Mrs. Horner’s breath stinks and when she glides out from behind her desk, she talks too close to a person’s face. “You’re not in trouble, but I can’t leave you alone. Don’t ruin my trust in you to make it down there on your own.”

“We’ll be okay,” I say.

“Is Brionna in on it, too?” Nehemiah asks as soon as we’re out of earshot.

“Nah. She likes to run her mouth too much,” I say. “This was the easy part of my plan. Now comes the hard part. You up for it?”

“Can’t wait. What you need me to do?”

Education is a full-contact sport.

The students in Ms. Erickson’s class crowd around books. They arm themselves with rulers and calculators like they were gearing up for war, not just checking their work. Another group huddles along the carpet in the rear as Ms. Erickson illustrates problems on a whiteboard. The excitement charges the room. I wonder if this is what it’s like to be just another drop in the sea of different shades dotting the landscape of the room. A couple of girls wear hijabs, which shake as they nod in agreement with their teacher’s words. The kid in front of me taps his pencil against his notebook. Studious gazes track Ms. Erickson’s every move. It all feels so . . . normal.

“Today we’re going to review percentages.” Ms. Erickson walks between the clusters, more bird of prey than protective mother hen. I check the time. There are about twenty minutes left in fourth period. Lunch is up next. If I know Mrs. Horner, she’ll wait until lunch to collect us and enjoy the extra moments of peace and quiet alone in the classroom.

Wearing a bored smirk, Marcel notices us as soon as we enter. “Ms. Erickson? We have some . . . visitors.”

“What can I do for you fellas?” Ms. Erickson examines our hands for a pass or paperwork of some sort.

“Mrs. Horner sent us down here. She had to . . . step out,” I say.

“I see.” She rumples her face, weighing our answers, already planning to verify our story. “Can you handle quiet time?”

“We’ll see,” Nehemiah says. I elbow him in his side. “I mean, yes, ma’am.”

Nehemiah takes the desk by the front door while I make my way over to the opposite side of the room, at the rear by the computer station. An elderly woman who volunteers at the school three times a week raises her glasses to her face to get a better look at me. Sniffing with immediate disapproval, she screws up her mouth as if she smelled bad fish.

“Before we get into our lesson,” Ms. Erickson announces, “we need to back up. We got off track this morning and have some catch-up to do. Thank you for shifting gears so smoothly.”

Ms. Erickson waits for her students to settle into their seats. Without being told, they each take out a pencil and a sheet of paper. The discussion opens with proper and improper fractions.