“Can I use the restroom?” Nehemiah always tries to work Mrs. Horner when she seems distracted. The problem is that she is never so distracted that she doesn’t see him coming.

“Have you earned any time by doing your work?” she asks.

“Dang.” Nehemiah breaks the word, pronouncing it like it has two syllables. He crumples up a sheet of paper and throws it at her desk. Mrs. Horner reaches for the blue stack of papers, reflection forms to be filled out whenever a student misbehaves. A form means automatic after-school detention. Nehemiah stops himself, finds the piece of paper, and smooths it out for her approval.

“Fine. I don’t want to hear your fussing.” Taking a casual survey of his work, she sets the blue sheet down and fills out a hall pass instead.

Nehemiah trots toward the door but stops at my desk. Flexing his thin arms and balling his hands into fists, he lunges his chest forward. I duck backward.

“You flinched.” Nehemiah punches me twice.

“This is a stupid game. Of course I flinched. You ain’t exactly the most in-control dude I know. You might swing and hit me by accident.”

“Whatever.” Nehemiah squints like he just noticed me for the first time. “What’s up? You got your scheming face on.”

“If nothing else, we need to figure out who brought that gun to school before this whole situation finds a way to fall on us.”

“What are we going to do? You got a plan?” Nehemiah glances toward Mrs. Horner before dropping to a knee pretending to tie his shoelace.

“Not sure yet. I’m just at the thinking stage. First up, though, I need to talk to Moms before she hears Mrs. Fitzgerald’s message.”

The bus driver snails through the streets, never in any particular hurry.

First the bus lurches out of the school parking lot, belching black smoke, grumbling along the side street that winds from Persons Crossing Public Academy to the main road. Traffic backs up behind it. Cars are too scared to dart around it because this stretch of road is a well-known speed trap. With each stop, I recalculate what story to give Moms that might spare my life.

The gray road gives way to rows of trees that tick by with the rumble of the bus as my soundtrack. I picture Moms stomping around my room like Godzilla, her yelling worse than any radioactive breath. The rows of trees give way to the houses of our addition. Though traveling the same route the bus always takes, it seems like the bus driver, Mrs. McGhee, has gone out of her way to snake through the neighborhood. She yields to the buses from other schools, which crisscross the subdivision. She stops at every house. She brakes to allow plenty of time for squirrels to scamper in front. What should be a five-minute trek adds several years to my life while I sweat what I’m going to tell Moms.