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I glare at my fajita. My stomach shrinks. Death by Inedible Lunch Scum is a gnarly way to end this midday misery.

6

Ms. Amos is leaning againsther desk. Her mouth is twisted into a dramatic smile, one far too smug for any high school teacher. It’s unfair. With the swipe of her red pen, she can change our academic futures—seriously, it’s probably one of those inexpensive ones from Target. She shouldn’t be given the right to torture us with silence and deep stares and awkwardness at the beginning of class.

“I’ve made a decision,” she finally says.

Someone mumbles, “Retirement,” coughing into his hand.

No one laughs.

Andrew Cowen is a senior, Brook’s teammate, and hosts the ghost of a failed sitcom-dad in his scrawny, six-foot body. He and Ford share a special throne in Douchebag Hell.

“I guess you’ll find out next year when you repeat my class, Mr. Cowen?” retorts Ms. Amos. Andrew slumping in his chair only broadens Ms. Amos’s grin. “Thanks to Mr. Turner’s colorful excitement over tapping into the works of Tennessee Williams, I’ve decided to move up an assignment I was saving for after the Thanksgiving break.”

A symphony of sighs and groans unites everyone, including me.

Screw you, Ford Turner.

“Please.” Ms. Amos cocks a hip and winks. “Contain your glee.”

I thump my forehead against my notebook.Jesus.The last thing I need is more work in a class I’m barely passing.

“You’ll be composing an essay. A very personal essay.” Ms. Amos crosses to the other side of the room. “The subject is simple: ‘Who am I?’ Write a thought-provoking—and, yes, I realize that’ll be terribly hard for you, Mr. Turner—essay about who you are. What defines you?”

Ford sniffs, chin cocked.

Ms. Amos walks back to her desk. “Are you defined by your race? Religion? By your music tastes?”

A student with a choppy haircut and a questionable face-piercing throws up devil horns and starts headbanging. Behind me, Chloe snorts.

“Are you defined by your privilege?” Ms. Amos stops in front of Ford’s desk.

“Since I’mprivilegedenough to take your class, I guess not,” replies Ford.

Ms. Amos ignores him and steps over to Chloe’s desk. “Are you defined by your strength?” Then, to Sara, “Are you defined by your family’s history? Your clothes?”

A painful lurch, like the aftershock of an earthquake, moves through my chest when Ms. Amos stops at my desk. “By your name?” To the room, she asks, “By your sexuality?”

From the back of the class, a jock says, “Well, Remy might be.”

How very unoriginal.It’s as if I can see these things coming, these ridiculous, homophobic jokes that I know will always follow me. But I can’t ever predict how my body will react. Will I tighten up in anger? Will I freeze up in fear? Will I blush with embarrassment?

Ms. Amos, unentertained, folds her arms across her chest. “Are you defined by how many days you’ll spend reviewing your life choices after being expelled for bullying? You remember our zero tolerance policy, correct, Terrance?”

Silence blankets the room. If only it was quieter behind my ribs.

“Take this assignment seriously. It’s worth thirty percent of your grade,” Ms. Amos announces.

“That’s basically pass or fail,” Ford says, choking, as his freckled face goes blotchy red.

Ms. Amos nods; the corners of her mouth curl more deeply. “All essays must be typed, double-spaced, and submitted to me the week before Thanksgiving break.” She’s back at her desk, leaning. She’s short, five-foot-nothing; her feet swing, and the toes of her shoes skim the floor. “Also, there’ll be oral presentations of your essays.”

In my peripheral vision, I spot Ford discreetly poking his tongue into his cheek. Of course. He’s imitating a blowjob. Talent like that will look good on his college applications.

Behind him, Hiro Ito hisses, “Knock it off.”

Ford sniffs.