blocking the introduction. It’s too thick and heavy to be permanent marker, and it’s making the whole page crinkle around it. On the next page is another 6, then on each page after that a different character: 7. R. E. D. Big letters, like a message, on every . . . single . . . page. And they’re drawn in dried blood.

“What the hell is that?” says Chad Roberts, not minding his own business. He’s two chairs down from me today, electing not to be right across from me, but closer. He’s leaning over Fiona to gawk at my book. “That how you mark up all your books, Livingston?” His tone is as shaky as I am. “In ritual blood sacrifice?”

Why are you so obsessed with me?

There’s some laughter, some recognition that something weird is going on with me. Everyone is pulling out their books. People poke their heads out to look at the strange symbols—the message drawn in blood. I can smell it. Like burning wood and iron.

Can they?

“What’s going on?” Ms. Kingston approaches me, hand hanging coyly over the belt at her pencil skirt, neck like a curious vulture. “Jake?” Her mouth widens in horror as her boots boom against the floor. “What have you done?”

My hand won’t stop holding the page open. It’s frozen by fear, or shame, maybe. I didn’t do this, but it feels like I did, because who else could’ve? I’m trapped between this impulse to hide it and to ask for help. But of course, no one can help me.

“Sorry . . .” I flip pages frantically. Seems like the whole book is destroyed. “I didn’t do this.”

It feels like the person who did this is in the room with me, laughing at the misery of my embarrassment. “Ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

Can they hear that?

No, everyone is straight-faced, all judgmental stares. And that chorus of children laughing is coming from dead world, maybe even the classroom next door, where someone laughed so much they curled up and died.

I don’t want to be here anymore.

I close my book and push out from the table. The chair legs groan, and Ms. Kingston flinches. With my bag, I launch from the room like an escape capsule and dart to the end of the hallway. The running feels good, like if my stride is long enough, it will rip my blazer and slacks and everything will fall off of me. I’ll crash through the window like a half-naked superhero and fly into the sun.

Head swimming, I shuffle down the stairwell and collapse on the landing, letting my bag fall off one arm.

6 6 7 R E D R U T H R O A D. 667 Redruth Road. An address down the street from mine. Matteo’s? Yes . . . it must be Matteo’s.