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  The counselor absently pokes at a tuft of yellow stuffing coming out of one of the chair arms. “I spoke with both her and Ms. Tufts before we allowed you to enroll. They told me about your PTSD. We’re all on your team, Nate.”

  I’ve never been on a team, but this—whatever this is—doesn’t strike me as one. From what I can tell, a team is a bunch of people with a common goal. This is no team. This is me, standing alone in the middle of a field watching everyone try to push me in a certain direction.

  “What was the trigger?” the counselor asks.

  I swing my legs over the side of the cot, stretching them in front of me, and lean against the wall. I don’t want to talk to this guy, but he seems like the sort who won’t stop pushing until I give him something. There were a few like him in the Psych Center. They’d usually feel proud of themselves for getting me to talk and leave me alone.

  “Everything. The cold, the yelling, the doors slamming. All of it. Maybe I can’t go to a regular school.”

  The counselor rubs his hand over his chin. “Or, and hear me out, maybe you need to take your meds and receive a little extra accommodation?”

  I already hate this guy.

  The speaker by the door crackles. “Mr. Paulsen,” a voice says. It sounds a bit like the old lady in the office, but it’s hard to tell. “There’s a woman here to see you. She says she’s here for Nate.”

  The counselor stands and pushes a button beside the speaker. “Thanks, Mrs. Roger. Is it his social worker?” He releases the button and looks at me. “I can’t imagine she got here so quickly. She was on the other side of the county when I called.”

  “You called my social worker?” A tiny bit of excitement stirs inside me. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. If she sees what one morning at school did to me, she can’t force me to come back.

  “No, it’s not Mrs. Hayes,” the voice says and my chests swells with hope. Ms. Erica. I don’t know how she got here so fast, but she’ll listen to me. She’ll understand. Maybe even take me back.

  The speaker crackles again. “This woman says Nate’s uncle sent her.”

  I flop my head against the wall, deflated. Traitor wouldn’t call Ms. Erica.

  “Okay, send her in.” The counselor crosses the room in two steps and looks out the long, narrow window in the door. “I thought your uncle was coming himself. I’d hoped to talk to him. Do you know who he’d send?”

  “Is she Oriental?”

  The counselor looks back at me, his eyes wide. “Nate! You can’t say that.”

  “What, Oriental? Why?”

  He does a literal double take. “What do you mean, why? It’s … it’s offensive.”

  I stiffen. Is Oriental a slur? “How?” I ask. “I mean, there are a lot of worse words—”

  “Just because it isn’t the worst doesn’t mean it isn’t harmful.” He glances out the window again and puts his hand on the knob. “You’ve never said that to your uncle’s friend, have you?”

  My face feels hot. “No.”

  “Good. Promise me you’ll never say it again. If you don’t know where someone is from, use Asian. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I mumble. A prickle of shame works down my throat, like swallowing a pinecone. I don’t like Skunky, but now I feel guilty just thinking that word about her.

  The counselor opens the door and Skunky breezes in.

  “I’m Bev Liu. Dell sent me with Nate’s meds.” She says my name like she’s hawking up venom.

  “Thank you, Ms. Liu.” The counselor takes the two white bottles she’s holding out and hands them to me. One is my regular medicine and one is a sedative. Just like they used to give me at the Psych Center when I had a flashback. “There’s a water fountain down the hall, Nate. Think you can manage, or do I need to bring you a cup?”

  “I’ve got it.” I shake a tablet out of each bottle and squeeze past them. There’s barely room for two people in here, let alone three. The counselor closes the door behind me, muffling his voice so I can’t make out whatever he says to Skunky next.

  Traitor couldn’t even spare the time to bring me my meds. It’s like he wants me to fail. It hits me all of a sudden. If I fail, then he’ll have an excuse to tell the social worker I’m a lost cause. Then the Psych Center may never take me back.

  I can’t let that happen. Things here may suck, but at least it’s not a group home or the street.

  The hall is still freezing, but at least it’s quiet now. The closest water fountain is almost at the complete opposite end from the counselor’s office. I dip my head and drink for a long time, only straightening up again when I become aware of a persistent tapping behind me.

  A short girl with hair so black it’s practically blue scowls at me. She’s tapping her foot impatiently. “Do you mind?”

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “What?”

  She crosses her arms, still tap, tap, tapping her toe against the tile. “The water, Newbie. Mind getting out of the way, or are you going to block it all day?”

  The girls at this school are all so aggressive. I almost feel like I’m back at The Fort. “Newbie?” I ask. What the hell does that mean?

  She sighs. “You’re the new kid, right? The one who passed out.”

  Great. I’ll be forever known as the guy who fainted on his first day of school.

  “Watch it, Newbie,” she says. “I heard about you.”

  She knows? I freeze like I did outside the Psych Center. They said no one knew. The social worker said I’m safe. I knew I couldn’t trust her!

  My face must register my shock because the girl grins and steps closer. Her short, dark hair frames her face.

  “Don’t look so surprised. It’s a small school. Word travels fast.” She takes another step, completely invading my personal space. “We don’t tolerate that kind of crap here. Got it?”

  The beast inside me perks up. Anger wells in my blood. I picture my hands around her skinny throat, squeezing until her face turns purple.

  Light. Think of light.

  All I see is her dark little head.

  I clench my hands into fists and straighten, towering my full six feet two inches over the girl.

  Her smirk fades.

  “If you know so much, then you should know better than to poke a bear. I might bite.” I snap my jaws and she jumps.

  I whirl away before I do anything reckless, stalking back to the counselor’s office.

  Fan-tas-tic. This day is going absolutely fantastic.

  Clenching and unclenching my fists, I focus on taking slow, deep breaths. I can’t lose my cool. Especially not on some know-it-all girl. The counselor’s door opens and Skunky appears, holding my backpack.

  “Get some rest,” the counselor says. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I jerk my bag away from Skunky. She lets go before I get a good grip, like she doesn’t want to even touch me, and walks to the front door without a word.

  “Remember what we talked about,” the counselor calls before I can follow Skunky.

  How could I forget? Despite all my efforts to not be like him there’s still so much I don’t know. Thank God I never said the word aloud. If Oriental is as bad as the counselor says, it might have caused Skunky to completely lose it. Which might have caused me to lose it right back.

  And I don’t want to hurt anyone else.

  I hitch up my backpack and follow Skunky to her truck. It’s old and dinged, but cleaner than Traitor’s. The cab smells of pine and lavender. I try not to like it.

  We don’t speak, which is perfectly fine with me. My meds are starting to kick in. The fuzzy, floating feeling works its way through my body, like my head is a balloon and my neck is the string.

  Before I know it we’re at Traitor’s house. My feet barely hit the grass before Skunky is squealing away. Whatever. I’m too tired to care. I fumble up the stairs and collapse into bed, ready to forget the entire damn day.

  The Farmer Gazette

  Murder Suspect Has a Histor
y of Violence

  By Sam Lawson

  Staff Writer

  Is Nathaniel Fuller the victim he claims, or is something more sinister lurking beneath his skin? The now 15-year-old, arrested on suspicion of murdering his father, community leader Jefferson Fuller, has quite the history of violence and aggression.

  Neighbors say when he was just 8 years old, Nathaniel attacked his best friend with a knife. The friend, who was 12 at the time, had to receive emergency care and almost 100 stitches for the deep gash Nathaniel left in his stomach.

  It doesn’t stop there. The Sheriff’s Department claims there are at least a dozen similar attacks across the county that they attribute to Fuller. Who knows how many have gone unreported?

  Who is this boy really? Damaged victim? Or menacing murderer?

  Continued A5.

  595

  On my second day of school, the halls are silent, but the place is electric with hostility. It buzzes in the spaces where conversation should be—a lamp with faulty wiring. The counselor must’ve said something to everyone. The other kids whisper and point and stare. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can guess. Their narrowed eyes and tight-lipped frowns say enough.

  The girl from the water fountain catches my eye and immediately whispers something to the large guy beside her.

  Please don’t let this be another Thomas Mayes incident. I don’t want to have to walk around with a knife on me all the time—if I can even find one. Traitor’s are all locked up along with his guns.

  I find my locker without confrontation, but can’t figure out how to get the damn thing open. I turn the dial a million times, but nothing works and no one offers to help.

  The hall starts to empty as people head to homeroom. I’m aware of someone standing beside me, closer than anyone has gotten. Is he going to help? I turn my head and my breath catches.

  A n—NO! I stop his voice before it can go any further. My brain sifts through all the words I know, searching for one that isn’t a slur. Black is all I come up with, but after talking with the counselor, I don’t know if that’s okay or not.

  Something deep in my gut wonders if it’s okay to use color as an identifier at all, but I describe everything with color. Green leaves, brown desks, white refrigerators, blue sky. It’s one of those things that feels like it shouldn’t matter, but at the same time, it should.

  Is this something I picked up from The Fort, or does everyone think this way? How am I supposed to find out if no one will talk to me?

  The black guy glances over, and I realize I’m staring. I jerk back to my combination dial. He opens his locker, blocking his face, and unloads his backpack.

  This is as close as I’ve been to someone with his skin color without attacking them.

  That sounds horrible.

  It is horrible.

  I never wanted to. But it’s one of those things. If I didn’t attack the people he commanded me to go after, he would hurt me instead.

  The instinct still rears its head, just like it did with Skunky. His voice rings in my ears, ordering me to slam the guy’s locker door on his head. I can hear the crunch of metal on brittle bone and the snap of breaking cartilage.

  I close my eyes and find the light. It isn’t far this time. I beckon it close and bathe in it. The hate washes out of me. When I open my eyes again, the black guy is gone.

  The bell rings and the few people left in the hall rush into classrooms. Doors close softly. I look at the map again and find my homeroom. All conversation stops the moment I poke my head through the door. Dozens of eyes sear my skin as I make my way to one of the only empty desks. In the front row.

  All those eyes are behind me. All those people doing God-knows-what, talking about me, quietly taunting me, getting ready to throw things. I miss my name when the teacher calls roll. She says it three times before I remember that I’m Clemons now, not Fuller. She makes a few announcements I don’t hear. Everything sounds far away. That’s probably the meds Traitor made sure I took.

  This morning he’d threatened to hide my pill in a piece of cheese like he would for a dog. It made me wonder why he doesn’t have one. He seems like a dog guy. Although, any pet Traitor owned would probably be as mean as he is. Instead of cheese, he’d stood over me, watched as I put the pill in my mouth, and made me open up to prove I’d swallowed it.

  I swallow hard now, almost as though I can feel the phantom pill haunting my throat. I fiddle with one of my pencils as a distraction, flipping it between my fingers. It slips and flies through the air, landing under a desk in the next row. The guy beside me leans over and stares at it, then looks at me with wide eyes.

  Instead of picking it up and giving it back, he pushes it my direction with his toe. It rolls in front of my desk. I have to slide out of my seat to retrieve it. Thanks, asshole.

  Traitor either picked the nastiest school he could find, or most people in the “normal” world are almost as cold and mean as The Fort.

  I let the meds float me from class to class. Each one is exactly the same. Full of wide, gaping stares and harsh whispers. This must be how zoo animals feel. I’m surrounded by an invisible cage, separated from everyone. I can live with that. As long as the cage stays between us, as long as nothing shatters it and lets the beast out of its enclosure, I’ll be all right.

  And so will they.

  At The Fort, we were all animals, free to roam and destroy each other if necessary. The world is safer if I’m in a cage.

  I spend each class period with my head down, scrawling 595 in my notebook and making lists of everything that could possibly be in Traitor’s trunk. Anything to avoid all the eyes boring into my skull.

  Each teacher gives me a textbook and a stack of handouts. By lunch, my backpack is so heavy I’m afraid the straps will break.

  The long rectangular lunch tables in the center of the room are packed. Only the one on the far wall is mostly empty. I sit alone at the end and eat the turkey sandwich I made this morning. The meat is warm from being in my backpack all day and the bread is squished and stale.

  I choke down the disgusting sandwich and scan the room. Real school isn’t like anything I’ve ever known.

  And it’s not like on TV, either. Everyone isn’t separated into neat categories. Guys with thick, geeky-looking glasses laugh with guys in “Lewiston High Football” T-shirts. The pretty girls sit with the not-so-pretty ones. The kids dressed all in black are mixed in with the ones in tight jeans and cowboy boots.

  Whites and blacks and Mexicans and Or—Asians. Everyone here seems to get along with everyone else.

  Except me.

  No one even looks at me. They all laugh and talk easily. Clapping each other on the back and pushing each other playfully.

  It’s shocking how carefree they are. Everything at The Fort was tense and strained. I bet these kids have never been afraid their teasing would turn violent. Never had to worry about getting, literally, stabbed in the back. Never wondered what evil missions their parents would have waiting when they got home. If they’d have to punch someone until their face was bloody, or curb-stomp them until their face completely collapsed in on itself like a crumpled paper bag.

  Suddenly, I can’t watch anymore.

  I shove the last bite of sandwich in my mouth and go back to my locker to try to unload some of these books. My combination is supposed to be 31–17–4, but as I run through the numbers over and over again, it feels like a cruel joke.

  “Pass the first number,” I mumble. “Pass the second, to the third.” I lift the handle but it doesn’t slide. “Ugh!” I hit the door with the side of my fist.

  “That only helps on the freshman lockers,” a deep voice says.

  Startled, I turn. The black guy is beside me again. He’s slightly taller than me, and a little more muscular, with a fuzz of hair on his head. I want to touch it, to see if it’s as hard and brittle as it looks—like steel wool—or if it’s coarse and springy like a sheep. I realize I’m staring like a weirdo and
drop my gaze to his nice clothes. His bright green polo fits well and his dark jeans aren’t the slightest bit baggy. Shit. That was probably racist. Honestly, though, his clothes are better than most people in this place. It makes me self-conscious about my thrift-store jeans and faded T-shirt.

  He smoothly turns his own combination dial and tosses a book into his locker. I start to twist my dial again, but he swats my hand away.

  “Dude. I can’t take it anymore. Look, start at zero, then turn right. What’s your first number?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  “Okay, you’re gonna pass it the first time around, then go straight to it.” The dial stops at thirty-one. “Next?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Turn left and do the same thing. Last one?”

  “Four.”

  “Go right again, but stop soon as you get to the number.” He pulls the handle and the locker door swings open. He immediately shuts it again. “You try.”

  It takes two attempts, but it finally opens for me. “Thanks.”

  “I could only watch you struggle for so long, man.” He shrugs. “You look familiar. Did you transfer from Holly Bluff?”

  I can feel my blood pumping. He recognizes me. Oh God. “No,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “From out-of-state.”

  His eyebrows furrow. “I swear I’ve seen you somewhere.”

  “I just have one of those faces.”

  He closes his locker. “Ah, I thought I might’ve played ball against you. Anyway, see you around.”

  That was close. As I watch him lope away, it dawns on me: I had my first actual conversation with a black person. There were a handful at the Psych Center, but I rarely saw them and we never spoke. I don’t know if the orderlies intentionally kept me away from them, or if it was a coincidence.

  For half a second, I wish he was still alive. Because this moment would kill him all over again.

  609

  One day bleeds into the next. Fresh ink on damp paper. No one speaks to me. Not teachers, not students, not the black guy at the next locker, although he did smile my way a couple times. Not even Traitor talks, other than a few grunts. I’m invisible to everyone except my stinking social worker, who I wish would shut the hell up. All she does is babble about how good school is for me.