After the bell rings, I wait for him outside the classroom door. Allister walks out after most everyone else, like he purposely kept me waiting.

He passes me, and then dramatically turns around. “Oh! Hi—didn’t see you there.”

I want to smile, but I don’t. “Yes, you did.” I pull the strings on my book bag and fall into step with him. “So, you’re a skipper? Didn’t see that coming. You seem so . . . erudite.”

“As if it’s possible to wear this uniform and not come off that way. I’m not a skipper—not by identity. Just a kid enjoying the benefits of being a new kid while they last. I still don’t know my way around. Can you show me?”

He gives me a wink and pops his gum. I can smell the Winterfresh from here.

“What’s my excuse?” I press closer to him so our conversation is quieted by the hallway traffic—just between us. “I’ve never missed a day of class in my life.”

He shrugs. “You’re living a little?”

He makes a point. I’m always getting called out or kicked out. What’s showing up worth, anyway? Does it matter? I wear my uniform, stay quiet, and don’t cause a scene. And even then, someone’s always watching me, looking for a reason to single me out or screw me over. Maybe following the rules isn’t keeping me as safe here as I thought.

Allister nods at a couple making out hot and heavy against a locker and whispers, “Gross.”

Because they’re kissing in public? Or because they’re a boy and a girl?

In the stairwell, he slides down the railing, almost running into a guy who moves aside for him. “Look alive, bro—my bad!” He meets the landing in a clumsy one-footed hop, his tie flying behind him like a cape. He does a twirl around someone else. “Excuse me. Yes, pardon me.”

I weave and walk, chasing him down the next flight of stairs, afraid I could lose him.

People adjust their steps to make room for him. People never move when I say excuse me, probably because I don’t speak loud enough, or maybe I don’t move with as much confidence.

He glances over his shoulder and reaches back like he wants me to take his hand. Then it turns into a follow me gesture.

Did I imagine an invitation to hold hands? Maybe I’m just crazy. Maybe I’m the only boy within a thousand-mile radius who thinks of other boys that way.

The back door takes us to a small staircase, which takes us to an old asphalt basketball court. Its hoop is just a rim without a net. It looks like a relic from a neighborhood that existed here before St. Clair.

Allister slides down the railing again. I want to try, but I know I’ll bust my ass.