“Mrs. Fitzgerald wasn’t bluffing. She’ll send us to Banesford, and that school don’t play.” I rub my eyes like I’m still sleepy. “We still got ten minutes before the bell rings. Want to chat with Pierce?”

“Man, I don’t know if I’m up for his brand of weird first thing in the morning.”

On our way to Pierce’s locker, I notice all the attention on us. Eyes too careful not to make direct contact but still keep us in view. People moving out of our way. Nehemiah puffs up as we walk through the hall, but I don’t enjoy it. Suspicion is one thing; fear of us is another.

The sixth-grade locker bays are on the first floor, as is the Special Ed room. Filled with the usual bustle and banter of, well, sixth graders. Excitement about an upcoming camping trip. Who’s going to sit by who on the bus ride. The latest YouTube videos. The desperate panic over missing homework. Some still go on about the hottest Pokémon cards. They are so sixth grade.

It is no coincidence that Pierce has the last locker in the corridor. He paces in the center of the hallway. He walks around like a cowboy waiting on a duel partner. It is best to confront him before class, mostly because one never knows how he is going to react. I hear the teachers whisper about him when they think no one is listening. I know he has some “neuro” issue, and they’ve slapped him with every label they can think of, from ADHD to spectrum to initials I can’t even guess at.

But he’s in Special Ed. One of us.

“Hey, Pierce, hold up.”

Pierce freezes in place like a statue, a knowing grin on his face. I step to his side, but he keeps staring straight ahead. His face is all hard angles and his skin ghostly pale. Up close, his lips are too pink and the edges of his eyes appear watery, like he suffers from allergies. The thing about Pierce is that he owns who he is. I am pretty convinced that he plays up his tics for effect. He’s not dumb and knows that it gives him an advantage. People see them and think one way about him; meanwhile, he’s really studying them.

I show him the tie clip. “Is this yours?”

I wait for him to pluck it from my palm. Instead, he tucks and withdraws his hand from his pocket and opens his hand, only coming up with lint.

“I think that’s Pierce talk for ‘It’s mine,’” Nehemiah says.

Frustrated, I run my other hand through my hair. Pierce mirrors the gesture. When I step back and exhale slowly, he does the same.

“One can play at that game,” Pierce says.

“Right. So were you behind the bushes?” I say.

“Let me think.” Pierce strikes a new pose and taps his lip as if in deep thought. “Yes.”

“When?”

“Last week. No, tomorrow. Sometime recent.”

“Why we talking to this fool?” Reading my face, Nehemiah opts to provoke him. “He don’t know nothing.”