Dedication

For Dad, the original Mr. Fix-it

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

1. Dexter Foreman

2. Gianna Greco

3. Ms. Napier

4. Dexter Foreman

5. Jackson Sharpe

6. Gianna Greco

7. Jackson Sharpe

8. Dexter Foreman

9. Ronny Greco

10. Gianna Greco

11. Dexter Foreman

12. Ms. Napier

13. Dexter Foreman

14. Jackson Sharpe

15. Dexter Foreman

16. Gianna Greco

17. Dexter Foreman

18. Jackson Sharpe

19. Ronny Greco

20. Dexter Foreman

21. Ms. Napier

22. Teagan Santoro

23. Jackson Sharpe

24. Gianna Greco

25. Dexter Foreman

26. Ms. Napier

27. Dexter Foreman

28. Gianna Greco

29. Dexter Foreman

30. Dexter Foreman

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

Dexter Foreman

“G . . . forty-seven.”

The community room buzzes as the players rush to cover the number on their Bingo cards. I’m practically vibrating in my sneakers. I’m an I-19 away from Bingo!

I glance up to the caller’s table, where the prize jar is well over half full of quarters. This is going to be the biggest payout we’ve had in months! If I win it, that’ll be the cat’s pajamas—which is what they say around here about something really, really great. I’ll be playing for free until I’m thirty.

Cool your jets, I say to myself. Bingo is serious business at The Pines Retirement Village. Archie calls it a blood sport—kind of like our Hunger Games. Not that many people here read The Hunger Games or even watch the movies. The Pines is a seniors’ community. You have to be fifty-five just to live here, and most of the residents are a lot older than that. Like Archie, who just turned eighty. Or my grandma: seventy-six. Or my best friend, Leo. He’ll be one hundred next year.

I’m only twelve, but I’m a special case.

“N . . . forty-four.”

Flurries of movement all around me—discs being placed over squares. Please don’t let me lose now—not when I’m so close!

“Bingo!” calls a shrill voice.

Sudden panic followed by relief. It’s just Miss Wefers. Miss Wefers declares Bingo all the time, but she doesn’t even have a card. She just likes to be a part of things. It doesn’t bother me, but some of the real hard-core players like Archie want her banned from the community room. Grandma would never let that happen. She always says the Bingo players need to get a life. I’m not sure I agree with her on that one. Here at The Pines, Bingo is life.

A few more numbers are called and you can tell by the rising tension in the room that a lot of people are getting really close. I’m still stuck on I-19 and sweating bullets.

“Bingo!”

It’s a double call from opposite sides of the room. There’s a mad dash in two different directions as players rush to verify the winning numbers and make sure there’s no funny business. During the hustle and bustle, a wayward elbow jostles the quarter jar off the table and it smashes on the tile floor. The noise level jumps to eleven. Old ladies have a lot to say about what to do when there’s broken glass on the floor. This gets a rise out of Archie, who doesn’t appreciate being bossed around.

“We never called B-fourteen! It was B-fifteen!”

“Stay away from the glass with those sandals. You want to get the lockjaw?”

“It was B-fourteen! You need to take that hearing aid back to the Dollar Store!”

“Drop those quarters, Barney!”

“Hey—no fighting in front of the kid!”

The kid—that’s me. People at The Pines don’t agree on much—especially where Bingo is concerned—but they’re on the same page when it comes to me. In a way, they’re all my parents—although grandparents and great-grandparents would be more like it. Along with Grandma Adele, they’re raising me together, even though a retirement community isn’t the average place for a kid to grow up.

It’s a real brouhaha when, all at once, total silence falls over the noisy crowd. Every eye turns to the door where my grandmother stands next to the second-youngest person in the community room: a uniformed police officer. Everybody’s pretty cowed. Like, are our Bingo games so rowdy that they have to send the cops to shut us down?

The officer is wide-eyed too, as if he didn’t bring a big enough prison bus to fit forty-seven unruly senior citizens.

Then his eyes fall on me and I realize I’m the one he was looking for the whole time.

“Dexter Foreman?”

“Who wants to know?” Archie asks defiantly.

I’m confused. I’ve lived the past six years with my grandmother in her condo at a retirement community. I’ve never broken a law in my life. What could the police possibly want with a kid like me?

Grandma doesn’t see so well anymore, but she still has the most expressive eyes of anyone I know. Right now, they radiate deep concern.

Something’s up. Something bad.

In the foyer outside the community room, the cop introduces himself as Sergeant Kurtz, truancy officer for the county.

“Where are Dexter’s parents?” he asks Grandma.

“Belgium,” she replies. “Working with the European Union. But I think they’re going to Singapore soon. My daughter-in-law is with the diplomatic corps, so they move around a lot. Dexter has been with me here since he was small.”

I’ve heard the story so many times that I know it by heart. When I was six, Mom was offered a temporary post in Europe, so my folks left me with Grandma for a few months. But Mom wound up a rising star at the State Department and Dad became a big shot in international finance. Oh, we talked about me joining them over there, but they were always so busy that we kept putting it off. I was fitting in great at The Pines, almost the unofficial mascot of the place. And when Grandma’s vision started going downhill, it kind of became my job to help her out. Before we knew it, I’d lived half my life here. I understand that sounds pretty wonky, but for us, it’s just the way things worked out.

“What’s truancy?” I ask the sergeant.

“I’m in charge of school attendance,” he explains. “It’s come to our attention that—well, you don’t go.”

Grandma speaks up. “Dexter is getting an excellent education right here.”

“Where?” The officer makes a show of checking his surroundings. “There’s no school at The Pines. There’d be no one to go to it except Dexter. The law in Bradford County—and every county, as a matter of fact—states that all children must be educated.”

“I am educated,” I insist. “I mean, not yet, but I’m up to seventh-grade level, which is where I’d be in real school. It’s like homeschooling, only instead of at a house, I get taught by people around here.”

With a babble of angry voices, the Bingo argument in the community room spills over into the foyer. I have to admit it doesn’t sound like a faculty meeting at Harvard, especially when Archie threatens to wring somebody’s “chicken neck.” He can be an excitable guy for an eighty-year-old.

“There are half a dozen retired educators living in the community,” Grandma argues. “Also two college professors and some true experts in their fields. Do you know who teaches Dex English? Phyllis Birdwell, that’s who.”

The officer looks blank. “Who’s Phyllis Birdwell?”

“Only a New York Times bestselling author,” I supply. “And my math teacher is Leo Preminger. He was one of America’s greatest code-breakers back in World War Two.”

“Never heard of him,” Sergeant Kurtz admits.

“Well, of course not,” I say. “His work was top secret. He was part of the Bunker Boys, an elite unit of cipher experts operating in Wolf’s Eye. They helped break some of the toughest enemy codes. He’s my best friend.”

“Best friend? What is he—like, ninety?”

“Ninety-nine,” I amend proudly. “He’ll be a hundred in April.”

The officer swallows hard. “School’s going to be good for you. You’ll meet kids your own age.”

“I have friends my own age,” I defend myself. “Teagan Santoro, for one. Her grandparents live here. She visits all the time—a lot of kids do. We mingle.” I can already tell Sergeant Kurtz thinks I’m an oddball for living in a retirement community so I switch to a kid word. “We chill.”

Teagan’s my best kid friend, even though she lives in New York, which is a two-hour plane ride from here. And we’re pen pals. We write to each other about important things in our lives, like when Teagan told me about getting her first iPhone. She was pretty excited about that. I have Grandma’s old flip phone, which doesn’t run the new games or apps—or any games or apps, to be honest. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard from Teagan since that time. Maybe her latest letter got lost in the mail. That would make sense because the post office is run by the government. Just about everybody at The Pines says the government isn’t fit to run a sewing circle, much less a whole country.

I’m the most comfortable with older people, though. They’re more honest. If their back hurts, they tell you. If a new pill causes dizziness or ringing in the ears or upset stomach, they tell you. They describe exactly how it feels to have a kidney stone or when your son, the Wall Street Big Shot, hardly ever calls anymore. Kids don’t really discuss their lives that way. All they care about is memes, whatever they are.

The truancy officer nods. “There’s a lot more chilling in your future. Make sure you’re ready Monday morning, seven forty sharp. The bus will pick you up at the main gate.”

“There’s no bus at The Pines,” I inform him. “We just have the courtesy shuttle to take people to the mall and doctors’ appointments.”

“Not that bus. The school bus.”

I’m horrified. “You mean Big Orange?” I see them around, but I’ve never actually been in one.

He gives me a reassuring nod. “Haven’t lost a kid yet.”

My grandmother speaks up. “Sergeant, are you sure this is really necessary? Thousands of children are homeschooled. Dex’s situation is no different.”

“I have my orders, ma’am,” the officer replies firmly. “As of Monday, your grandson is a seventh grader at Wolf’s Eye Middle School.” He turns to me. “When Big Orange pulls up, make sure you’re on it.”

In the community room, they’ve got the game back up. “I . . . nineteen!” the caller announces.

“Bingo!” It’s a chorus of voices.

I lose.

2

Gianna Greco

Nothing ever happens around here.

Figures. I finally get promoted to reporter at the Wolf’s Eye Middle School newspaper, the Eyeball. After suffering through sixth grade as a gofer in the print shop—breathing toner up my nose until I sneeze and ruining all my clothes with splatters of ink from spent cartridges—I’ve made it at last. No seventh graders ever make it to the reporting staff. My brother warned me about that. He’s in seventh grade too, but he got held back a year, so he’s been here longer. Ronny never worked for the paper—he’s not a joiner. But he’s 100 percent right that the eighth graders treat this school like it’s their own private club. The Eyeball editors barely tolerate me. If I expect to survive, I’ll have to blow the doors off the place with a monster story.

And where am I going to get that in a random dot on the map where nothing ever happens?

Wolf’s Eye has to be the most boring place on the face of the earth. We’re too far from the city to be considered the suburbs but too close to have small-town charm. We’re not near the ocean, not in the mountains, and not in the plains. We’re just sort of here. And our middle school—well, the only interesting thing about that is what a dump it is. The biggest argument in town is whether we should tear it down or just wait for it to collapse on its own. Except new schools are expensive, and people are divided over whether it would be worth it to spend the money or just keep on fixing and patching the old doghouse. We’re not the richest community in the world either.

But from a reporter’s standpoint, the worst thing about middle school life in Wolf’s Eye is how predictable it is. Take this bus ride, for instance. I’ve already memorized every inch of it because nothing ever changes. Left on Mosswood; right on Main. I close my eyes, but the route is still implanted on my brain. I feel us navigating the traffic circle and—bump!—there’s the pothole in front of the strip mall.

A few kids board the bus here, but I keep my eyes shut. I already know who they are. Sophie Tanaka. Ethan Benlevi. And Jackson Sharpe—yup, I can hear the high-fiving. Wherever Jackson goes, he moves through a storm of backslaps, handshakes, and fist bumps. If he wasn’t so full of himself, I’d actually admire him. He’s the rare middle school big man on campus who’s as good in the classroom as he is on the sports field—athlete and mathlete rolled into one. Even Ronny likes Jackson, and Ronny hates everybody. Anyway, I don’t have to admire him. He admires himself enough for both of us.

I hear the sound of the door folding closed and we’re on the road again. Two more pickups; full stop at the railway crossing; and then straight on—

When the school bus roars into a wide left turn, I’m so caught off guard that I almost fall out of my seat. Grabbing hold of the bench in front of me, I open my eyes. We’re heading down a narrow tree-lined road that is definitely not on our route. Are we being kidnapped? Okay, that would be bad, but at least I’d have something to write about in the Eyeball. BUSLOAD OF KIDS HELD FOR RANSOM. Or maybe PARATROOPERS ARREST BUS-JACKERS IN DARING RESCUE. Or even SOMETHING FINALLY HAPPENS IN WOLF’S EYE; ENTIRE TOWN DIES OF SHOCK.

“Where are we going, Mr. Milinkovic?” Sophie calls.

At least I’m not the only one who knows this route so well that the slightest deviation sets off alarm bells.

“New pickup,” the driver tosses over his shoulder.

Now everyone on the bus is paying attention. Something new happening in this town is so rare that the last thing you want to do is blink and miss it.

We drive along a low stucco wall draped with ivy. Beyond it, I can make out small houses and low apartment buildings. It seems to be a condo complex—although I don’t know this neighborhood very well.

That’s when I see the sign.

THE PINES

A COMMUNITY FOR SENIORS

We pull up to the main gate, where a group of about ten people stands waiting for us. But here’s the thing: they’re all old! Gray hair, bald heads, canes, walkers. Not that there’s anything wrong with being elderly, but what do they want with us? We’re the bus to the middle school. The youngest member of this crowd would be going into the eightieth grade!

“Check out the geezer squad,” Ronny comments from the back. That’s another thing about my brother: he’s always got something to say—usually something not very nice.

“Now we know where Santa hangs out when it’s not Christmas,” Jackson adds with a snicker.

Then one kid steps forward. He’s about our age, pretty tall and kind of round-shouldered, with very short medium brown hair in almost a military cut. Instead of a backpack, he’s carrying a fancy briefcase—the kind lawyers and business executives use. He’s obviously the center of attention among the old folks. The ladies hug him and fuss over him and the men all shake his hand. The way everybody’s acting, you’d think he was setting off on a six-month world tour.

Nobody pays any attention to Mr. Milinkovic, who says, “Got a schedule to keep, folks.”

Then the new kid is climbing up the steps onto the bus. The first thing I notice is he’s dressed all wrong. His pants look like suit pants but not narrow and tailored and pressed with a crease. These are baggy with cuffs at the bottom, and sitting like drapery atop gigantic white sneakers. The waist is too high, secured by a tan belt roughly ten sizes too big. He looks like a scarecrow, cinched around the middle.

His collared shirt is tucked in. Like the shoes, it’s whiter than white. In the pocket is a plastic protector with a lineup of pencils and pens. He wears a heavy cardigan over that, even though the temperature is supposed to hit seventy-five today. The whole outfit comes together like a bad orchestra falling into clashing discord. It’s not that his clothes don’t fit. They almost do. But the pants are too long, the shirtsleeves are too short, and the collar hangs limp even though it’s buttoned all the way to the top.

A murmur begins to ripple up and down the aisle—a not-too-nice one that includes words like nerd and geek and weirdo. I’m not a fan of judging people by their appearance, but even I have to ask myself, What is this new guy trying to prove? He must know it’s not Halloween. Doesn’t he realize how odd he looks?

The doors close and the bus pulls away from The Pines. The elderly farewell committee stands waving. One slight, gray-haired lady is dabbing at tears with a handkerchief.

Walking gingerly in the moving vehicle, the new guy makes his unsteady way to an empty row and eases himself into the seat.

I pick myself up and sit down on the bench beside him. “Hi, I’m Gianna.”

“Dex.” The expression on his face: 100 percent misery. Well, maybe 95. The other 5 percent: ticked off. He doesn’t want to be here.

“Yeah, I get it,” I tell him sympathetically. “It’s tough to be new, especially in a town like Wolf’s Eye. Most of the kids here have been in school together since kindergarten. Where did you move from?”

“I’ve lived in Wolf’s Eye my whole life.”

“Really?” I ask. “Did you go to private school before this?”

He shakes his head. “I was homeschooled. By Leo and Phyllis and Cyril and . . .”

Dex rattles off a few more names that don’t ring a bell. “Who are they? Tutors from the high school?”

“You just saw them,” he says a little impatiently.

“You mean the old people?” I blurt.

“They’re my friends,” he insists. “And one of them is my grandmother. I’ve been living with her in the condo for more than six years.”

I can feel my eyes widening at the story he goes on to tell. Dexter Foreman is a seventh grader like me, but when he was six, his parents took off on this international expat lifestyle, leaving Dex with his grandmother to grow up in her retirement village. I have a sudden flash of understanding about his clothes, which are so strange yet also strangely familiar. He dresses like my grandfather! Bits and pieces from once-snazzy outfits that are semiretired. High waists; big clunky shoes designed for sore feet. A sweater because you never know when there’s going to be a draft. This kid is twelve years old going on eighty!

Approaching a red light, the bus downshifts in a shriek-grinding of gears and brakes. Dex grabs the seat back in front of him, holding on with white knuckles and closed eyes.

I stare at him. “Haven’t you ever been on a school bus before?”

He’s exasperated. “Why would I go on a school bus if I don’t go to a school?”

“So why did you decide to switch from homeschooling to the real thing?” I probe.

He heaves a heavy sigh. “I didn’t. The truancy officer made me.”

“Truancy?” I have an instinct—a reporter’s instinct. It buzzes when I sense there’s a story to be told. Right now, it’s vibrating like a guitar string. “It’s not truant to be homeschooled. Thousands of kids do it every day.”

“I’m not officially homeschooled,” he mumbles, embarrassed.

“What do you mean, ‘officially’?”

“My grandma didn’t want to fill out all the paperwork to have a kid living in a seniors community,” he explains. “So she put that I was sixty instead of six. And Bradford County never registered me for school because they thought I was too old.”

I sit forward. “And how did they find out you were our age?”

He makes a face. “According to county records, I turned sixty-five and they followed up to see why I never applied for Social Security.”

“And they realized you’ve never been to school,” I conclude. This story would be hilarious if it wasn’t making him so sad—some county bureaucrat asking why a senior citizen isn’t on Social Security and the answer is he’s really twelve.

“That’s what you get when you let the government snoop into people’s private business,” Dex complains.

That’s another old-person thing—blaming everything on the government. In my family, you normally have to wait till Thanksgiving dinner for that. Not anymore.

Suddenly, Dex slaps at the back of his neck. “Ow!”

A tiny object drops onto the seat behind him—a paper clip bent into a C shape. I recognize it as standard middle-school ammo. All it takes is a rubber band to launch these things with deadly accuracy at some unsuspecting new guy.

I stand up and glare accusingly at the rows behind us. “Real mature, you guys. Who did it?”

Blank looks, except for one. My brother is cackling into the crook of his arm. So subtle.

“Cut it out, Ronny,” I snap.

He responds with his trademark shrug, which brings his shoulders up to his stick-out ears. The shrug suggests innocence, but the sneering grin that comes with it confirms that he’s 1000 percent guilty.

Poor Dex, I think as I sit down again. He hasn’t even set foot in school yet and he’s already caught Ronny’s attention.

Yet, even as I’m thinking it, I feel my mouth forming into a smile. I woke up this morning a reporter with nothing to write about. But now the greatest story in Eyeball history has just landed right in my lap. Can a kid who’s never been to school and spent his entire life surrounded by senior citizens survive at Wolf’s Eye Middle School?

I wonder if they give Pulitzer Prizes to seventh-grade reporters.

3

Ms. Napier

I love watching the students arrive each morning.

First, the buses roar around the circular drive. One by one, the doors open and out pour the kids: lively, happy, chatty, and full of enthusiasm for another day.

They’re too loud, my colleagues argue. They’re not very polite. Some arrive already spouting excuses about phantom doctors’ appointments and homework assignments eaten by the dog.

Those are teachers’ quibbles. But when you’re a guidance counselor, you thrive on the pure energy they bring to everything. I always make sure I’m at the top of the stairs to welcome them the moment they burst into the building.

I spot him instantly: Dexter Foreman, the new boy. I don’t recognize him—we’ve never met before and he has no file here at Wolf’s Eye. But he stands out just the same. He’s the dead spot in the swirl of activity, buffeted from body to body like a silver ball caught between the bumpers of a pinball machine. His clothes are a misfit too, giving him the look of a time traveler from the 1950s. His brush cut is definitely a home job. He’s rubbernecking as if he’s never seen a school before. It’s entirely possible that he hasn’t. The truancy officer claims Dexter has lived most of his life in a retirement village.

As the flow of kids begins up the stairs, Dexter suddenly winks out to reappear a few seconds later toward the back of the swarm. I know exactly what happened. He must have hit the missing stair that everyone else is experienced enough to avoid. Wolf’s Eye Middle School is full of little problems like that—the legacy of a 105-year-old building without a major facelift in all that time. The board and city hall have been wrangling over repairs and improvements for decades. And no one wants to sink money into renovations in case the town decides to tear the whole place down and build a new school.

The faculty and students have gotten pretty good at watching our step, but for a newcomer like Dexter, the place is going to seem like it’s full of booby traps.

I position myself at the top of the flight and greet him when he finally gets there. “Good morning, Dexter. I’m Ms. Napier, your guidance counselor. Welcome to Wolf’s Eye.”

“Good to meet you,” he says, shaking my hand and looking me in the eye in a very adult way. “The stairs are broken,” he adds in a serious tone. “It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

I lead him away from the staircase and into my first-floor office. He lingers at a dark spot on the wall, tapping the plaster with one knuckle. “Water damage,” he announces in a sober tone.

“Have a seat,” I invite. “We just have some business to take care of before we get you settled in.”

“I don’t need to be here, you know,” he tells me. “I was getting a great education at The Pines.”

“You’re going to love it,” I assure him. “There are so many other kids your own age. Think of the friends you’ll make.”

“Age has nothing to do with it. My best friend is ninety-nine.”

His file states that Dexter lives with his grandmother, Adele Foreman, who’s seventy-six. But of course there are residents at The Pines who are much older than that. Who am I to say the boy doesn’t have a ninety-nine-year-old friend? But it doesn’t change the fact that middle school is where a twelve-year-old belongs.

“Here’s your schedule,” I say, pushing the printout across my desk.

He examines it, brow furrowing. “What do all these numbers mean?”

“They’re room numbers.” I hesitate. How much explaining do I have to do? If Dexter has never been to school before, he might know very little about how a building like ours operates. “Every class takes place in a different room. And when the period is over, you move on to the next one on your schedule. . . .”

He regards me sharply. “I’m not stupid, you know. I take math with Leo in unit Flamingo fourteen. After that, I go to Phyllis—not to her condo,” he puts in quickly. “She has a yappy parakeet, so we do English class in the pool house, where the lighting is better for reading. Then, for social studies—”

I cut him off with a smile. “You know what? Let’s take a tour and I’ll show you how the rooms are laid out.”

As we leave the office, Dexter pauses over the coffee service on my mini-fridge, then reaches down and plucks out two packets of Sweet’N Low.

“Dexter!”

He turns, the pink packets still in his hand, his face a picture of innocence. If he’s aware that he’s just stolen something from me, he obviously has no idea there’s anything wrong with that. “Yeah?”

I think of my mother’s aunt Corinne, age eighty-eight, who lives at The Pines, the same seniors’ community where Dexter was raised. Never once have I seen her in a restaurant when she wasn’t helping herself to sugar or ketchup or some condiment at the table. If anyone calls her on it, she replies. “We’re paying customers. We’re entitled.”

“Nothing,” I mumble. “Follow me, please.”

I lead him through the halls, explaining about our room numbering system. He listens carefully, scribbling on a ring-bound pad. I’m willing to bet there isn’t another kid in this school who wouldn’t use a phone to take notes like that, but Dexter isn’t your average kid. He has a phone—the old-fashioned flip kind—in a holder strapped to his belt. I haven’t seen one of those in years.

The more I try to explain the room numbers, the more complicated it gets, even to me. For example, the first-floor rooms are all in the 200s, the second-floor rooms are in the 300s, and the basement rooms all start with the letters A, B, or C. When he asks why, I have to confess that I don’t know. Also, storerooms seem to follow another numbering system completely, always ending in 55—155, 255, clear through to 855. The music room, science lab, and nurse’s office have no numbers at all. Every bathroom—boys’ and girls’—is marked 3. Have I mentioned it’s a very old building? Parts of the basement have been shut off since the Second World War.

Eventually, I give up trying to defend the numbering and take Dexter through his daily schedule, starting with homeroom.

“I already have a homeroom,” he says wistfully. “At home.”

I hope he can relax that attitude long enough to make friends and enjoy his middle school experience.

As his timetable brings us around the building, he takes pages of notes while we walk. We finish at his ninth-period class, social studies, and he stands outside room 323, head cocked, listening. An intermittent knocking sound is coming from inside the room.

“Hear that?”

“Well, this is your last class of the day,” I explain, “so you won’t have to worry about it until two fifteen—”

“Shhhh!” He holds up a finger and then presses his ear to the door.

“We shouldn’t disturb them—”

As if I hadn’t even spoken, Dexter throws the door open and barges into the room, interrupting the class without so much as a “pardon me.”

The teacher, Mr. Lam, stands at the SMART Board, a pointer frozen in his hand. “Can I help you?”

I rush in after Dexter. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Lam. We’ll get out of your hair.”

But Dexter is stalking around the perimeter of the room, listening intently. At last, he drops to his knees in front of a radiator. “Here’s the problem.”

Sure enough, the knocking sound is coming from that very spot.

“It always does that,” Jackson Sharpe comments from the third row.

Dexter rummages around in his pocket, comes out with a handful of coins, and selects a quarter. He fits the coin into the groove on the valve of the radiator and begins to loosen it. There’s a hissing noise and steam begins to issue from the valve. It hangs in the air like a fog, blurring the SMART Board.

Mr. Lam is becoming annoyed. “What are you doing and why are you doing it now?”

Dexter refastens the valve, stands up, and re-pockets his quarter. “If it starts to knock again, you just have to bleed off a little more steam,” he informs the teacher. “It shouldn’t bother you anymore. No charge,” he adds magnanimously. “That’s what Leo always says.”

The teacher is bug-eyed. “Who’s Leo?”

“Leo Preminger, my best friend.” Dexter explains. “It’s his trademark line.” And he heads out of the room.

With an apologetic look in Mr. Lam’s direction, I follow. As I leave, I can’t help picking up on a few comments from the students.

“Who was that kid?”

“What a weirdo!”

“He was on my bus this morning. What’s up with that outfit?”

For me, it’s a red flag. As a counselor, I’m the last line of defense between my students and bullying. And any kid as flat-out different as Dexter might as well have a bull’s-eye painted on his cardigan.

Once in the hall, I round on him. “I understand you’re new, but one important rule here is you never, ever interrupt a class.”

He’s mystified. “I didn’t interrupt them. The radiator was interrupting them. I made it better.”

Before Aunt Corinne moved to The Pines, she lived with her husband, Uncle Louie. He died when I was in high school, but I remember him as the handiest person on earth. My whole life, whenever something broke, Uncle Louie was called upon to repair it. And he always delivered. No matter how big the problem, he would manage to reach into his pocket and come up with exactly the right fix.

He was the kind of person who could stop a knocking radiator using nothing more than a quarter.

Aunt Corinne says they don’t make men like Uncle Louie anymore. But looking at twelve-year-old Dexter Foreman makes you wonder.

4

Dexter Foreman

When I was little, I used to dream about going to real school.

I’d see school buses rushing around town and imagine I was on one of them. That’s how the name Big Orange got started. I wasn’t being sarcastic. It was pure admiration. Someday, I was going to be one of those kids on one of those buses.

Someday never came. At first it was because my parents were supposed to be gone only a few months. Then the plan was that they would send for me to live with them abroad. By the time it sank in that I wasn’t going anywhere, I was so settled in with Grandma that I didn’t want to make another big change. My teachers were Grandma’s friends and mine too—Leo and Phyllis and Cyril, even crabby Archie. Oh, sure, I’d wonder a little when Big Orange drove by, but at that point, I wouldn’t have traded my Pines life for anything. I was happy and busy and learning. I still am—at least, I was until the truancy officer stepped into the community room. By the time real school became my future, it was the last thing in the world I would have wanted.

And as for the bus—man, was I ever wrong about that. Grandma’s taken me to amusement parks a few times and I don’t remember a single ride that can shake your guts quite like Big Orange.

Gianna says more kids travel to school by bus than all the other ways put together. Well, small wonder our education system is in such terrible shape. By the time anybody makes it to class, they’re too queasy to get any work done.

Or maybe I’m just in a bad mood because I’m being bombarded by paper clips. It happens at least three or four times during every bus ride. I feel a sting in the back of my head or neck, and the next thing I know, a bent paper clip is dropping onto my shoulder or down my neck. When I ask Gianna about it, she just shrugs. “People can be such jerks. Especially him.”

“Him?” I query.

She doesn’t answer.

Later, I’m standing in the swarm of kids waiting to enter the main doors of the school when I spy a rubber band in the hands of Gianna’s brother, Ronny. It seems innocent enough, except, hanging from it, is another one of those bent paper clips.

The “him” Gianna’s been talking about is her own brother!

I wheel on him. “Stop that!”

“Stop what?” he returns with an oily smirk.

So I snatch the rubber band out of his hand and drop it—paper clip and all—down a sewer grating.

The next thing I know, Ronny’s fist is coming at me full speed.

Luckily, Archie has been giving me self-defense lessons since I was six. I duck and Ronny’s punch passes right over me with such force that he spins around and nearly loses his balance.

The reaction from the other kids is instant. They form a circle around us, chanting, “Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . .” Like this is something that happens all the time!

I try to say, “Violence never solves anything,” but before I can get even half of it out, Ronny swings at me again. I lean away. This time, his fist whizzes so close by my nose that I can actually feel the wind. Archie is my PE teacher at The Pines, but he also used to be a bare-knuckle fighter when he lived in Boston. I never got too into the punching part because Grandma used to be a peace activist back in the sixties and I knew she wouldn’t like it. But I’m an expert at ducking out of the way.

The crowd around us gets even noisier and now Ronny’s face is the color of an overripe tomato. He rears back and throws a haymaker at me.

I swerve to the left and—wham!—Ronny’s fist slams into the metal side of the bus. The howl that comes from him is barely human. I can understand that. It must hurt a lot. He bends over double, cradling his hand.

Gianna breaks through the crowd, throws her arms around her brother, and exclaims, “How am I supposed to explain this to Mom?”

I use the opportunity to slip into the building and up the stairs, being careful not to fall again on the missing one. WEMS can be a dangerous place. The day hasn’t even started yet and there’s already a kid outside screaming in pain.

Maybe that’s why real schools always have a nurse. I poke my head into her office. “Excuse me. There’s a boy outside who needs attention. He might have broken knuckles.”

This never would have happened at The Pines.

Dear Teagan,

Maybe you didn’t get my letter—or maybe your answer got lost in the mail.

How are you? I am okay, I guess. The news here is that I go to regular school now. It’s probably not such a big deal to you, because that’s what you’ve always done. But for me, it’s a major, major change and not a very good one. The next time you visit, maybe you can give me some tips. Come to think of it, when is your next visit . . . ?

Leo frowns. “What’s this?”

“Huh?” It’s after school and I’m supposed to be showing him my science homework, but I accidentally set the start of my letter to Teagan on the tray of the old man’s wheelchair. “Whoops!” Feeling my face burning, I snatch away the page, crumple it up, and cram it in my back pocket, replacing it with the paper from school.

When Leo reads, he hunches so low that his nose is practically touching the tray. He looks up at me. “What’s the problem?”

“I know, right?” I crow in outrage. “You taught me all this when I was ten.”

“So why do you need my help?” the old man asks.

“I don’t!” I wail. “I’m just showing you how bad it is! And it’s not just science. It’s math, English, and social studies too! If I keep on going to this school, I’m going to wind up stupid!”

“Oh, bosh!” His round shoulders shake so I know he’s laughing. “A little repetition never hurt anybody.”

“Why should I repeat it if I know it already?”

Bracing himself against the armrests of the wheelchair, he pushes himself upright and looks me in the face. “Don’t be so hard on your new school. I only had one student to worry about: you. So I could teach things as fast as you could soak them up. The school system has millions of kids, all of them learning at a different pace. So they design a curriculum that suits the most people. They’re not the exception. We are.”

“You’re too nice,” I tell him sourly. “There’s not a teacher in that whole place who’s half as smart as you.”

The shoulders shake again and this time the wheeze comes, which means he’s laughing out loud. “If only you knew what a little nobody I was back in the war—seventeen years old, barely shaving, dumb as soup. I got a lot of coffee for people before they let me see my first enemy code.”

Leo always downplays his role in World War II. I guess real geniuses are confident enough in how smart they are without showing off. But if it wasn’t for the Bunker Boys of Wolf’s Eye, working in a top secret basement location, breaking Nazi codes, the war might have gone on for years longer than it did.

I’m stubborn. “It makes no sense to stop what’s working and send me to a place that’s worse.”

The old man sighs. “There’s more to education than what’s in books. You’re with kids your own age, not a bunch of old fuddy-duddies like us.”

“I have friends my own age,” I insist. “What about Teagan?”

“The Santoro girl? She’s not your friend. You’ve got a big crush on her.”

My face is burning again. “It’s totally not like that with Teagan and me!”

“Okay, okay.” He backpedals. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. But the fact is she lives in New York. You see her during two, maybe three visits a year—”

“It’s at least four visits!” I cut him off sharply. “And we always have a great time.”

“That’s not the same as kids you see every day. You should use this opportunity to make some genuine connections.”

“How can I connect with those kids?” I complain. “They never look up from their phones. The most important thing at school is this bell that runs everybody’s life. Your teacher could be uncovering the secrets of the universe, but when you hear that bell, you drop everything and move on to the next class. Not that those teachers have much chance of uncovering the secrets of anything. They’re more worried about making sure nobody chews gum in class.”

Leo’s eyes gleam. “They had that rule when I was a boy too. I spent one afternoon with the gum stuck on the end of my nose.”

“I met this girl Gianna on the bus,” I go on. “More like she mugged me. She wants to interview me for the school paper.”

“Sounds terrific. Good way to introduce yourself to the other kids.”

“She doesn’t care about introducing me,” I retort. “She wants to write about me growing up at The Pines, like I’m some circus geek with two heads—something for everybody to point and laugh at. Well, I’m not weird; they’re weird.”

“They’re not weird,” he counters. “They’re no different than the old codgers around here—just younger, that’s all. If you can be friends with us, you can be friends with them.”

I shrug practically head to toe. “I guess.”

“You don’t guess—you know. You’re a sharp kid. You’ll be running that place in no time.”

The thought of that makes me laugh. “Thanks, Leo.”

He gives his standard reply: “No charge.”

Everybody at The Pines went to real school when they were my age, so they have a lot of opinions about it. The ones who grew up in town went to the very same building—although it was the high school back then.

Phyllis remembers school dances the best. “Of course, we called them sock hops in those days. We’d take off our shoes and dance all night!”

Cyril starts to laugh as soon as I complain about the rattletrap school bus. “You have a bus? In my day, we walked to school! Two miles, rain or shine! Uphill—both ways . . . !”

As usual, Archie has plenty of advice. “Next time you’re in the malt shop, pick out the biggest, meanest guy in the place and show him who’s boss.”

“We don’t have a malt shop,” I inform him. “We have the cafeteria. And there’s no fighting.”

“That’s why it’s effective,” he insists. “Once people see you take down a real monster, nobody will mess with you.”

“Nobody’s messing with me. Well, this kid Ronny tried to.”

Archie sits forward eagerly. “And you slapped him down?”

“He mostly did it to himself.”

“Even better,” he enthuses. “That way, they can’t pin it on you.”

“And I’m not sure, but I think people might be making fun of my clothes. What are grandpa shoes?”

“Grandpa shoes?” Archie glances down at my heavy, white New Balance sneakers. “Those are cool!”

“Maybe,” I concede. “But our cool and their cool aren’t the same cool.”

“Those shoes have support. You can wiggle your toes. Plenty of room for an orthotic. What could be better?”

“The other kids look different,” I inform him.

Archie is defiant. “Sounds to me like that cafeteria of yours needs to start serving a few more knuckle sandwiches.”

I try to explain to Archie that a lot has changed since he was a kid. Fighting is just about the worst thing you can do at a school. You can even get “the bum’s rush,” which means kicked out. A lot of people around here think Archie should get the bum’s rush from The Pines.

And while getting expelled from school might seem not so bad to someone who doesn’t much like the place, it’s a really serious thing that goes on your record and follows you forever. For sure, Grandma wouldn’t like it. Who knows? Mom and Dad might even come all the way back from Belgium if something like that happened. I’m always glad to see my parents, but I don’t want them to have to change the life they love because I made things into a “dog’s breakfast,” as Phyllis always says.

The only Pines resident tougher than Archie is my grandmother. She’s a different kind of tough, though. She uses her niceness as a weapon. She first met Archie because fumes from his pickup truck were killing her snow peas in the residents’ vegetable garden. Instead of getting into a big beef about it, she invited him over for tea and they talked it out. No one can resist Grandma’s tea. It’s a combination of truth serum and one of the potions from Harry Potter. So now Archie keeps his pickup on the opposite side of the parking lot when he wants to gun the engine, which he does all the time.

Grandma’s not only tough; she’s smart too. She used to devour the newspaper from front to back every day. But now, with her vision getting blurry, I have to help out.

“. . . and the Federal Reserve Bank announced that they would leave interest rates unchanged this week,” I read to her.

She nods. “That’s good for people on fixed incomes.”

Interest rates are a big deal at The Pines, where everybody lives off investments they made back when they were working.

She points to a photograph at the bottom of the page. “Isn’t that your school?”

“It’s an article about tearing down Wolf’s Eye Middle and replacing it with a new building,” I explain. “No school ever needed it more. There’s wet rot, dry rot, a leaky roof, faulty wiring, black mold, crumbling plaster—”

She interrupts me before I get to Mr. Lam’s radiator. “They’ve been talking about it for years. New buildings cost a lot of money. Half the town says yes. The other half says we can’t afford it.”

“It doesn’t make any difference to me,” I say honestly.

“Well, don’t you think it should?” Grandma counters. “It’s your school.”

I’m tight-lipped. “It isn’t my school. It’s where the government makes me go.”

“If you want to fit in with other twelve-year-olds,” she advises, “stop blaming everything on the government like an old person.”

“Who else can I blame it on?” I grumble.

Grandma heaves a sigh. “When your parents first went overseas, it made perfect sense for me to teach you at home. You were very young and it was only going to be temporary. And somehow it turned into this routine you’ve had half your life. Obviously, you’re my grandson, but over time you became everyone’s grandson, a kind of community child we all share.”

“I love The Pines,” I tell her. “It’s just about the only home I remember.”

“And we love you too. But because your life here has been going on for so long, we’ve all lost sight of how unusual this situation is.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Unusual good!”

She nods. “We’re proud of the education you’ve had up until now. But we have to face the fact that it’s over. Most people go to regular school.”

“I’m not ‘most people,’” I say stubbornly.

“That’s another mistake I feel responsible for. You’re unique at The Pines—sixty years younger than the youngest of us. That could be another reason you’re having trouble adjusting to middle school—for the first time in your life, you blend in with the crowd. But make no mistake: You are ‘most people.’ Everybody is.”

Grandma never lies—not to me, not to anybody. Could she be right that the reason I’m unhappy at school is I’m not the center of attention the way I am here? Sure, I like being the special one, the only-only. Who wouldn’t? From a very early age, I got used to having my cheek pinched and being told what a good boy I am, how cute and brilliant. A whole retirement community of people knew exactly what presents I wanted and what foods were my favorites. Yeah, I liked it. I still do.

But that’s not the whole picture. I was learning a ton from Leo, a certified genius; from Phyllis, a best-selling author; from Cyril, who used to be a full professor at Yale. Even Archie—when we put on boxing gloves and spar, it’s a much better workout than I get in PE class at WEMS.

Grandma may be right that we’re all “most people.” But I refuse to accept that Wolf’s Eye Middle School is where I belong.

5

Jackson Sharpe

For the great ones, they say time stands still.

The pass comes from the right wing, bounces once, and then it’s right in front of me.

Most soccer players would have to corral the ball, knock it down before taking a shot. But that would give the defenders time to get in position for a block.

Jackson Sharpe doesn’t give them that chance.

I leap high, attack the ball in midair, and hammer it into the back of the net.

Final score: 2-1 for the Wolf’s Eye Warriors. The beginning of another championship season.

In the locker room, I’m on the receiving end of countless high fives. Even the eighth graders love me. Why wouldn’t they? I’m younger than them, but a star is a star.

“Beautiful strike, Sharpe,” Coach Beaufort praises me. “I’m going to submit the video for Goal of the Year.”

“It’s only September, Coach,” I remind him. “You know I save my best stuff for the playoffs.”

A lot of the guys shower after a game, but I never do. I like to carry the smell of competition with me. That way, everybody I meet will know to ask, “How did we do?” And I get to tell them we won and I scored the winner.

From the field house, I head back into the school. The results are supposed to be posted today. Every year, there’s a tryout test to see who makes the Wolf’s Eye math team. That’s another thing about me. I’m not just amazing on the sports field. I’m really smart too, if I say so myself—and I don’t have to because everybody knows it. I’m a mathlete, not just an athlete. I’m every kind of thlete.

I stride up to the bulletin board and find the seventh-grade list, my eyes seeking out the top of the paper.

I came in . . . second?

Wait a minute—second? That’s impossible. There must be a mistake. I’m never second. Second is like losing. It means there’s someone higher up than you. And that just doesn’t happen.

In annoyance, I check the name of this so-called person in the number one spot: Dexter Foreman.

“Who’s Dexter Foreman?” I blurt.

“Oh—he’s the new guy,” supplies Alex Globus, who’s also on the soccer team. “The kid who dresses like Mr. Rogers and talks like somebody’s old uncle.”

“He’s on our bus,” Sophie Tanaka adds. “You know, the guy Ronny was trying to hit when he messed up his hand.”

I have a vision of a tall skinny goofball crouched at the radiator in Mr. Lam’s room. He really does dress like Mr. Rogers—cardigans and sweater vests, dress pants, the kind you’d wear with a sport jacket. Only nothing quite fits, like it’s all hand-me-downs.

This is the genius who beat Jackson Sharpe on the tryout test? No way.

I head straight to the math office and poke my head inside. “Is Mr. St. John here?” He’s the coach of the math team.

“Oh, hi, Jackson,” the secretary greets me. “You just missed him. You can try back first thing in the morning.”

Through the window over her shoulder, I see Mr. St. John in the parking lot, climbing into his Toyota Camry. I turn on my heel and sprint for the exit. Another advantage of being a top athlete—I can really move. I pound up to the Camry just as Mr. St. John is shifting into reverse. I knock on the window.

The glass recedes into the door and my teacher peers out at me in surprise. “Jackson. I almost didn’t see you.”

“I just saw the tryout scores posted,” I announce, a little more out of breath than I expect to be.

“Yes—congratulations. You made the team again.”

“The thing is,” I forge on, “the sheet says I got only second place.”

He beams. “How about that Dexter Foreman? I’m so happy I persuaded him to take the test. I had a hunch about him.”

“But why is he first?” I demand.

“Oh, you made a couple of lazy mistakes and he scored perfect. I’ve never seen that on a tryout before. Nobody gets perfect.”

“Are you sure there wasn’t a problem with the grading? Maybe a software glitch?”

“There wasn’t any software to glitch. I graded the papers personally.”

“You mean he . . . won?”

“It wasn’t a contest, Jackson. He’s your teammate.” He sniffs. “Wasn’t today your first soccer game?”

“Yeah,” I grumble. But I can’t even bring myself to brag about my winning goal because I came second in the math team tryout. If I can’t be great at everything, what’s the point of being good at anything?

I step back from the car so Mr. St. John can drive away.

I’m in a crummy mood now. I hate being in a crummy mood because what does Jackson Sharpe have to be in a crummy mood about? I’m on top of the world—only how can you be on top of the world when you came in second? By definition, there’s a guy higher up than you, which means he’s on top of the world.

Okay, no reason to panic. I haven’t even talked to the most important person in this whole drama—Dexter Foreman himself. So the next morning, when I get on the bus, I ignore the calls and waving hands from people who want me to sit next to them. Believe me, it’s not easy. By now everybody’s heard about my world-class goal in the soccer game. One of the best parts of being me is listening to people talk about how great I am. Instead, I slip into an empty bench amid sighs of deflated disappointment up and down the aisle.

There I sit, jaw clenched, waiting for the bus to go on that strange detour that’s become part of our regular route—the road to The Pines.

We pull up, and sure enough, Dexter is waiting with an old lady and a guy in a wheelchair who looks like he could be the old lady’s grandfather. Then Dexter’s at the front of the bus. My first thought is, Who cuts his hair? A lawn service? And those clothes. Not so much as a label, or a logo, or a slogan, or a graphic on anything. He’s just all wrong. I can’t even describe why. How could someone all wrong be all right on the tryout test?

I pat the open bench beside me, inviting him to sit, but he walks right on by. Nobody ignores Jackson Sharpe. I have to get up and take the empty spot next to him. I catch an annoyed look from Ronny, who has a bandaged hand, courtesy of this guy. The knuckles aren’t broken, but they’re badly bruised, so it hurts big-time. From his perspective, this counts as fraternizing with the enemy.

“Hey, Dexter. What’s good?”

“Not much,” he replies dully.

As the bus starts away, I notice the kid is hanging on to the edge of his seat with white knuckles, like he expects to be catapulted into outer space by the next bump in the road. What kind of head case takes on Ronny but is afraid of a school bus ride? He loosens his grip a little, but only because he sees I’m watching.

“You’ve probably heard about me,” I continue. “I’m Jackson Sharpe.”

He regards me blankly.

“Yeah, well, you’re new. And, hey—we’re going to be on the math team together. Mr. St. John said you got perfect on the tryout test. Pure luck, right? Every now and then, all your guesses hit the mark.”

“I never guess at math,” he replies. “Anyway, the test was duck soup.”

“Duck—?”

“Easy,” he explains, and then flushes. “You must have found it easy too.”

“Oh, I did! I did!” I agree a little too enthusiastically. “Total kindergarten stuff. Very duck. It was so easy I forgot to try.”

He smiles at me—or is he holding back a laugh? “My last math teacher really challenged me,” he explains.

“Where did you go to school before here?” I ask through clenched teeth.

In answer, he points out the window of the bus at the retirement community we’re driving away from.

“The old folks’ home?” I blurt in surprise. “There’s a school there? For who?”

“For me,” he replies. “I go to it. At least I did until the truancy officer showed up.”

Truancy officer? I wonder if any of the other math teams around here have an actual truant on the squad. That has to be bad for morale. I’ll bet Mr. St. John knows nothing about that!

“They built a whole school for one kid?” I ask incredulously.

“I was homeschooled,” he explains. “Some of the best teachers in the world live at The Pines.”

“I thought only old people live at The Pines.”

“Seniors deserve a lot of respect. They fought wars for us. They built this country. They sacrificed. They eat dinner at four thirty so they can wake up early and do it all over again. And they’re excellent teachers.”

“Don’t you have to be retired to live there?” I challenge.

“My grandmother’s retired. I live with her.”

“Are your parents, like, dead or something?”

“No. They’re alive. They’re in Belgium right now.”

Finally—something about this kid that makes sense. His parents moved across an ocean just to get away from him. I can relate.

The bus rattles onto the circular driveway and pulls up in front of the school. It’s normally a great time for me. I’m one of the most popular kids and definitely the most popular seventh grader. So the start of a new day is more than just happy; it’s full of possibilities. Because when you’re Jackson Sharpe, there’s always the chance that something amazing could happen—and it probably will.

This morning, though, everything seems off. It’s this creep who’s doing it to me. He isn’t even doing it on purpose. He’s just being himself. Wherever there’s Dexter Foreman, things are off.

“Here’s an idea.” I tell him suddenly. “You should quit the math team. If you don’t like our school, you shouldn’t have to waste your time repping it.”

He seems surprised. “You can do that?”

I shrug. “They can make you go but they can’t force you to join a club or do an extracurricular.”

He takes this in. “At The Pines, if you get picked for physical therapy, you have to go. If you skip it you get a demerit. Ten demerits and you can’t use the shuffleboard courts for a week.”

“This is different,” I assure him.

He thinks it over. “I’ll stick with the team. Leo wouldn’t want me to be a quitter.”

“How can you be so sure?” I put in hopefully. “You can’t read the kid’s mind.”

“Leo’s not a kid. He’ll be a hundred in April.”

The bus lurches to a halt and Mr. Milinkovic opens the door.

Dexter stands up. “Thank you for your advice,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. “It was very nice meeting you.”

I’m normally the first one out the door, ready to take on the morning. But today, I’m glued to my seat even after the entire bus clears out.

It was very nice meeting you? What middle school kid talks like that?

It’s then that I realize something about Dexter Foreman. He doesn’t just live with the old people.

He’s one of them.

6

Gianna Greco

In the old days, the newsrooms of famous papers like the New York Times and the Washington Post were heavy with cigar smoke.

We have a different problem at the Wolf’s Eye Middle School Eyeball. The ancient ventilation system pumps in air from the exhaust fans over the deep fryers in the cafeteria next door, so our newsroom smells like French fries. And if you spend more than ten minutes there, so do you. You even get kind of a greasy feeling on your skin.

“Greco!” barks Traci Vogel, editor in chief. “Get over here! I’ve got an assignment for you!”

She doesn’t call any of the eighth-grade reporters by their last names. That honor is reserved for me.

“Well, I’ve been working on this story of my own—” I begin, trying not to roll my eyes. I’ve told her about it only fifteen times.

She cuts me off. “An electrician is coming to put a new power switch on the laminator in the office. Write it up.”

“Aw, come on, Traci,” I protest. “That’s not a story.”

“The teachers take laminating very seriously in this place,” Traci scolds me. “Remember when Mr. Kirchhoff laminated his tie? It wasn’t on purpose; he just leaned too close to the machine.”

A chorus of snickers goes around the room.

“Oh, I forgot,” Traci adds. “You were still in elementary school then.” She never misses a chance to remind me that I’m a year younger than the other reporters.

“It’s just that there’s not much to say about it,” I plead. “A guy is fixing the laminator. When it’s done, he’ll leave. That’s the whole story right there.”

“You could ask him how much experience he has,” she counters. “Are we trusting our laminator to a newbie? You could interview teachers to see how they feel about getting their laminator back after all this time.” She frowns at me. “If you’re not up to this, Greco, I can always give it to somebody else.”

“I’ll do it,” I say quickly. If I refuse an assignment, she’ll use that as an excuse never to give me another one. I’ll write her a laminator story that will bring the house down. When kids read my article, they’ll be hyperventilating over whether our laminator is going to pull through.

It’s just annoying to be wasting time on something nobody cares about when my real story is so much better. Dexter Foreman is like a fish out of water at Wolf’s Eye. There’s not a kid like him, not even close. He can duck a punch from my brother, cool as can be, but the school bus gives him panic attacks. Every time the bell rings, he practically hits the ceiling. When the principal speaks over the PA system, he looks up and around to try to see where the voice is coming from. It’s not that he isn’t smart. I’ve been sneaking a look at his assignments and test papers. His grades are really high. He’s even captain of the math team—it’s not easy to beat out Jackson for that. It’s just that his entire school life up until now has been so different from everybody else’s.

Since we ride the bus together and share the same lunch period, I get to spend a lot of time with him. Plus, we have three classes in common, and I always make sure to sit next to him. That way, I can interview him without it actually being a formal interview.

Unfortunately, he seems to have noticed I’m always around, because he’s started ducking into the boys’ room whenever he sees me coming. Either that or he has a bladder the size of a thimble. I don’t take it personally. He’s never mean or rude. It isn’t even that he doesn’t want to be friends. Closer to the truth would be that he doesn’t do friends—not here, anyway. The only friend he’s ever talked about to me is a ninety-nine-year-old code-breaker from World War II.

“You shouldn’t write an article about me. Nobody cares about that. You should be writing about the Bunker Boys!”

“The what boys?” I echo.

“Bunker Boys!” he repeats. “That was Leo’s unit. They were based right here in Wolf’s Eye. It’s a local interest story.”

How can I make him understand? The only local interest story in a school paper is something about the school. Like the kid who wants to fit in but doesn’t know how. That’s why this can be such a fantastic article. It has suspense to it. Will the misfit ever find a place here? Can a guy who’s spent his whole life with senior citizens adjust to people his own age? And will Traci Vogel ever understand this is more than just a story about one lowly seventh grader written by another one?

Strange but true: I’ve memorized the location of every boys’ room in the building. And let me tell you, I’ve gotten a lot of odd looks while I pace the hall in front of the wrong bathroom, waiting for Dex to come out.

He always looks like a hunted animal when he sees me. But I give him credit. His expression soon changes to resignation and acceptance. I’ve caught him and he knows it.

“I figured we could walk to the cafeteria together,” I tell him.

“Well . . .” I think he’s about to try to tell me he isn’t having lunch now. But he’s holding his brown bag, so that’s out. “Okay,” he agrees finally.

As we start down the hallway, we see Mr. Lam coming from the opposite direction. He passes us, then wheels suddenly. “Dexter, right?”

Dex looks a little sheepish. “Ms. Napier explained how I disrupted your class last week. It won’t happen again.”

“Forget it!” the teacher exclaims. “There hasn’t been a peep out of that radiator ever since you adjusted it. We’ve had half a dozen heating companies try to fix that thing and you took care of it with a quarter out of your pocket! How did you do that?”

Dex beams. “Where I come from, you don’t wait for fancy repairmen to overcharge you. You take the bull by the horns, roll up your sleeves, and do it yourself.”

“Well, you did a great job. Too bad nobody took the bull by the horns with the coffee maker in the teachers’ lounge. It hasn’t worked in a week.” He rushes off.

We continue along the hall, but then Dex breaks off at a side corridor.

“The cafeteria’s this way,” I remind him.

“Didn’t you hear Mr. Lam?” he calls over his shoulder. “He asked me to fix the coffee maker.”

“No, he didn’t,” I counter. “He just said it wasn’t working.”

There’s no turning him around. He’s heading for the faculty lounge. I consider stopping him. Students aren’t allowed in there. That’s a hard-and-fast rule. On the other hand, Dexter Foreman is the story that’s going to prove to Traci and the eighth graders that I’m a real reporter. To interfere with what he does would change the story—and that’s bad journalism.

Without even knocking, he barges into the faculty lounge with me hot on his heels.

“It’s okay!” I babble at the three startled teachers who are sitting there having lunch. “We’re fixing the coffee maker.” I’m not sure why I’m appointing myself his partner.

If they have any questions about why the repairperson is a twelve-year-old, they keep it to themselves. Maybe their stunned silence is due to lack of coffee.

From his pocket, Dex produces a deluxe Swiss Army Knife and begins flipping through dozens of attachments, everything from a corkscrew to a toothpick to a pair of mini scissors. At last, he comes up with a screwdriver and uses it to open up the back of the coffee maker. He removes the rear plate and squats to examine the insides.

“Oh, I can already see what’s wrong here.”

By this time, the three teachers are a rapt audience. “Can you fix it?” asks Mrs. Hoffenheim in a hushed voice.

“Just a broken wire—smooth sailing.”

We all watch as he detaches the wire, cuts off the frayed section and strips a fresh end. Then he secures it to the connection, replaces the rear plate, and screws it back in.

The three wide-eyed teachers won’t let us leave until they brew a fresh pot to prove that the repair worked. When the first blurp of hot water hits the carafe as coffee, they actually burst into applause.

“That was amazing, Dex!” I tell him as we continue on to the lunchroom. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

“There’s a handyman at The Pines,” he supplies, deadpan. “He’s the loneliest guy in the place. It’s wasteful to call in a professional when—with a little elbow grease—you can do it yourself.”

I don’t ask him what elbow grease is. I have a feeling it has something to do with taking the bull by the horns.

By the time we make it to the cafeteria, our lunch period is half over and a lot of kids are already heading outside for recess. As he passes us, my brother delivers a sideways mini-kick to Dex’s lunch bag. The bag goes flying, strewing its contents all over the place.

Dex goes after his scattered food, but I round on Ronny. “What did you do that for?”

He gives me the shrug again, sneer and all. “Me? He hit my foot with his lunch.”

“You mean the way he hit your fist with the side of the bus?”

That wipes the grin off Ronny’s face. He scowls in the direction of Dex, who’s scrambling around, trying to gather up the various pieces of his lunch from the floor. I blink. There must be fifteen different parts to it, each individually Saran-wrapped, except for the salad, which is in a small Tupperware. There’s also a sandwich—crusts cut off—and a hot drink thermos. The rest seems to be treats and desserts—a Rice Crispies square, a box of raisins, two ginger snaps, a muffin, a cupcake, several cookies, a few pieces of hard candy, and what looks like a carefully sliced wedge of chocolate cream pie.

I squat down to help him. “Wow, Dex, how do you eat all this?”

He looks sheepish. “My friends don’t want me to be hungry. There are starving children all around the world.”

“You could feed a lot of them from this bag,” I point out.

“Starving child coming through.” Ronny scoops up a bomb-shaped candy, tears off the wrapper, and pops it into his mouth. “Thanks, geezer.”

“Don’t call him that!” I snap.

In seconds, the self-satisfied smirk on Ronny’s face fades to a horror-mask. His cheeks flush bright red and his eyes pour tears. He spits out the candy, sending it skittering across the floor, and sprints into the hall in search of the drinking fountain.

I pick up the wrapper. It reads:

NUCLEAR MOUTH BLASTER

(WARNING: ATOMICALLY SPICY)

“Those are from Archie,” Dex explains. “Nobody in their right mind would actually eat one.”

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile. It proves one thing. Dexter Foreman may not know much about real school. But he understands the sweetness of revenge on a bully.

I have to remember that when I write my article.

7

Jackson Sharpe

The soccer team is now 3-0—thanks to Jackson Sharpe.

The math team is 1-0—not thanks to Jackson Sharpe.

Oh, I did fine, like I always do. I got the second-highest score on our squad. But our opponents were from Jefferson Middle School, and they’ve got a lot of really smart kids this year. They would have beaten us if it hadn’t been for one perfect test score from Wolf’s Eye.

Guess who. Our very own village elder.

Mr. St. John is beaming like a lighthouse as we file onto the bus for the ride back to our school. “Congratulations, Dexter! That was a masterful performance! I hope you’re happier about this than you look.”

I know exactly why the Ancient One looks so serious. Our captain is afraid of the bus. Although, come to think of it, he isn’t any more cheerful when he’s not on the bus. At school, he’s like the crypt-keeper. He doesn’t talk to anyone, except maybe Gianna. He just walks around looking like he wishes he was someplace else. Oh—and he’s getting straight As. I get straight As too, but his are better than mine. He’s the biggest downer on the face of the earth!

The worst part is he probably doesn’t even want to be here. He wants to be back with his old people, the real Ancient Ones, where he gets everything his own way. And I want that too—more than him, I bet!

“What do you care?” Sophie asks me the next morning when I unload my Dexter complaints on her. “So he’s good at math. So what? You’re Jackson Sharpe, soccer star! Basketball star! Baseball star!”

I nod. “True.” You have to appreciate Sophie, who’s the most honest kid in our town. In fourth grade, she was the only person with the courage to tell our substitute teacher that his mustache looked like a gigantic caterpillar crawled out of his nose and died on his upper lip. And I especially applaud her truth-telling when the truth makes me look good.

But even that’s not enough. Every school has jocks. Big whup. What makes me special is I’m smart too. Just—not as smart as him.

There. I said it. I faced up to it. And do I feel better? Not one bit.

“I can’t stand that kid,” puts in Ronny, who has the locker next to mine. “He tried to poison me, you know.”

“Really?” I feel stirrings of hope. “You can get kicked out of school for that, right?”

“I heard that story a little differently,” Sophie tells Ronny, with an arched brow. “You stole a candy from the kid, and it turned out to be one of those nuclear mouth-blasters.”

“He could have warned me,” Ronny shoots back.

“He was too busy picking up his lunch off the floor,” she reminds him. “Thanks to you.”

I tune out this conversation. I’m not going to get rid of the Ancient One because he’s a poisoner. But that doesn’t mean there’s no way to get rid of him at all. I just have to get to know him better, learn his weaknesses.

So that afternoon, I make sure to sit next to him for the bus ride home. “Congrats on the big win yesterday.” I pause so he can congratulate me right back on my latest soccer hat trick, which was all over the morning announcements. Not a peep.

“Thanks,” he says, pressing himself up against the wall of the bus. He’s either pulling away from me or he’s locking himself in for another rough ride home.

“We really won by a hair,” I continue. “Your hair. Come to think of it, who cuts your hair?”

“My grandma,” he replies. “But I don’t think she can keep on doing it much longer. She has macular degeneration. That means she’s losing her vision.”

“I know what it means,” I say irritably. Actually I didn’t but he’ll never figure that out. “So I guess you’re good at everything, not just math and ducking punches. You know—English. Vocabulary.”

“I’m not that smart,” he says honestly. “I’m just ahead because I’ve studied most of the material before with my friends.”

“Your friends?” I’ve got friends too—a lot more than him, I bet. We don’t spend much of our time studying “material.”

“At The Pines,” he explains. “They were my teachers before I came here.”

“Too bad you can’t go back to classes with the old folks,” I mumble, half to myself.

“Really too bad,” he agrees sadly.

And that’s where the idea comes from. What if Dexter can prove that he really is too smart for this place? I doubt they’ll just send him back to the fossil farm and no harm done. But maybe they’ll kick him up to the high school. What do I care, so long as he’s not in my face and on my math team? If he isn’t here, that’s an upgrade in my life!

As soon as I get home, I head straight for my computer and log on to the school website. I photoshop the borders and print out a pretty convincing piece of Wolf’s Eye Middle School stationery. I know I could just send an email like a normal person but it’s too risky. We’re talking about the Ancient One and everybody knows old people aren’t too good with technology. One quick glance at Dexter’s flip phone is enough to convince me that the kid might never have seen an email in his life. The only sure thing for him is what he can hold in his hands, printed on dead trees, sent by snail mail, delivered by a uniformed postal carrier. A good old-fashioned letter.

I fit a page into the printer and open up a new document.

Dear Dexter Foreman . . .

8

Dexter Foreman

Dear Dexter Foreman,

It has come to our attention that you are unhappy because your prior homeschool experience has already covered much of the material explored in our seventh-grade curriculum. We are offering you the opportunity to complete a special project to prove that your level of education would place you beyond the middle school. The nature of this project is up to you. When it is complete, please submit it to us at the next school board meeting.

Yours truly,

J. Enoch Dunwoody

Chair

The Greater Wolf’s Eye School District

I can’t believe it. Who did this for me?

It has to be my counselor, Ms. Napier. I thought she didn’t even like me. She got pretty mad when I fixed the radiator in Mr. Lam’s room.

But here’s proof she was listening when I told her that my classes are too easy for me. Why else would she go to Mr. Dunwoody and tell him about my situation? And now the school board is giving me the chance to put my money where my mouth is.

I thought I was stuck in this school for good. But here’s a lifeline.

I grip the letter so hard I almost tear it. What’s my project going to be? It has to be out of this world!

Out of this world—that’s something Leo always says. That’s it! He’s the smartest person I know. He’ll help me. I grab the paper and run out of our condo, sprinting across the grounds to the old code-breaker’s unit.

I knock. “Leo! It’s me—Dex!”

It always takes the old man a while to make it to the door. I can hear his wheelchair knocking against the furniture as he navigates the apartment. “Sorry for the delay. Not so easy for me to hop to it anymore.”

I slap my letter onto his wheelchair tray.

He hunches over the page for what seems like just an instant. Leo is slow in a lot of ways, but he’s a speed-reader. He looks me in the eye. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“I didn’t think anybody was paying attention to me. But my guidance counselor must have been because she set this up!”

Leo shrugs. “Well, if you’re in, I’m in. What have you got in mind for the project?”

“You taught me so much about your work with the Bunker Boys,” I begin. “I was thinking I could create my own code. Something sophisticated—like the real codes you cracked during World War Two.”

He nods slowly. “I like it. It calls for creativity and mathematical precision at the same time. It’ll show your ability to think in different dimensions.”

“The problem is how will I know if it’s good enough?” I go on. “If I flub this chance, I might never get another one.”

“That’s easy.” The old man’s eyes sparkle. He may be almost a hundred, but when he gets an idea he’s excited about, he’s as keen as mustard. “Your code will be ready when I can’t crack it.”

“You can crack every code!” I exclaim.

“Don’t be so sure. I’m an old dog, you know. If I had any more wrinkles, you could screw my hat on.”

I laugh. “I’ll never be as smart as you. Not even when I’m a hundred.”

“Ninety-nine!” he amends. “Don’t rush me. I’m still in the double digits.”

“I’m going to get started right away.”

He raises a bushy eyebrow at me. “You might want to put a hold on that for now.”

I’m puzzled. “Why? What could be more important than this?”

“I saw George and Lily Santoro coming back from the airport earlier today. They had their granddaughter with them.”

“Teagan?”

All other thoughts suddenly pop like soap bubbles. Finally! It seems like forever since she’s been here. That must be why she never answered my letters—because she knew she’d be visiting soon!

I’m almost out the door before I realize I’m ditching Leo without so much as a goodbye.

I wheel in the doorway. “The project—thank you—”

“No charge,” he says, laughing at my excitement. “Now go—before you burst a blood vessel.”

It’s like I’ve been shot out of a cannon. As I race home, I wonder how long Teagan will be staying. With her, it could be long or short. Three years ago, she spent an entire summer here. That’s when we first got close. We mapped out the entire property, marking every single tree, whether there was a nest in it, and what birds lived there. We worked so hard on it. And whenever she came back to visit after, we would drag out the old map and check to see if our bird families were still hanging around the same trees. You wouldn’t believe how many come back year after year.

We did other things too, obviously. We put in a lot of pool time. We ate more than our fair share of Froyo. Grandma used to take me to the movies when she could still drive and we always brought Teagan with us. And the Santoros would invite me out to dinner with them. Mostly, I remember a lot of laughing and a lot of finishing each other’s sentences. As pumped as I am about my coding project with Leo, the thought that Teagan’s here drives everything else from my mind.

When Grandma sees me heading down the basement stairs, she knows exactly what I’m after. “Are you looking for your chart? It’s standing up behind the bookcase.”

“It’s not a chart; it’s a map,” I retort, a little annoyed that she reads me so well. “With the different bird species color-coded.”

She smiles. “I knew you’d want it now that Teagan’s back.”

I pull out the giant poster board and take a moment to admire our work from three summers ago. The colors have faded a bit but nothing is smudged or spoiled. You can even read the little nicknames we came up with for the different birds, like His Holiness Big Red for the head of the cardinal family and Sir Woodrow von Peck-head for the woodpecker—Woody for short.

“Tell your friend hi from me,” Grandma calls as I sail out the door, the big map under my arm. “I saw her for just a minute. You’re hardly going to recognize her.”

What’s that supposed to mean? I wonder as I cross the wide lawn. It occurs to me that Teagan never visited this past summer. I haven’t seen her since spring break, more than six months ago. But how much could she have changed?

I hurry over as fast as I can, trying not to let the wind catch the poster board and lift me off the ground like a parasailer. To avoid letting go of the map, I literally knock on the door with my forehead.

Lily Santoro, Teagan’s grandmother, answers. “Hi, Dex. I was wondering when you’d show up. I guess you’ve heard we have a visitor.” She turns away. “Honey—Dexter’s here!”

It takes Teagan a long time to get to the door—like maybe she was in the bathroom. And when she does finally show up—I get a bit of a jolt. It’s not bad, exactly. It just isn’t the person I’m expecting to see.

She’s taller—easily as tall as I am now. She’s wearing a T-shirt that proclaims: I GOT CLAWED AT DEEBO’S DOWN-HOME CRAB SHACK, which is odd because I happen to know she hates seafood. But that’s not the biggest change. She seems older. Her hair is fancy—curled like some of the cover models have on the magazines Phyllis calls “pulp.” And her eyes are different. I don’t remember long black lashes. And is that makeup?

For some reason, I can’t think of a single word to say to her, maybe because she looks like a stranger. So I pull the map from under my shoulder and hold it out as a greeting.

“Hi, Dex.” It’s her voice, but something about the tone sounds off, almost—sarcastic?

“Welcome back!” I chirp a little too loudly and heft the poster board a little higher.

She glances at it like it’s nothing instead of the project we spent an entire summer on. “Oh, yeah. That.”

“Want to go check the nests?” I offer.

“Not really,” she says. “I’m not into that anymore.”

Not into it? It was our every waking moment, our total focus that summer.

“Tomorrow?” I persist. She’s probably just tired from her flight.

She doesn’t even answer.

The silence is so deafening, so wrong, that I just stand there, stunned. I wrack my brain for something else to say and have to face the fact that there’s nothing. It’s always been so natural between Teagan and me. We’ve never needed a topic. The minute we see each other, we just take off from there. Not now. This is painful—like stomach cramps.

“Well, see you around,” she says. The real message is this: I’m being sent packing. The breeze of her shutting the door in my face gets under the poster and spins me around a little. Her perfume hangs in the air like the awkwardness between us. Teagan doesn’t wear perfume—at least she didn’t. Maybe that’s what Grandma was trying to tell me.

I spend a good few minutes just staring at the door, expecting it to open, for Teagan to laugh and confess it was all a joke. But with each passing second it becomes clear that isn’t going to happen.

I don’t relish the idea of explaining to Grandma why I’m back so soon, that someone stole Teagan and replaced her with some random girl. So I wander a while, which isn’t fun when you’re carrying a poster the size of a billboard. I settle in among some of the landscaping, sitting on the corner of the map, so it doesn’t take off on me.

Okay, we’re not nine anymore, but this map isn’t anything to be ashamed of. In fact, it still works. I’d bet money that’s the same elm tree the robin family has been coming back to spring after spring. I consult the legend: Agent Orange Feather Belly. Yeah, that was a good one. It’s too late for the robins now, but they were here, all right, with their miniature blue eggs.

A stirring of yellow in a nearby cherry tree draws me back to the map. Bling-tail Money-beak, which was our nickname for the American goldfinches. Teagan and I loved the goldfinch family because they stayed around later than most of the other birds. And here they are in September.

Now I’m cooking with gas. I start running from tree to tree, checking on Hovercraft Hummingbird, Three-Cheers-for-the-Red-White-and-Blue Jay, and our family of starlings, who we nicknamed America’s Got Talons. We lost Joe Shmo the Crow, but most of the other nests are either active now or still in good shape, which means they were in use this past spring or summer. Maybe Teagan isn’t into this stuff anymore, but it’s pretty incredible that the same birds who visited these very trees three years ago are still coming back and raising families. For a second, I even consider turning this bird study into my special project for the school board—although I abandon that idea. They might hear names like His Holiness Big Red and Joe Shmo the Crow and look at me like I’m wasting their time.

That’s exactly the way Teagan looked at me: like I’m weird, an oddball not worth her attention.

I recognize that look. I’m on the receiving end of it every day at Wolf’s Eye Middle School. And even though fitting in at that place is the last thing I care about, it still hurts.

Just not as much as having Teagan slam the door in my face.

9

Ronny Greco

The least boring school project I remember is this social studies unit on the Spanish Inquisition. They had this guy named Torquemada, who was the big cheese of all the torturers, a real sicko. The teacher said Torquemada is considered to be cruelest person who ever lived.

Fake news. He may be number two, but the top spot has already been sewed up—no ifs, ands, or buts. It belongs to Ms. Napier.

Compared to her, Torquemada is pure Amateur Hour.

Every morning, Ms. Napier wakes up and thinks to herself: What can I do today to make life worse for Ronny Greco? And she always nails it. Never does a day go by when I don’t get called into that ratty office of hers. “Oh, you know that thing you did that you thought you got away with . . . ?” And she’ll ding me with another detention or an in-school suspension or another five-hundred-word apology I have to write. “You know that test you flunked that wasn’t very important? Well, think again!”

It must have made her so happy the day she got to tell me I’d flunked too many of those tests and had to repeat the sixth grade. I’ll bet Torquemada was real proud of her—at least he would have been if he wasn’t too busy being dead.

“It isn’t Napier’s fault,” Jackson tries to explain at lunch that day. “She’s got nothing against you personally. She’s the guidance counselor. It’s her job to drop the bombs.”

“Yeah?” I challenge. “So how come it’s always me? I’m the one in trouble. I’m the one on academic probation. I’m the one with a thirty-seven-percent average, the one who’s hanging by a thread.”

“It only feels that way—”

I cut him off. “Napier says if I flunk math, I might have to repeat seventh grade too. It’s bad enough I’m in the same year as my little sister. Then I’d be behind her!”

“Don’t panic, man,” he tells me breezily. “School’s barely started. You’ve got plenty of time to turn this around.”

Big talk from Jackson, who’s never flunked a test in his life. Some friend. He could help me in a heartbeat, but he’s too busy being a soccer star, mathlete, polishing his image. One of the problems being friends with Jackson is his real best friend is himself.

“It’s a lose-lose,” I complain. “If you take school too seriously, you waste your life doing homework and paying attention and making yourself miserable. But if you don’t, you wind up flunking math.”

“Chill—” he tries to soothe me.

“Hey,” I counter, “I’m all about chilling. But when you repeat a grade that means extra school, which is the opposite of chilling.”

I’ve lost him. Jackson’s showing off for some girls at Sophie’s table, using his soccer skills to bounce an empty chocolate milk container on his foot.

As Jackson dances off, still juggling, I find a pair of dark eyes focused on me from a couple of tables away. Guess who—the only Herb around here who needs math help even less than Jackson. It’s that Dexter bozo—the one who’s like an old grandpa in a kid’s body.

I should have knocked his head off that day in front of the school, but he was wiggling around so fast I couldn’t lay a hand on him. Weirdo. Of all the people around here who annoy me, he bugs me the most.

“What are you looking at, Grandpa?” I snarl.

In answer, he gets up and begins to amble toward me, like he’s going to attack me or something. I can’t hit him; I just got the bandages off from the last time I tried to hit him. Besides, fighting in the lunchroom will bring the student resource officer down on you. Tack that on to flunking math and they probably hang you from the flagpole. That would make Ms. Napier too happy. She could salute the flag and dump on me at the same time. Her two favorite things: patriotism and being meaner than Torquemada.

I fire a warning shot. “Back off, Herb!”

“My name isn’t Herb.”

“Back off!”

“There are a few men at The Pines named Herb but not me.” He doesn’t stop staring at me. Actually, he’s staring at my stomach.

“‘In my defense, I was left unsupervised,’” he says aloud.

“Huh?” It comes to me—that’s printed on my T-shirt. He isn’t staring at my stomach; he’s reading it.

He looks blank. “What does that mean?”

“Doesn’t mean anything. It’s a shirt.”

His brow furrows. He’s really thinking about this. “But it must mean something, right? Why did you choose this particular T-shirt this morning?”

“I chose it because you’re not allowed in school without a shirt,” I reply impatiently. “This was at the top of the pile.”

“So you wear clothes with words on them,” he muses, “but it doesn’t matter what the words actually say? Why did you buy it, then?”

He’s looking around the lunchroom like he’s noticing for the first time that 90 percent of kids are wearing stuff with some kind of label or slogan. As opposed to him with his geezer clothes.

“It was a present,” I tell him.

“From who?” he persists.

“From none of your business!” Now I’m getting mad. “Do you remember where you got every shoelace?”

“Yes.” The geezer takes stock of himself. “The sweater comes from Cyril. I like it because it’s heavy enough to protect against a chill, but the fabric breathes so you don’t get sweaty. The pants are from one of Felix’s suits—we had to get them shortened at the tailor’s. And Grandma bought me this shirt when I outgrew—”

“Shut up!” I storm out of the lunchroom, just about snorting fire. Aw, man, I forgot to bus my tray. Wait till Napier hears about this! I’ve got another detention in my future. Maybe two.

I glance back and there’s Grandpa, busing it for me. What is this—psychological warfare?

That’s when it hits me. Just because I can’t fight the geezer doesn’t mean I can’t get revenge for the way he’s treated me. I may not be captain of the math team, but I have plenty of talents nobody else has around here. For one thing, WEMS is such an old dump that the lockers are rusty and flaking away into dust. A safety pin can get me into any one of them in about ten seconds.

My dad has this stuff called creosote that he used to waterproof the underside of our deck. It’s like thin tar—black, shiny, oily, disgusting, not to mention that it stinks to high heaven. Well, I can think of a certain grandpa who really needs to have that stuff slopped all over his locker and everything in it.

The next morning, I go out to the shed and rummage through the old paint cans until I find the creosote. Even the can is gross, dusty and dented, with black drippings hardened along the side. I shake it to make sure the stuff is still liquid and a good amount gurgles around. A little even leaks out the top. Perfect.

“Where are you, Ronny?” I hear Gianna’s voice calling for me. “We’re going to miss the bus!”

I stuff the can in my backpack and catch up with her on the front walk.

Her eyes narrow. “What were you doing out in the yard?”

“What do you care?” I snap.

We run to the stop just as Mr. Milinkovic is pulling up. On the bus, I sit with Jackson and Sophie, noticing for the first time how shaky the ride is. I can feel the creosote sloshing around inside the tin. If my backpack gets ruined, how am I ever going to explain what happened to it?

“Is this a school bus or a blender?” I complain. “Don’t they have shock absorbers on this thing?”

“You know who else whines about that?” Jackson comments. “The Ancient One. He always white-knuckles it like he’s riding a mechanical bull.”

They have a good laugh over that so I laugh too. But inside, I’m thinking maybe the geezer isn’t so wrong on this point. If I get a backpack full of creosote, who’s getting “revenged”—him or me?

Speaking of Grandpa, he gets on at his usual Geezerville stop, escorted by his posse of gray-hairs. I wonder if that’s who donated the ugly clothes he wears. Big surprise, he walks right by me—right by all of us—and takes an empty seat by himself near the back. He’s there for about two seconds before my sister joins him. She’s like his fan club or something. It’s an embarrassment to the whole Greco family.

I think of the mess the creosote is going to make of the guy’s locker and it calms my nerves a little.

At school, as we line up to file off the bus, Sophie sniffs and wrinkles her nose. “What stinks? It smells like turpentine.” She always makes me feel like I’m being interrogated. She’s going to be Ms. Napier when she grows up. Ugh!

“Sorry,” I put in quickly. “My dad made me help him paint the basement stairs last night.”

“Hygiene, man!” Jackson scolds. “Gotta wash up after a job like that.”

This from the guy who won’t even shower after a soccer game because he wants the world to smell his success.

I’m anxious to do the deed as soon as possible, but first period is a no-go. That’s math and I can’t afford to cut that—not even for something important like glorious revenge.

As I’m stashing my stuff in my locker, I unzip the backpack to be greeted by a good news/bad news situation. The creosote leak isn’t as bad as I thought. But it’s just enough to stain my math homework. How can I turn it in like this? That would be like giving the cops evidence in advance of the crime you’re about to commit. When a locker ends up full of shiny black slop, Napier will know exactly whose door to knock on.

Mr. St. John frowns all over me when I tell him I wasn’t able to get the homework done last night. “I’d think someone in your situation, Ronny, would make sure to do it and do it well.”

You’ve got to hand it to teachers. They can always make a kid feel lower than worm guts. Napier’s the world champion, but St. John is pretty good too. Torquemada could take lessons from the faculty in this place.

When math is over, I duck into the bathroom and cool my heels for a few minutes to give the halls a chance to clear. At last, when I step out, it’s just me.

I retrieve the backpack and make my way toward the geezer’s locker on the other side of the school. I’m already picturing him opening the metal door and finding everything slimed from top to bottom. This is going to be sweet!

I have to pass Napier’s office on the way, and believe me, my feet don’t touch the floor. At last, there I am in front of locker 214. From my pocket, I produce the safety pin. I open it up, insert it into the built-in lock, and work my magic. There’s a click and the door swings wide.

I’m reaching for the paint can when my eyes fall on a white bag hanging on the hook. It’s from Logos, the T-shirt store at the mall. That makes me stop and think. In the lunchroom that day, the Herb was blabbing about my T-shirt—what the slogan meant, what it didn’t mean, and whether it had to mean anything at all. I figured he was pulling my chain but maybe not. It looks like he went home and convinced one of his gray-hair buddies to take him to the mall to buy something an actual human might wear.

I can’t resist. I know I haven’t got much time, but I have to see what slogan he decided was the perfect thing for a kid to display on his chest.

I set my backpack onto the floor, reach into the Logos bag, and pull out the white cotton fabric, stretching it out at arm’s length so I can read the message. It says:

T-SHIRT

That’s it? Who buys a T-shirt that says, “T-shirt”?

A distant click brings me out of my frozen state. At the far end of the hall, the door of Ms. Napier’s office opens and a high-heeled shoe appears.

Jackson may be the sports star, but nobody ever moved as fast as I do. I restuff the shirt in the Logos bag, slam the locker shut, pick up my backpack, and disappear from that hallway like I’d never been there. I don’t stop running until I’m at my own locker, cramming my stuff inside. Figures—I don’t get to slime the geezer’s locker. What does get slimed is my lunch, which is in my backpack next to the creosote. And I didn’t bring any money, so no chance buying food either.

The only reason I don’t starve that day: Grandpa.

“What do you want?” I snarl when he approaches me in the cafeteria. Creosote puts a guy in a black mood. He was supposed to learn that lesson, but instead, it’s me.

“Where’s your lunch?” he asks.

“Bite me.”

“You can’t do your best work on an empty stomach,” he persists.

“How’d you like me to do my best work on your face?”

He places a fat brown bag on the table. “You can share my lunch. I have a lot of food and it’s a shame to waste it.”

I almost tell him I’m on a food-free diet, but it’s been a stressful morning and I’m hungry. Geezer lunch is better than no lunch at all.

Actually, it’s great. When those gray-hairs make a sandwich, they make it with love—crusts cut off, sprigs of parsley, toothpicks with the fancy, colored fuzz at the top. And the dessert selection! Brownies, cookies, cupcakes like your grandma makes. Only my grandma is a terrible cook. This is like the stuff baked by other people’s grandmothers!

For the first time, I notice that he’s changed out of his usual button-down shirt and into his new purchase from Logos. But you can’t read the message because he’s got a cardigan on over it.

So I offer a little advice. “Open the sweater. You know, so everyone can see.”

And he does. It’s hard to tell with him, but he might be kind of proud to be wearing an article of clothing that wasn’t picked out by somebody eighty.

Even if it does say “T-shirt.”

And you know what? That’s kind of growing on me too. It’s kind of punk rock, an in-your-face to all these messages we wear on our clothes: the dumb jokes, the crummy brand names, the vacation spots we either forgot about or never went to in the first place.

Compared to that, the only slogan that makes any sense is “T-shirt.”

10

Gianna Greco

My article on the laminator is a big hit.

Lol.

I worked so hard on it. I interviewed the technician. I asked teachers for personal stories on things they have laminated. (The strangest: a slice of liverwurst.) I took pictures of the open machine while it was being repaired. I wrote my piece like an action-adventure novel, building the suspense of “Will our beloved laminator ever work again?” I’ll bet readers are bathed in sweat and pale with anticipation by the time the rollers start rolling and the first plastic-covered page emerges into daylight.

Traci buries it on the last page in the middle of the fold, sandwiched between the word search and a school store ad for geometry sets. Even worse, she replaces my spine-tingling headline “The Secret Life of a School’s Most Vital Machine” with “Laminator Gets Fixed.” I mean, who’s going to read that?

But at least one good thing comes of it. Traci says I did an okay job and promises to publish my article about Dex. So it’s time to kick my research into full gear.

As I’ve hinted before, he’s not the easiest person to get to know. He isn’t mean or rude, but every time he sees me coming, he runs a mile. It can’t help that I’m a Greco. Ronny didn’t provide him with a very friendly introduction to our family.

But I can’t blame everything on Ronny. I know I come on kind of strong, and it isn’t just the reporter thing. When you have an older brother like mine, you learn to go big or go home. Okay, now I guess I am blaming everything on Ronny. There are some people who suck all the air out of a room. Ronny can suck all the air out of the outdoors too. So I assert myself. Call it survival training in the Greco family.

Dex doesn’t have any siblings to deal with and his parents are far away. I don’t say that’s lucky exactly, but it’s definitely less complicated. He could be just shy, but he wasn’t too shy to barge into the teachers’ lounge and rip the back off the coffee maker. He’s a mystery man—and nothing gets a reporter’s juices flowing more than a good mystery.

That’s when I have a brainstorm. You’ll never learn much about cheetahs at the zoo. You have to go to the Serengeti and see them where they live and hunt. It’s the same with Dex. The only way really to know him is to observe him in his natural habitat. And that’s at The Pines.

Something tells me that asking Dex if I can come over after school is going to get a big fat no. I’m going to have to be sneakier. It doesn’t count as being sneaky when you’re a reporter. It counts as the people’s right to know.

So that day on the bus, I don’t sit next to Dex like I usually do. I take a spot near the front and block the aisle seat with my backpack so I don’t get boxed in. When he gets off at The Pines, I make my run.

“Not yet! Not yet!” I bark at Mr. Milinkovic, who’s already closing the door in my face. He opens up and I jump out, landing right next to Dex at the community’s main entrance.

“This isn’t your stop,” he informs me, frowning, as the bus pulls away.

“I’m coming over,” I tell him boldly, looking him straight in the eye and daring him to say no.

He looks frightened. “Why?”

I shrug. “You always talk about how great it is here. I want to see for myself.”

His mouth is so tight that his lips are barely even visible. But if he’s upset, it doesn’t stop him from switching into tour guide mode. “This is the parking lot,” he announces. “It’s where people . . . park. It’s also where you catch the shuttle if you don’t drive anymore. Or if you’re too young to.” He adds, “That’s just me.”

I look around. The Pines is really nice—professional landscaping around clusters of small one-story stucco houses painted white with green trim. Residents are out, puttering in gardens, sweeping porches, and strolling around the parklike pathways. Soft music is playing from an outdoor speaker system—real golden oldies kind of stuff: jazz, show tunes, and very early rock and roll. Aside from Dex and me, everybody is elderly, ranging in age from their sixties to much, much older. The hair is snow-white, when there’s hair at all. There are canes and walkers and a few wheelchairs. Compared to the constant chatter and laughter and rough action of a middle school, the feel is really peaceful. No wonder it’s such a jolt for Dex to go from this to the chaos of WEMS. He must feel like he’s parachuting into a war zone every morning. I make a mental note of that.

As we start along one of the pathways, something becomes clear: Everybody knows Dex. Not only that, but they all have something to say to him.

“Yoo-hoo! Hi, Dex!”

“How was school?”

“My closet light burned out again. Can you stop by later and replace the bulb?”

“Who’s your lady friend?”

“Can I measure your head for the beanie I’m knitting?”

“You know, you just can’t get a good rye anymore.”

“Thanks for changing that fuse, Dex. You’re a peach!”

They’re talking to him but a lot of eyes are on me during these conversations—along with winks and knowing smiles. Oh, no—do they think I’m Dex’s girlfriend?

“Dex and I aren’t ‘together,’” I put in pointedly. “We’re just friends from school.”

“You could do a lot worse, you know!” This from a man soaking in a hot tub. I’ve never seen such a hairy person in my life. It’s growing out of his ears, nose, and chest but not his head. It’s a miracle the filter doesn’t clog up the minute he steps in there.

I look over at Dex to gauge his reaction to all this, but he doesn’t seem to be bothered by it. In fact, I’ve never seen him so relaxed. The farther we get into The Pines, the happier he looks, like he’s shrugging off the effects of the day at school. These are his people and he’s their darling.

As we walk, he helps one lady choose a colored yarn for the pillow she’s crocheting, breaks up an argument over a game of horseshoes, rescues someone’s cat from a low tree branch, and threads a sewing needle for a woman who misplaced her reading glasses. In many ways, it reminds me of hanging out with my grandparents—a lot of cheek-pinching, dad jokes, and old-timey talk. It’s easy to see where Dex picks it up. Only in his case, everybody’s his grandparent and he’s the only grandkid in the place.

We round a corner and the music changes to “Anti-Hero” by Taylor Swift. That’s when we see a girl about our age sitting in a deck chair in front of one of the bigger condos, listening to music on a Bluetooth speaker.

I turn to Dex. “I thought you were the only kid.”

“That’s Teagan,” he replies. “She’s just visiting. We used to be friends. Before.”

“Before what?”

He shrugs. “I wish I knew.”

“Hi, Teagan!” he calls, and the girl acknowledges him with a nod. Her eyes linger on me for a second or two and then she returns to her music.

Dex never looks back but his shoulders sag a little. I get the feeling that Teagan might be a rare dose of reality in the middle of his perfect life at The Pines.

Dex’s house turns out to be a smaller condo on the opposite side of the grounds. As soon as we open the door, a lady’s voice calls, “You and your friend have a seat at the table. I’ve got fresh banana bread coming out of the oven.”

I frown. “How could she know I’m here?”

He looks sheepish. “News travels fast at The Pines—especially since Phyllis gave in and bought a cell phone.”

I survey the living room. The decor can only be described as Dexter Contemporary. He smiles out from a minor art gallery of photographs, age baby until today. The only picture of anything else shows an attractive, elegantly dressed couple standing in front of the Taj Mahal.

“My parents,” Dex supplies. “My mom works for the diplomatic corps, so they travel a lot. This was taken in India. They live in Brussels now, but they’ve been all over. Tokyo. Johannesburg. Buenos Aires.”

“Why don’t you live with them?” I ask.

“We’ve talked about it a couple of times,” he replies. “But I like here better. Anyway, Grandma needs me.”

On that note, Grandma—a tiny but energetic lady—bustles in from the kitchen, carrying the banana bread and a china teapot. Instantly, Dexter jumps up, takes the tray from her hands, and sets it down on the dining room table. The reporter in me reflects that not a lot of middle school kids would make a gesture like that. You don’t have to be a Marvel hero to do it, but it’s polite and old-fashioned in a very admirable sort of way.

I’ve never had a cup of tea—the hot kind—in my life, but it’s actually pretty good if you put enough sugar in it. In this place, surrounded by retirees, it seems like the right beverage somehow. And the banana bread is fresh out of the oven and amazing.

Dex’s grandmother asks me a lot of questions about myself, but I can tell that what she really wants to know is how her grandson is doing at Wolf’s Eye Middle School. And the answer is okay. And also not so okay.

Academically, he’s great. His grades are off the charts, and in the classes I have with him, he’s always one of the smartest kids in the room. But socially, he’s just not fitting in. Don’t get me wrong. He isn’t hated. He’s not Public Enemy Number One. Nobody’s bullying him, except maybe my brother, and that barely counts, since Ronny bullies everybody. Closer to the truth is that Dex is just sort of separate. Like there are two groups at WEMS—the rest of us and him. His clothes don’t help. It’s almost as if he’s wearing the wrong team’s uniform to a fan festival.

At first, I thought that was just fine with him. Now I’m not so sure. I’ll catch him looking at other students and I get the feeling he wants to join their group, their conversation, whatever it is they’re doing, and he just can’t figure out how to make it happen. Maybe that’s his upbringing. At a retirement community, if you want to get in on an activity, there’s probably a sign-up sheet for it somewhere. A middle school is different. There are cues, unwritten rules, dos and don’ts. Everybody understands them—everybody except Dex.

His one extracurricular is math team, but it was Mr. St. John who brought him in, not any of the kids. The only other thing he has much interest in is fixing stuff—like the time one of the drinking fountains was leaking and he plugged the small hole with chewing gum and a plastic bag torn into strips. The people who were watching actually broke into applause. Then Dex ruined it by announcing it’s a waste of money to call a repairperson when all you need is a little ingenuity and common sense. In a town that’s been arguing over whether to spend millions on a new middle school, that’s not going to win you a lot of friends.

But I can’t dump all that on the guy’s grandmother—especially not with Dex himself sitting there sipping tea like a little old lady in England. So I say, “Dex is doing great.” Half true. “And the coffee maker in the teachers’ lounge never worked better.”

Mrs. Foreman reads between the lines. “Our generation doesn’t throw things out. We repair them—over and over if necessary. I suppose Dex picked that up from living here.” She looks a little worried. “I wonder what else Dex picked up from living here.”

Is she serious? What didn’t he pick up from living here? He’s like a twelve-year-old grandfather!

“I’ve got ears, you know,” Dex puts in, a little annoyed. “Why are you discussing me like I’m not even in the room?”

His grandmother laughs. “You should be used to that by now. At The Pines, we’re all reliving our lives through you. What else do we have to talk about?”

It dawns on me then: I’m sitting across from the person who knows more about Dex than anybody in the world, even his own parents. This is my chance to put some real meat on the bones of the article I’m writing.

“What was Dex like when he first came to live here?” I ask.

“I loved it,” Dex states firmly.

“Well, not at first,” his grandmother amends. “You were terrified of Archie, who was always ranting about something. And Miss Wefers—you didn’t like the bright red lipstick that used to get on your face when she kissed your cheek. And there were complaints about you. You were noisy. And when you started your hearing aid–battery collection, that didn’t go over too well with the people who needed them for their hearing aids. . . .”

My fingers begin to itch for the notebook in my backpack in the front hall. Oh, man, I hope I don’t forget some of these stories about Dexter. Like the time he superglued Leo’s comb to the top of his dresser. What started as a child’s prank led to a discussion of the chemical properties of epoxies that forged a shared love of science that’s still ongoing.

When Mrs. Foreman decided her own teaching experience was no longer enough, everybody else began to pitch in. Pretty soon, Dex became the most famous name at The Pines. Phyllis, the author, dedicated a book to him. Cyril taught him to play pinochle. He joined a book club, a shuffleboard team, and a barbershop quartet. He learned to compare grandchildren’s report cards and hoard Splenda packets. He acquired a taste for Cream of Wheat. He could diagnose arthritis and rheumatism and carpal tunnel syndrome.

In other words, he became a typical resident, only decades younger.

“Dex, you’re one in a million,” I tell him in genuine wonder.

His grandmother beams at me. “I’m so happy to see that Dex has made such a good friend.”

It brings me up short. I’m not a true friend; I’m a working reporter. If it wasn’t for my article for the Eyeball, I wouldn’t be here at all. In a way, I’m just as bad as Ronny—maybe worse. The banana bread curdles in my stomach.

Shame on me.

11

Dexter Foreman

A picnic at The Pines Retirement Village. Outdoor tables, bright linens rustling in the breeze. Elderly partygoers watch as Fifi, a miniature poodle, chases a butterfly across the lawn.

Then . . . disaster. The dog tumbles through the gap between a storm drain and the base of the gazebo. The poor puppy is trapped! Panic among the seniors. Who can rescue Fifi?

A hero steps forward, flattening himself to the grass and extending a strong arm into the hole. He takes hold of Fifi’s collar and lifts her to safety.

Wait a minute. The residents of The Pines are retirees, many aged eighty or even older. Who is the physical specimen who can throw his body around with abandon and yet has an arm slender enough to fit into such a tight space?

Meet Dexter Foreman, age 12, newest student at Wolf’s Eye Middle School—and also America’s youngest senior citizen. . . .

I look up from the papers at Gianna, who stands over my study carrel in the library. “How do you even know about this?”

“From your grandmother,” she replies. “While you were in the bathroom, she told me about the time you saved Fifi’s life.”

It makes sense. Tea is the most popular drink at The Pines, but it makes you go to the bathroom a lot.

“It’s a great story,” Gianna goes on. “It has everything—excitement, danger. Plus it shows how special you are at The Pines. I knew it was the perfect way to open my profile on you for the Eyeball.”

Uh-oh. The Eyeball is the school paper. Gianna told me she wanted to do an article on me, but I thought I talked her out of it. I flip through the pages. The piece is all about my life growing up in a place where nobody else is under sixty. Considering she spent only an hour and a half there, she’s picked up an awful lot of personal stuff I thought was, you know, personal. It’s like she knows more about me than I know about myself! There are even quotes from Grandma!

She’s beaming at me like she’s proud of this invasion of my privacy.

“Is that the reason you came home with me?” I demand. “To spy for your article?”

She’s a little taken aback. “I admit that was part of it. I have a reporter’s mind. But I’m doing you a favor too. You’re a pretty standoffish guy. How are people supposed to get to know you?”

“They know me just fine,” I say, trying to sound firm. “Why do they need to know about my grandmother and the time I pulled Fifi out of a storm drain?”

“Because it’s interesting,” she insists. “You’re interesting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Everybody else in this school is the same kind of person: born in Wolf’s Eye, went to the elementary before this, and now we’re here. Your background is unique.”

“That’s what this is all about,” I accuse. “You just want to make fun of the weirdo who spends all his time with the old fogeys. Well, they’re not old fogeys. They’re my friends. And I’m not going to let you publish this.”

She’s serious now. “You can’t do that, Dex.”

“Why not?” I retort. “It’s all about me and I say no.”

I’m expecting her to be mad, but instead, she regards me in sympathy. “Come with me.”

I’m suspicious. “Where to?”

Instead of answering, she says, “I have to show you something.”

So I pack up my books and follow her out of the library. She leads me down to the first floor and to a small room next to the cafeteria. I wrinkle my nose. The place smells like Archie’s kitchen when he’s cooking with his deep fryer.

A small group of eighth graders is working at desks. The minute they see me, they leap to their feet and break into applause. I’m getting a standing ovation from people I’ve never laid eyes on before.

That’s when I notice the banner hanging on the wall.

THE WOLF’S EYE MIDDLE SCHOOL EYEBALL

There’s a picture of a huge eye below the writing.

One of the eighth graders—a girl—grabs my hand in both of hers and shakes it vigorously. “I’m Traci Vogel, editor in chief. It’s an honor to have you as this week’s top story!”

In the corner of the room, an industrial-size printer rattles and heaves, churning out endless copies of the latest issue. I catch a glimpse of the headline.

NEW STUDENT PROFILE: DEXTER FOREMAN

Eyeball staff members are hard at work, collating pages and stapling the finished newspaper together. There must be hundreds of copies stacked there already.

There’s no stopping it. It’s what Phyllis refers to as a “fait accompli.” Leo would call it a “done deal.”

I glare reproachfully at Gianna.

She doesn’t have the decency to look ashamed. Not even a little bit.

12

Ms. Napier

On Wednesday morning, I arrive at school to find students are swarming outside the main entrance.

“What’s everyone standing around for?” I ask Sophie on the edge of the crowd.

“Nobody’s moving,” she tells me. “The stairwell’s jammed.”

One of the doors swings open and I catch a glimpse inside. It’s a sea of humanity: kids packed like sardines and no one making an inch of progress. My first thought is that there’s some kind of protest going on. It’s not impossible in Wolf’s Eye, where the whole town is divided between people who want to invest in a new middle school and those who think we can struggle along with this old ruin. I’m actually excited by the idea. Middle school students taking an interest in the issues that affect their lives! What guidance counselor wouldn’t get jazzed up about that?

But when I part the crowd and squeeze my way inside, I’m faced with a major letdown. No protest. No surge of student involvement. Just a workman, halfway up the staircase at the broken step, hammering in a wooden frame. He’s about to pour ready-mix concrete from a plastic tub. The kids are stopped dead on the stairs, halting the flow of traffic, watching in fascination.

“Why is everybody standing around spectating?” I demand in a voice that barely conceals my disappointment. “Haven’t you ever seen a repair job before? Move along and let the man work.”

That’s when I get a good look at the “man” and realize he’s not a man at all. It’s Dexter. A toolbox is open beside him and he’s fixing the stair he tripped on weeks ago when he was new here. There are two teachers on the scene, watching spellbound—instead of stopping something that very clearly should not be happening!

I push my way up to the worksite. “Dexter—what are you doing?”

He holds a level to the frame he’s built. “If you don’t get the pitch right, the new step won’t be perfect.”

“It’s not your job to make a perfect step!”

“If something is worth doing,” he lectures me, “it’s worth doing properly.”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t be doing it! You’re a student here, not a building contractor.” I turn to my two colleagues. “How can you stand here and be part of this?”

All Ted Lam has to offer is a shrug. “We need a new step. The office doesn’t tell me what’s official and what isn’t.”

“We don’t even use nonunion contractors. It never struck you as odd that we’d hire one of our own seventh graders?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve cut corners to save money around here,” Carrie Hoffenheim puts in.

“You both know as well as I do that the school would never hire a child to do an adult’s job,” I accuse. “This boy isn’t a professional. He carries no insurance. If this step collapses and someone gets injured, the school would be responsible.”

Dexter looks insulted. “This step is not going to collapse. I learned concrete from Felix. He poured foundations in Philadelphia for fifty-seven years and those houses are all still standing.”

I sigh. “Well, at least help me move these kids along,” I tell my two colleagues. “Half the student body is standing outside trying to get in.”

Eventually the three of us manage to get everybody moving up the steps. As they pass, a lot of them take pictures of Dexter as he smooths the concrete with a trowel. Several of them call out, “Nice work, kid,” and other words of encouragement. I’m surprised at how few seem to know him. Not a single one calls him by name, even though he’s been here for a month. It reminds me how hard it is to be new. And let’s face it, living at The Pines, Dexter hasn’t picked up much in the way of middle school social skills.

Which brings me to the question of what to do about him. I know I should stop him cold and order him to homeroom. But then we’d have a half-finished step for people to fall over. On the other hand, if I let him work on, I know he’ll do a good job and clean up after himself. That’s just the kind of kid he is. He’s even got a Wet Cement sign to warn people away from the stair until it’s dry.

Besides, I’m the one who’s always lamenting that the students lack spirit. A middle school can be an eye-roll factory. But you don’t get that from Dexter. He saw something wrong in his world and instead of complaining or looking the other way, he committed to changing it. He got involved.

I wish I had a school full of him—only then there’d be eight hundred of them making illegal repairs all over the place, turning the building into a minefield.

When at last it’s just the two of us in the stairwell, I say, “Since you’ve come so far, you can complete the job. But as soon as you’re finished, go tell Principal Dinkins what you’ve done.”

He promises to do that and I escape to my office and flop into my desk chair. I’m about to reach for the phone to give the secretary a heads-up about Dexter when I realize I’m not alone.

Ronny Greco slouches in my visitor’s chair, his nose buried in a copy of the Wolf’s Eye Middle School newspaper, the Eyeball. As a counselor, I interact with a large number of students. But if I gave frequent flyer miles, Ronny would have earned himself a first-class ticket to Jupiter. He’s already been held back once and seems to be on track for a repeat performance this year. In other words, there’s no sign that our association will be ending anytime soon.

“Good morning, Ronny.”

He doesn’t even answer. That’s how absorbed he is in the newspaper. To be honest, I’m a little impressed. Going by his report card, he shouldn’t have the ability to concentrate like this, although his latest academic crisis—the latest of many—is math, not reading.

“What’s so interesting?”

He holds up a finger as if to tell me to wait. That’s when I see the banner headline on the paper: “New Student Profile: Dexter Foreman.” There’s a picture of Dexter looking like he very much doesn’t want to have his picture taken.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

“Off the table at the school store,” he replies. “The Eyeball always comes out on Wednesday. It’s all about that Dexter dude who lives with the geezers.”

I can’t let that pass. “The Pines is a retirement village. They’re not geezers. They’re people.”

“Right. Old people.”

I have a giddy vision of hundreds of kids tromping past Dexter’s construction zone to be greeted by a newspaper feature on guess who. It’s the perfect storm. A star is born.

“He’s on my bus,” Ronny says almost proudly.

“So you’re friends.”

Ronny makes a face. “Nobody can be friends with that guy. You know what it says on his T-shirt? ‘T-shirt.’”

“And that’s . . . bad?”

“He makes fun of me,” Ronny complains.

“That doesn’t sound like Dexter.”

“Yeah, well, believe it,” he tells me. “Maybe. I can’t always follow what he’s saying.”

“Because of where he grew up, he has a few old-fashioned turns of phrase,” I explain. “I promise he’s not making fun of anyone. He’s a very nice boy.”

“‘T-shirt,’” he grumbles. “Like if it didn’t say that, we dummies would think he’s wearing a scuba suit.”

I sigh. “Why are you here, Ronny? What can I do for you this morning?”

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a wad of pink paper, and hands it to me. With great effort, I unfold the slip, which attests to the fact that a tin of creosote was discovered in Ronny’s locker during last night’s custodian’s inspection.

“Creosote?” I say aloud.

He grins at me. “Sounds like a grandpa word, doesn’t it? But it isn’t. It’s this paint-y glop you use to waterproof wood. It’s gross.”

“I know what it is. What was it doing in your locker?”

He looks worried. “I know you guys have a lot of rules but is there honestly one that says, ‘No creosote’?”

“I think the office was concerned you were going to use it to break some other rule, like the one against vandalism.”

“Well,” he muses, “did anything around school get creosoted lately?”

“Not that I know of.”

“So why am I here?”

I smile. “Come on, Ronny. I wasn’t born yesterday. If you brought creosote into school, you had a plan for it. Why else would you hide a construction material in your locker?”

“No fair!” Ronny declares. “How come the geezer is allowed to do construction, but I get in trouble for having creosote?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” I tell him sharply, “but Dexter isn’t allowed to ‘do construction’ any more than you or any other student would be. And as soon as I’m finished with you, I’m going to have a word with Dr. Dinkins about it.”

“Really?” He’s amazed. “You mean the Herb’s in trouble just like me?”

I rivet him with a stare. “You’re dismissed.”

“I didn’t think he had the guts,” Ronny comments with just a touch of admiration in his voice.

I stand up and point to the door. “Go!”

By the time I check the stairwell, there’s no sign of Dexter and his tools. The new step has been finished and the Wet Cement sign helpfully directs people around the worksite.

As I head to the office to consult with Dr. Dinkins on the subject of what to do about Dexter, a question nags at me. Why am I complaining about the one student who’s trying to make the school just a little bit better?

13

Dexter Foreman

The device looks like an old-fashioned typewriter with a boxy contraption attached to the back of it.

One of the things I love about visiting Leo is all the stuff he has left over from his code-breaking days in the army. He assures me that this machine is a GX-4210, but the plaque on it says, “OLD BOSSY,” because the engineer who built it grew up on a farm in Wisconsin and Bossy was the name of his favorite cow.

My eyes on the page of notes beside me on the desk, I type my message onto the keyboard. Old Bossy is a transmitter, but in this case, it’s only sending as far as a receiver in Mr. Preminger’s bedroom about twenty feet away.

I finish the message and sit back to wait. Creating a code isn’t that hard. When you replace the letters of any sentence with different letters, you’ll turn it into instant gobbledygook. Then somebody who knows the system can perform the substitution in reverse and bring back the original message.

But creating a code that’s going to stump somebody is a lot harder. And stumping an actual genius like Leo, who’s been trained to recognize patterns in words and language—that’s almost impossible.

Simply swapping letters is never going to work on someone like Leo. That’s why I’ve been spending all my spare time developing a code where not only do the letters change but so does the whole substitution system. It’s tough going and sometimes staring at all those letters and numbers makes you feel like your eyes are about to pop out of your head and roll across the table.

I try to picture myself as seventeen-year-old Leo Preminger, fresh out of his parents’ house in Chicago, arriving in Wolf’s Eye to grapple with the complexities of the Lorenz, the Enigma, and the other infamous Nazi codes. I’m not as smart or as gifted as the Bunker Boys, but I have to come up with something special to convince Mr. Dunwoody and the school board that Wolf’s Eye Middle School is the wrong place for me.

Not even sixty seconds have gone by when I hear the bumping and griping of Leo wheeling himself from the bedroom into the kitchen. There’s a big cake-eating grin on his face and he thrusts a piece of paper at me. I stare down at it.

I’m not saying I’m Batman.

I’m just saying nobody has ever seen

Batman and me together in the same room.

“Yeah, you got it,” I concede, deflated.

He shakes a fist in triumph. “Ha—that was fun!”

“Right,” I mumble. “Fun.”

“How is it that I’m ninety-nine and I remember fun better than you?” he demands. “Being a kid is supposed to be all about fun. Sometimes I wonder if you have any.”

“Breaking codes is serious business. You helped win a war when you did it with the Bunker Boys.”

Mr. Preminger shakes a shaggy head. “We knew the stakes were sky-high and we took our job seriously, but nothing was ever more fun. We were solving the biggest puzzle in the world! To make a breakthrough—there’s no feeling quite like it.” He slaps the paper on his wheelchair tray. “And you gave me a little bit of that feeling just now.”

“It didn’t even take you a minute,” I observe ruefully.

“You always look for the vowels first because they come up most often,” he explains. “The word ‘Batman’ is in there twice, with two As in each. Once I had that, the rest fell into place.” I must look crestfallen because he softens. “Buck up, kiddo. It was a good first try. But why Batman?”

I shrug miserably. “I was trying to make it hard. I guess I figured maybe you hadn’t heard of him.”

“Are you kidding? The first Batman comic came out when I was in high school. It was a big deal. Where did you come up with that message?”

I’m embarrassed. “I saw it on a T-shirt at school. You wouldn’t believe it. Every kid in that place wears a shirt with a whole story on it. It’s bizarre!”

“Oh, bosh. People here wear shirts like that too.” Leo looks thoughtful. “Although here they usually say ‘World’s Greatest Grandpa.’” He peers at the shirt I’m wearing—the one I bought at the mall. “‘T-shirt,’” he reads. “Short, sweet, and to the point. It’s definitely a T-shirt.”

I flush. “The other kids think I dress funny. I figured it would make me look more normal. But I couldn’t even get that right. And then Gianna—”

“You don’t have to be a code-breaker to know where this is going,” he puts in with a wink.

I shake my head. “I thought we were friends. At least, she was the only kid who didn’t treat me like some alien species who crash-landed on Earth. Turns out she was researching me for her article in the school paper. Can you believe that?”

“It depends,” he returns. “Was it a good article?”

“I come off like a freak. And everybody at The Pines sounds like zombies lined up for the early-bird special!”

“Ha!” that draws a sharp guffaw from the old man. “We do love the early-bird special around here. Sounds like truth in advertising to me!”

“It’s not funny!”

“It’s a little funny,” he argues. “It’ll come to you. Miss Wefers in her ball gown at the chocolate fountain?”

And just because Leo’s laughing, I feel the corners of my mouth twist into a smile, even though I’m not in a smiling mood. That’s Leo. He always makes me feel better.

“Okay,” I concede. “It’s funny.”

“No charge.”

On the way back to Grandma’s, I come upon the Santoros loading Teagan and her luggage into their car. I can’t believe she’s going home already. We never exchanged more than a few words. I figured at some point we’d run into each other and take up where we left off. But it never happened and it’s already too late.

I think of what Leo said about fun—how I never have any. It definitely used to be fun with Teagan. But it looks like we’re just not friends anymore.

Her grandparents wave. Teagan barely glances in my direction.

The car starts away and then stops. The rear window descends and Teagan peers out at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“Well—have a good trip home,” I say because the silence is pretty uncomfortable.

Her eyes are focused on the center of my chest, her brow furrowed. “‘T-shirt’?”

I’m embarrassed all over again. “I thought I could come up with something cool, but I guess I’ve got no imagination.”

“It looks good on you,” she decides.

The window rolls up and the car pulls away.

14

Jackson Sharpe

No one can ever say Jackson Sharpe is too big to admit when he’s wrong.

For example, I was wrong when I sent the Ancient One a fake letter inviting him to do a special project for the school board. I should have invited him to jump off a cliff.

Okay, that sounds cruel and it kind of is. But I’m semiserious here.

It was bad enough when, during the morning announcements, Dr. Dinkins read out the results of the math team’s latest meet and our star performer was a name other than Jackson Sharpe. Now, thanks to Gianna’s article, everybody can put a face to that name. A goofy face below a terrible haircut, but that’s beside the point. It isn’t my face!

“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” Ronny challenges as we stand at our lockers before first period. “Nobody cares about the math team.”

“They cared when I was captain of it,” I retort.

“No offense but we kind of didn’t,” Sophie confesses. “We just pretended to.”

I glare at Ronny. “You’re practically the Ancient One’s biggest fan,” I accuse. “You eat lunch with him every day.”

“Only because he has the best snacks,” Ronny defends himself. “It’s not my fault he’s dumb enough to share.”

“Yeah, real dumb,” I say half to myself, thinking of all those perfect tests with the name of someone other than me at the top.

“Maybe he’s just nice,” Sophie muses. “He fixes things and that helps everybody. How long have kids been stumbling over that missing stair?”

“I guess you have to consider all the possibilities,” I say sourly.

I’m not sold on the Ancient One being so nice. For starters, every single thing he does seems designed to get under my skin.

“He had to know he’d get in trouble, but he fixed it anyway,” Ronny marvels.

“Don’t you start,” I snap. I didn’t mind that stair so much when it was broken, but now it bugs me because of who fixed it. My mood is cratering. Me, Jackson Sharpe, who should be over the moon with happiness twenty-four seven! And I used to be—before the school bus pulled up in front of the old folks’ home that crummy morning.

Which might explain what happens in the science lab later that day.

Guess who I get assigned to work with on the experiment? The Ancient One. It’s not even that he does anything especially annoying. He annoys me just by existing. I’m holding a test tube filled with hydrochloric acid and, so help me, it’s making my fingers itch.

You can’t do it, I tell myself. Jackson Sharpe doesn’t have to resort to that.

But then he turns around and bends over to light our Bunsen burner. In my defense, it’s a target nobody could resist—his entire back practically under my test tube. I barely even have to move. A quick twist of my wrist and the contents dump out onto his sweater. It was an accident—at least it could have been. Besides, how dangerous can acid be if they let us use it in seventh-grade chemistry?

Anyway, he’s totally fine as we begin the experiment.

Until the smoke starts to rise from his old-man sweater.

He regards me quizzically. “Do you smell something burning?”

Before I can answer, the material in the middle of his back disintegrates and the cardigan, now in two pieces, rolls off both arms and hits the floor.

I’m normally a very chill person but I lose it. I throw my arm around Ancient One and hustle him out of the lab, tossing, “Bathroom emergency!” over my shoulder at Mrs. Valdosta.

I drag him at top speed into the boys’ locker room next to the gym. I’m relieved to note that there isn’t any more smoke coming off him and the rest of his 1910 clothes seem okay. But just to make sure, I manhandle him into the nearest shower and turn it on full blast.

“What did you do that for?” he just about screams, jumping out of the spray, which is usually ice-cold for the first few seconds before the heat kicks in.

“You might have gotten acid on your sweater,” I inform him, omitting the details on how that might have happened.

“What was your first clue?” he snaps at me. “When it burned or when it fell apart?”

I check him over from head to toe. “You seem okay now.”

“Okay?” he echoes. “I’m soaking wet!”

I’m thinking on my feet. “The lost and found has clothes. I’ll hook you up.” I toss him a towel from the rack.

I race out to the box next to the guidance office, grab an armload, and scramble back to him. It isn’t exactly high-fashion stuff, and most of it’s been kicking around the lost and found since last year, but what do I care what he looks like? It’s the Ancient One. He couldn’t look worse if he wrapped himself in duct tape. It might even be an improvement.

He’s in his damp underwear, drying off with the towel. I toss him a ratty T-shirt and some rumpled jeans. He scrambles into them and surveys himself in the mirror. His eyebrows rise. “I—I look like—everybody.”

Leave it to him to say something that makes zero sense. Yet when he turns to face me, I understand what he means. His wet mop is slicked to his head, masking his DIY haircut. His clothes aren’t great, but they’re normal kid clothes, not hand-me-downs from a bunch of eighty-year-olds. For the first time ever, I gaze at the Ancient One and see a normal seventh grader. I watch him kick into a pair of sneakers, beat up but dry. It completes the picture. He’s tall, with good shoulders and a lean, athletic frame.

“I like these clothes,” he says, almost in surprise.

Wouldn’t you know it? I took the biggest loser in school and made him better.

What was I thinking?

15

Dexter Foreman

One of the side benefits of working with Leo on my code is it’s made him remember a lot about his army days during World War II. He may be ninety-nine years old, but he’s sharp as a tack, and when he reminisces about those times, his eyes sparkle like he’s seventeen again.

I could listen to those stories over and over.

“What we were doing was top secret so they had us locked in an underground room with no windows fifteen, sometimes sixteen hours a day,” the old man tells me. “We’d arrive before dawn and leave after sunset. There were prisoners of war who were treated better than us. When they let us go home on furlough my parents would complain that I was skinny and pale as a ghost, like someone who never saw the light of day. I had trouble convincing them I hadn’t just been let out of the stockade. That’s why they called us the Bunker Boys—because we lived it and we looked it.”

The code-breakers were driven from their barracks in those old-fashioned army troop trucks with the canvas covering. “Those few steps from the canvas to the door were the last we’d see of the outside world for a long time.” He chuckles. “I learned everything I could about auto mechanics so I could help the drivers if they were having any problems with the truck. It kept me aboveground for a few extra precious minutes of tinkering with an engine. Breathe a little real air, maybe catch a glimpse of the sunrise. Let me tell you, the diesel fumes were preferable to the smell of our Bunker after a fifteen-hour day with a bunch of guys sweating over letters and numbers and living on military chow, which was ninety percent beans. That’s what we used to say. ‘The army ran out of fuel. They ran out of ammo. But they never ran out of beans.’”

A lot of people at The Pines have trouble with their memories but not Leo. He remembers everything, including the auto mechanics he picked up back during the war. When I describe the bucking and heaving of the school bus, he instantly diagnoses the problem.

So the next morning, I pass the information along to Mr. Milinkovic when he comes to pick me up.

“This bus needs a ring and valve job,” I announce. “I have it on the highest authority.”

“I only drive it, kid,” is his reply. “The rings and the valves are somebody else’s headache. Take it up with the school board.”

“That won’t work,” I tell him. “Look at the condition the school is in. Sometimes I can help out there, but a ring and valve job calls for a real expert.”

“I wasn’t asking for you to do it,” the driver deadpans. “Now sit down and enjoy the bad ride.”

So I do—the sitting part, anyway. It’s impossible to enjoy the ride. But I have to admit I’ve gotten used to the bus. As Grandma says, “So you have to ride in a Dempster Dumpster. So what?”

Another thing that’s different about the bus is Gianna doesn’t sit with me anymore. I’ve been giving her the silent treatment ever since that article in the Eyeball came out.

She gets that I’m mad. She even tries to defend herself. “But I showed you the article in advance. You knew exactly what it was going to say.”

“And I told you not to publish it!” I snap back.

“It was too late,” she pleads. “The paper was already being printed. I couldn’t stop it. I’m not the editor. You met Traci. She’s a total dictator! All the eighth graders are!”

I don’t let her off the hook. “I never wanted you to write that dumb profile in the first place. You made me look like a—like a”—the only word I can come up with was one I’d heard Ronny use—“Herb!”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she insists. “Okay, maybe I overstepped a little, but you’re better off because of that article.”

“Better off? How do you figure that?”

“Before the Eyeball story came out, you were easy to make fun of because nobody knew you. But now that kids understand about your background, all your quirks that seemed weird make you interesting and unique.”

“I don’t have quirks,” I growl. “Everybody else has quirks.”

Her face is a picture of triumph. “The fact that you say that is the quirkiest thing about you.”

I haven’t spoken a word to her since.

But she’s right about one thing: Ever since my profile in the Eyeball, people at school know me a lot better. They ask me about growing up as the only kid at The Pines. And when I talk about Grandma and Leo and Phyllis and Archie, they tell me things about their own grandparents. Sure, a few people are probably making fun of me behind my back. That’s no big deal. As the kids around here say, “Whatever.”

I’ve also overheard kids calling me Mr. Fix-it, but I refuse to apologize for doing what needs to be done.

It’s too bad I don’t know how to do a ring and valve job. Leo could probably do the repair blindfolded. With him in a wheelchair, though, that just isn’t practical anymore. And anyway, Mr. Milinkovic doesn’t seem to care if the engine is broken or not.

Sometimes the bus gets us to school early, so we don’t have to go inside right away. That’s a good time to meet people or just to chill until the bell rings. I’m learning how to do that. It’s important to relax before a long day of classes. At The Pines, chilling is more the rule than the exception. Everyone is retired, so it’s all they do.

I’m strolling around the playground when I spot a group of sixth graders playing hopscotch. Something’s off about their game, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. I move in for a closer look and the answer instantly comes to me. We don’t play a lot of hopscotch at The Pines. Shuffleboard is our game. These sixth graders are hopscotching on the painted pavement of a shuffleboard court.

“You’re playing the wrong game,” I inform them.

“What do you mean?” asks a girl who seems to be in charge.

So I explain how shuffleboard is played with long cues and sliding discs. I guess I get pretty carried away with it. If there’s any game more popular than Bingo at The Pines, it’s shuffleboard. Last year at the community championships, there was almost a fistfight when Ephraim knocked Archie’s disc into the “minus 10” square for a come-from-behind victory. It was a big deal because the very last handicapped parking space was up for grabs as the prize. Archie is a seriously sore loser.

The sixth graders are intrigued. “Can we try it?” the girl asks.

“We don’t have the cues and discs,” I explain. “You can’t play shuffleboard without the right equipment.”

Another boy speaks up. “There’s a storeroom in the basement where they keep all the balls and nets. Maybe the stuff is down there.”

That’s how I end up leading four sixth graders down a crumbling staircase into the custodian’s storage area. There are ancient textbooks, an assortment of furniture so old that the desks have inkwell holes, and a large bin containing balls for every sport you could think of. The dust gets up your nose and into the corners of your eyes until it feels like you’re blinking gravel. Leaning in the corner are two long shuffleboard cues and a leather satchel of discs.

“There,” I announce, grabbing the equipment.

As my shoulder brushes up against the wall, a door swings partially open and I catch a glimpse into a windowless inner room. It’s dark in there, but I can see a large table in the middle, with most of the ceiling collapsed on it. As the air from the storage room hits it, dust begins to swirl.

I get a panicky feeling, like the whole basement is going to cave in on us. “Let’s get out of here.”

The sixth graders don’t take much convincing. We scramble up the steps and escape into the brightness of the morning, breathing great lungfuls of fresh air. One of the kids is already puffing away on an asthma inhaler.

“Now that you’ve rebuilt the front stairs,” the girl gasps, “you can finish the basement next.”

I laugh. It might be the first time I’ve laughed at Wolf’s Eye Middle School.

I run them through the rules of shuffleboard and we play a few games until the bell rings. They seem really impressed that I can heave a disc fifty-two feet and have it slide into the middle of the scoring triangle.

“At The Pines,” I tell everybody, “we’ve got great-grandparents who can do this with a flick of the wrist.”

By the time school starts, a small crowd has gathered to watch our game and take a turn.

Now that Gianna is out of the picture, my best friend at school is Jackson—and not just because he saved me that time I got acid on my sweater. The clothes he got me from the lost and found helped me understand that a big part of why I didn’t fit in at WEMS was that I didn’t look like I fit in. “Clothes make the man,” Cyril always says—he was a very snappy dresser back in his working days. The thing is, I always knew I looked different from the other kids. But it wasn’t until I saw myself in the lost and found stuff that it really clicked.

So Grandma takes me shopping—we have to ride the shuttle to the mall, since she can’t drive anymore. She says I “look like a vagabond” when I pick out jeans with rips in them. I have to dig in my heels and hold out. To be honest, I can’t explain why the holes are so important, except that everybody else dresses that way. It’s almost like a uniform.

“Everybody will think you’ve lost your mind,” she complains.

“No, they’ll think I’m a kid—which I am.”

She’s good with that. She’s always wanted me to fit in at real school. And I guess I want that too.

I buy shirts too, but I struggle to pick out what I want. Even though I’ve used dozens of T-shirt slogans in my coding project with Leo, I still don’t really understand what makes a good one. In the end, I go with scientific taglines like Never trust an atom; they make up everything and Think like a proton—always positive.

When I thank Jackson for helping to create the new me, his face twists like he’s just swallowed a mouthful of bad-tasting medicine.

“Yeah,” he replies mournfully. “I’m a heck of a guy.”

It doesn’t seem as if he means it, but I could be wrong. There are things about middle school friendship we don’t have at a retirement village. I see close friends exchanging insults and cheap shots and giving each other “noogies,” which is where you grab someone in a headlock and press your knuckles into their scalp. I can’t picture anybody at The Pines doing that, except maybe Archie.

I have a similar relationship with Gianna’s brother, Ronny. Ronny tried to beat me up that day, but if all you had to go by was video footage of the cafeteria, you’d assume Ronny and I are bosom buddies. He finds me so we can go through my lunch. And while we don’t technically eat together, we eat next to each other, which is almost the same thing. He calls me “geezer,” even though he’s a year older than me. I call him Ronny.

I find Ronny strangely interesting. He has a black stain on his sneakers that exactly matches a blob on the floor of my locker. I find that a coincidence, but he doesn’t like to talk about it.

He goes through my desserts, popping Tupperware, digging into Saran Wrap, and unfolding tinfoil with great care. “This all you got?” he asks, disappointed.

“The cookies are from Miss Wefers,” I tell him. “You loved her shortbreads, remember?”

“Yeah, but these have the wrong nuts,” he complains.

“What about the zucchini muffins?”

He shoots me a withering glare. “I don’t do zucchini.” He gets up from the table and wanders off to eat somewhere else, which happens some days too. My snacks don’t measure up so I’ve forfeited the pleasure of Ronny’s company.

I finish lunch and gather the unclaimed desserts for the trash can when a loud banging noise rises in the cafeteria. It’s Ronny, over by one of the vending machines, kicking, punching, and cursing the glass.

I rush to his side. “What’s wrong?”

“It stole my quarters and didn’t give me my chips!”

I have no trouble believing that. The vending machines at WEMS are like everything else in the building: broken down, improperly maintained, barely working. I can only imagine how old the chips must be. To Ronny, I say, “I’ll get your chips for you.”

“How?” he demands. “The machine’s busted!”

“Anything that’s put together can be taken apart again,” I explain in a reasonable tone. “There are chips in that machine. You’ll get what you paid for.”

I reach into my pocket, pull out the Swiss Army Knife, and start work on the back of the machine with the screwdriver attachment. At last, I’m able to pull the back panel away from the machine and reach in for a single bag of chips.

“Grab me a candy bar while you’re in there,” Ronny requests.

“No way. You paid for chips and chips is what you get.”

That’s when the voice rings out—deep and loud enough to end all conversation in the lunchroom. “Freeze!”

Patrolman Hagler, our student resource officer, stands in front of the vending machine, finger-pointing at me. “Drop that weapon!”

I’m thunderstruck. “What weapon?”

“The one in your hand! Drop it now!”

“That’s not a weapon! It’s my Swiss Army—” I swallow the word knife. “Oh, it has blades and all that,” I admit. “But I’m using it as a tool.”

“Not anymore you’re not!” he snaps. “Hand it over.”

That gets my back up. “The problem with this world is people can’t do things for themselves anymore. This tool is what makes the difference. Without it, we’re at the mercy of everything that stops working.”

Ronny speaks up on my behalf. “Don’t get mad!” he begs Patrolman Hagler. “He’s not dangerous; he’s just a Herb! He has a T-shirt that says ‘T-shirt’!”

I step out from the machine and show the officer the screwdriver attachment in my hand. “You see? I’m not even using the knife.”

“Not another step!” the officer rages. “Put the weapon on the floor and slide it toward me.”

“Do it, man!” Ronny pleads.

“I don’t want to,” I tell him. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

By this time, a crowd has begun to gather behind Patrolman Hagler as students wander over to investigate the disturbance.

“You guys know me,” I address them. “This isn’t a weapon, right?” Of course I’m right. I think back to the time in the faculty lounge when I fixed the coffee maker. Three teachers were watching me. It wasn’t a weapon then and it isn’t one now.

An uncertain murmur ripples through the lunch crowd. It has me questioning myself. After all, I’ve been coming to regular school for just a couple of months. These kids have been here their whole lives.

Jackson speaks up. “You can’t have a weapon in school, Dex.”

“I know you’d never use it to hurt anybody,” Gianna adds. “But those are the rules and you have to go by them.”

Have to. More than anything else, those two words perfectly describe what real school means to me. You have to wake up early. You have to get on the bus. You have to sit through classes even though you’ve learned a lot of it before. You have to give up the most useful thing you own because somebody says it’s a weapon.

Have to. It’s the story of my life.

Patrolman Hagler speaks once more. “Kid, this is your last chance. If you don’t hand over the knife, I’m going to radio for backup.”

So I close the screwdriver attachment, set my Swiss Army Knife down on the floor, and gently nudge it toward the student resource officer. There’s an audible exhale around the room, signifying that a lot of people have been holding their breaths.

Principal Dinkins breezes into the room and takes my arm. “Come with me, Dexter. We’ll call your grandmother.”

16

Gianna Greco

STUDENT SUSPENDED AFTER CAFETERIA CONFRONTATION

BY GIANNA GRECO, EYEBALL STAFF REPORTER

A WEMS seventh grader was taken into police custody after a dramatic lunchroom showdown with student resource officer Hank Hagler. Patrolman Hagler arrested new student Dexter Foreman in the process of robbing the snack machine in the cafeteria. In the tense encounter that followed, multiple witnesses confirmed that Foreman was in possession of a lethal weapon. Showing calm in the face of danger, Patrolman Hagler was able to convince the suspect to surrender his weapon without a fight. No one was injured, but in the confusion, one bag of chips was stepped on and pulverized.

Foreman, who was profiled in a recent issue of the Eyeball, has been suspended from school indefinitely, pending a decision from the Wolf’s Eye school board about his future. . . .

“Traci!”

I don’t know if I’ve ever been so mad. I throw open the door of the Eyeball office and storm inside, flinching from the onslaught of French-fried air.

Traci is sitting around a table with a few of the other eighth-grade staffers, toasting the latest edition of the paper with plastic cups of grape juice.

“Oh, hi, Gianna,” she greets me, raising her drink. “Juice?”

“Don’t juice me!” I wave my rolled-up copy of the Eyeball like a club. “This isn’t what I wrote! You took my story and turned it into—lies!”

“If you can’t handle a little editing, you shouldn’t be in the newspaper business,” Traci lectures me. “Your draft was too boring. This is a hard-hitting crime story.”

“Except there was no crime!” I explode. “Dex wasn’t arrested; he just got sent home. He didn’t steal anything. And he wasn’t carrying a lethal weapon.”

“He had a knife.”

“The Swiss Army kind, open to the screwdriver attachment. The whole school has seen him with that thing. Nobody complained when he fixed the teachers’ coffee maker!”

Traci folds her arms in front of her. “Did he or did he not get suspended?”

“Yeah—and he shouldn’t have been!” I argue. “That’s what I explained in my article—the one you didn’t print. This is Dex’s first experience at real school. He doesn’t know the rules the way we do. He’d never heard of a student resource officer before he came here.”

One of the other eighth graders speaks up, a girl named Harriet. “You’re always defending this kid. What is he—your boyfriend or something?”

A red haze appears around my head. “I’m defending him because he’s innocent. You guys are always lecturing the seventh graders about journalism. You know what you just printed? Libel! You can’t just make up any old thing and pass it off as fact. You can get sued for that.”

“Did you see our table at the school store?” Traci challenges me. “Every copy of the Eyeball was gone by homeroom. We went back and printed an extra hundred and now they’re gone too.”

“It doesn’t matter how many people read it,” I reason. “Baloney is still baloney. We have to publish a special edition of the paper apologizing for that story and telling the truth.”

Traci always has a pleasant smile for me, not because she likes me, but because I’m a seventh grader, not worth taking seriously. That smile is gone now.

“We don’t have the budget for that,” she says coldly.

“What budget?” I demand. “We don’t have a budget. We use the school’s paper and the school’s ink. We don’t have to buy anything.”

“I hired you for this job because I thought you were interested in journalism.” Now she’s just ticked off. “I hired you and I can fire you.”

“You can’t fire me,” I snap back, “because I quit. Next time the laminator breaks, you’re going to have to find another Wolf Blitzer to tell the world about it!”

I stomp out of there, slamming the door behind me. If I wasn’t so furious, I’d probably be crying. I just let my temper walk me away from the only job I ever really wanted. But how could I stick with the Eyeball after that article? Traci made Dex seem like some kind of criminal! And the worst part is this: the name on that piece isn’t Traci’s; it’s mine. I only hope Dex doesn’t see it somehow.

Just the notion of Dex makes me sad. He probably won’t think any less of me, but that’s only because he already sees me at rock bottom, thanks to the profile I wrote. I guess a lot of that is my own fault. I was positive I had Dex’s blessing to go forward with that, but maybe it was all in my head. I was so determined to land a major article on the front page of the Eyeball that I didn’t make sure Dex knew exactly what was coming. He sure seemed pretty taken aback that day in the library when I showed it to him. And by then it was too late.

It was my own stubbornness. I wanted to be a big shot at the Eyeball. I saw myself as the one and only seventh grader who could break through the glass ceiling and become a full-fledged reporter for the school paper.

Now I’m not even a reporter, which means it was all for nothing.

And I lost Dex as a friend forever.

If I was a true friend to Dex, I wouldn’t have been the reporter determined to blow the lid off his story. I would have been his guide to help him adjust to real middle school, which must have felt like such a strange new world.

I can only imagine what Dex is thinking right now. He must be devastated.

Or maybe not. He never wanted to be a student here at WEMS. The day I followed him home to The Pines was the happiest I’ve ever seen the guy. Now he can sip tea with Grandma until he pees Earl Grey!

Okay, maybe that’s too gross.

The point is, now he can change fuses, replace light bulbs, and model beanies and scarves for the local knitting club. He can be everybody’s pet, the community grandson. And he can learn so much from his superior teachers that the rest of us look even dumber by comparison.

So maybe things have worked out for the best. But I don’t think so. He was starting to fit in—sort of, in his way. For sure, everybody knows him now—and not just as that weird kid who fixes stuff and dresses like he’s a hundred. He’s generous—he shared his desserts with anybody who asked for them, even a mooch like Ronny. He’s smart—our math team is steamrolling the competition because of him. And if you stumble on something he’s actually interested in, you’ll never have a better friend. Half the sixth grade was learning shuffleboard from him!

Dex was going to surprise himself one of these days by finding out that he was happy here. And now it’s never going to happen, thanks to Traci.

And me.

The bus ride is a lot shorter now that we don’t have to make that detour out to The Pines. I’m sure it’s easier on Mr. Milinkovic, but it doesn’t make me happy.

Every morning, Jackson steps onto the bus, takes an exaggerated deep breath, and declares loudly, “Ahhh! Grandpa-free air!”

“Smells great!” Ronny always agrees.

I put up with these announcements for a few days, smoldering with annoyance. But eventually I get right up in Jackson’s face. “Congratulations on being captain of the math team again. Too bad you’re not undefeated anymore because Dex isn’t with you. You may be smart, but you’re not him, and math isn’t soccer.” To my brother, I add, “And you should be ashamed of yourself. Dex was practically keeping you alive in the cafeteria.”

“Hey,” Ronny defends himself, “I had the geezer’s back with Hagler. Your boy wouldn’t shut up. Whatever happened is on him.”

“Really?” Jackson asks Ronny reproachfully. “You tried to get him out of trouble?”

Ronny shrugs. “Trouble stinks, man. You don’t know it like I do.”

“If you use your brain cells—all six of them,” I tell Ronny, “you might realize that you and Dex were friends. Pretty soon, it’s going to dawn on all of us what a raw deal he got.”

“Thanks to your article,” Jackson reminds me. “Talk about hanging a guy out to dry.”

“I don’t work for the Eyeball anymore,” I mutter. “And I didn’t write that article—at least not the way it came out in the paper. I wrote what really happened and Traci changed everything so Dex came off like an axe-murderer.”

They look at me like they don’t believe a word of it. I hardly believe it myself. In our school Traci Vogel is the gold standard of journalism. Last year, when I was in sixth grade, I could hardly wait to work under her leadership. Talk about a disappointment—to have your hero turn out to be somebody who wouldn’t know the truth if it bit her on the butt!

There’s only one thing for me to do. If the Eyeball won’t print a retraction, I’ll print one for them. I don’t have to publish my own newspaper. One page will do just fine. I’ll explain what happened and then show my original article—the way it was before Traci did a number on it.

That day, in the cafeteria, I inhale my lunch, take out my iPad and begin to type:

THE EYEBALL IS LYING TO YOU!

Dexter Foreman is innocent and his suspension is a miscarriage of justice. My article about what happened in the lunchroom that day was deliberately distorted to make him look guilty. Here is my original article containing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. . . .

Under that, I paste my original story about the confrontation between Dex and Patrolman Hagler. Now I just have to print up a few hundred copies for the table in front of the school store.

Traci won’t be happy with me and it’s never a good idea to make enemies among the eighth graders. But this has gone too far already.

And what’s right is right.

17

Dexter Foreman

Archie may be over eighty, but when he puts on the old boxing gloves, you’d never know it. He becomes energetic and agile and his hands move like lightning.

We’re in the gym at The Pines, sparring on the mat—something there was never time to do when I was going to Wolf’s Eye Middle School. I don’t actually see the one he tags me with. It’s not a direct hit. If it was, I’d be unconscious. But as I’m bobbing out of the way, his right jab catches the side of my head and knocks me flying.

Instantly, he’s at my side, helping me up. “You’ve been at that school too long, sonny-boy. You’re losing your edge.”

I get back to my feet, breathing hard. “Funny—this kid at school, he couldn’t lay a finger on me. He got so frustrated he started swinging wild until he slammed his fist into the side of the bus.”

“Ha!” Archie laughs out loud. “And then you finished him off?”

I shake my head. “I walked away. Actually, I went to the nurse and told her to check out his hand.”

He looks at me in dismay. “That’s no way to win a fight.”

“I wasn’t trying to win a fight. I was trying to avoid one.”

Archie shakes his head. “You spend too much time with your grandmother. She’s a pacifist too.” He says it like it’s something to be ashamed of.

“I like the boxing okay,” I admit. “But the ducking is what I’m really good at. At least I thought I was,” I add, rubbing my sore ear.

“Ducking is never going to be the answer to a bully like this palooka,” he says disapprovingly. “You have to show him who’s boss.”

“He’s not a bully exactly,” I muse. “I don’t think he’s even a bad guy deep down. He’s just always mad about something. In a lot of ways, he reminds me of you, Archie.”

The old man bristles. “I wouldn’t always be mad if there wasn’t always something to be mad about. It’s not my fault the world is full of knuckleheads.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing he would say.” I pull off my boxing gloves. “Gotta go. I’m due at Leo’s.”

He smiles. “Got you, kid. Great to have you back.”

I feel myself grinning. “Great to be back.”

This is the life. No Big Orange. No falling-down building. No loud, obnoxious kids swarming all over the place. This morning, I could have slept in till ten o’clock. I was up at five thirty because that’s when everybody gets up at The Pines. But that’s beside the point. I could have. I had pancakes for breakfast because I didn’t have to worry about getting bus-sick. And later, I had lunch with Grandma and drank tea that didn’t come out of a thermos. It was great. And so was my workout with Archie—except for getting clobbered, which was also kind of the school’s fault since that’s why I’m out of practice.

Not everything about WEMS was terrible. I was making friends. I was even starting to appreciate the school part. Oh, sure, I learn new stuff faster here, but there’s an interesting bonus when you’re part of a class of twenty-five. You hear other people’s opinions, other people’s reactions. It’s a broader kind of education than you get when you’re the only student and all the teaching is one-on-one.

And I definitely appreciate what the Wolf’s Eye kids showed me about clothes. Just because I’m back at The Pines full-time doesn’t mean that I can’t dress like someone my own age. I have a hunch that’s part of the reason Teagan didn’t want to hang out with me on her last visit. She was used to being surrounded by middle schoolers and I didn’t look like one.

When I get to Leo’s, we start right in working on my code. I’m still very much into the special project, since I only got suspended, not expelled. Suspended means they might try to drag me back once I’ve “learned my lesson.” The only lesson I’ve learned is that I’m better off at The Pines. Here they know the difference between a weapon and a tool.

I can’t believe I got in so much trouble for using my Swiss Army Knife. The part that really hurts is that I was only helping Ronny get the chips he’d paid for. If the snack machine wasn’t an old wreck like everything else in that school, none of this would have happened. I’m still mad about it—and I don’t think that makes me like Archie or Ronny, who are always in a beef about something. It’s just plain unfair. Grandma says I shouldn’t hold grudges, but it’s going to feel pretty good when my code shows Mr. Dunwoody and the whole school board that they had a great student in me—and they blew it.

I still haven’t been able to stump Leo, but my codes might be improving. At least he doesn’t crack them in thirty seconds anymore. But even though it takes him ten or fifteen minutes now, he always comes up with the right message.

I never make mistakes.

I thought I did once,

but I was mistaken.

“You got it,” I confirm with a disappointed sigh. “I don’t know if I’m ever going to stump a genuine Bunker Boy.”

“Buck up, kiddo,” the old code-breaker encourages me. “This was a good one. Where’d you get it? Another T-shirt?”

And I have to admit that I read it off someone at school. “The sayings are so random that I’m hoping they’ll be harder for you to guess.”

“It isn’t a guessing game,” he lectures. “Code-breaking is science.” He looks up at me from his wheelchair. “You miss that school a lot more than you thought you would.”

“Miss it?” I scoff. “No way.”

“Don’t kid a kidder,” he retorts. “You’re always talking about some oddball friend or a T-shirt slogan or a repair you just made—”

“That’s why they suspended me,” I interrupt him.

He turns thoughtful. “Piece of friendly advice: I’m a sly old fox. You’re not going to trip me up with any old substitution trick. I’ve seen it all and I’m ready for it. You need to come up with a gimmick I can’t crack because my mind doesn’t work that way. It’s worth considering.” He adds, “No charge.”

“But you’re smarter than me,” I protest. “You’re smarter than everybody.”

He laughs. “I thought so too once. But you lose a step when you get to be my age. You lose a lot of steps—as this wheelchair will tell you. In fact, I’m going to ask you to work on your own for the rest of today. I could use a nap. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

I feel a little guilty. Leo is such a lively person with a twinkle in his eye and a great sense of humor that’s it’s easy to forget he’s almost a hundred. But as I leave his condo, I sincerely doubt I’ll ever come up with a code that will leave him scratching his head.

I get back to Grandma’s just in time for afternoon tea, which is different than the tea you have with lunch. This is traditional English tea, steeped a long time and served with milk. She made strawberry scones, which are perfect for dipping.

I’m not sure how thrilled Grandma is to have me back at The Pines full-time. It’s not that she was trying to get rid of me. But as soon as I ended up at WEMS, it’s almost as if she started feeling reverse-guilty for all the time I hadn’t spent with kids my own age.

“I called your counselor today,” she announces.

I open big eyes. “Ms. Napier? Why?”

She looks embarrassed. “I wanted to explain about the Swiss Army Knife. How it belonged to your grandfather and after he died, I couldn’t bring myself to part with it. And later, when you started living here, I passed it on to you because you’d become the new man of the house.” She chokes up a little. “I know—it’s silly and old-fashioned—”

“It isn’t,” I interrupt her. I remember that moment like it was yesterday. I’d just turned ten and I thought my head would swell up with pride. I couldn’t believe that I’d been chosen to have Grandpa’s Swiss Army Knife—the one I’d seen him use for so many minor repairs when I was little. “It was a huge day for me. Fat chance of Ms. Napier understanding that,” I add bitterly.

“She understands more than you think. She’s Louie Spielman’s grand-niece. You’re too young to remember, but he was the greatest handyman I’ve ever seen. We used to call him MacGyver.”

MacGyver is this old TV show about this guy who could slap together or fix just about anything with a paper clip and some duct tape. He had a Swiss Army Knife too, but nobody arrested him because of it. The show is still really popular at The Pines.

Aloud I say, “That didn’t stop Ms. Napier from kicking me out.”

Grandma sighs. “Schools have rules—especially around things like knives. But she knows you were only being helpful.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not helping anymore. I’m never going back to that place.”

She looks unhappy. “You might get your wish. Schools are very firm about their policy on weapons.”

I keep my mouth shut, mind roiling. I don’t agree with school policy, but I hope they stick with it in my case. I hate that I’m suspended but I don’t want to go back. It’s like I can’t even figure out my own feelings.

We’re interrupted by a knock at the door. I get up to answer it and I wish I hadn’t. Standing there on the front step is none other than Gianna.

I glare at her. “What are you doing here?”

“I know you’re mad,” she tells me, “and you have every right to be. But I need to talk to you.”

I’m stubborn. “I’m not interested in whatever you have to say.”

And I’m actually closing the door in her face when Grandma comes up behind me and pulls the knob right out of my hand. “Why, hello, dear—how nice to see you! Come in—we were just having tea.”

The next thing I know, that snake in the grass, who wrote a whole article about what a criminal I am, is being escorted to our table and set up with her own cup and scone.

Gianna opens her big mouth. What she’s saying is meant for me, but she says it to Grandma because she knows I’ll refuse to listen. “There’s a big misunderstanding between Dex and me. The story in the Eyeball—it says it’s by me, but I didn’t write most of it—”

I cut her off. “It’s not a misunderstanding. I understand it perfectly. You threw me to the sharks!”

“Well, I can see that you two have some talking to do. So I’ll just leave you to it. There are more scones in the kitchen if you get hungry.”

She marches out of the room, leaving me alone with this horrible girl. My first impulse is to kick her out, but Grandma would probably just let her back in again and give her more tea.

“I won’t try to tell you it isn’t my fault,” she begins. “I should have stood up to Traci. I wrote a real article about what happened and she edited it to death.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I tell her honestly.

“I begged Traci to print a retraction,” she goes on. “She laughed in my face. She doesn’t care about the truth. She just wants to put papers in kids’ hands. So I quit.”

That gets my attention. Gianna and I were never best friends but I know her well enough to understand that being an Eyeball reporter meant everything to her.

“You shouldn’t quit because of me. I’m not that mad. In a way, I’m glad it all happened.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t need the Eyeball to be a journalist. If Traci won’t print a retraction, I’ll publish my own. I still have the real article—the one I wrote before Traci turned it into fiction.”

“But how can you publish it if you’ve quit the Eyeball?”

“I’ve already thought of that,” she replies. “I’ll print it myself. Three hundred copies—just as many as the Eyeball. But before I do, I want you to see what I really wrote.” She pulls out a sheet of paper, unfolds it, and hands it to me.

THE EYEBALL IS LYING TO YOU!

Dexter Foreman is innocent and his suspension is a miscarriage of justice. My article about what happened in the lunchroom that day was deliberately distorted to make him look guilty. Here is my original article containing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

MISUNDERSTANDING RESULTS IN STUDENT SUSPENSION

BY GIANNA GRECO, EX-EYEBALL REPORTER

Our story begins with a broken vending machine. It accepted seventh-grader Ronny Greco’s dollar, but provided no potato chips in exchange. Enter Dexter Foreman, one Swiss Army Knife, and Student Resource Officer Hagler. Little did anyone suspect that this innocent scenario would soon lead to a dangerous standoff that would result in one student’s suspension from school. . . .

Gianna goes on to describe the events of that day in the cafeteria. She explains that the Swiss Army Knife was never a weapon in my hand, but she also admits that Patrolman Hagler had no choice but to see it that way. The article isn’t all on my side but it isn’t on the school’s side either. It’s fair and balanced.

I look up from the paper at her. “That’s what you wrote?”

“Word for word,” she promises. “Honest, Dex, I would never sell you out like that.”

“Thank you.”

I’m not sure why I say that because I have nothing to gain from the truth coming out. I don’t even know if I want to be unsuspended. But I also hate being described as a weapon-carrying “hooligan”—another word people use at The Pines. When you spend all your time with older people, you hear a lot about how important your reputation is. And here’s Gianna defending mine.

“When is this going out?” I ask.

“First thing in the morning,” she confirms. “I’ll print tonight and get to school early to start distributing. I want to make sure the story is out there before I run into Traci, just in case I lose my nerve.”

“You won’t,” I assure her. “You’re tough.”

What she does next is totally unexpected. She throws her arms around my neck and hugs me. And before I can react, she’s out the door and gone.

18

Jackson Sharpe

It’s true that the math team is only 1–2 since the Ancient One got booted out of school. But that’s okay—we’re still in a playoff spot. And most important of all, Jackson Sharpe is captain again.

Captain—I like the sound of that. What’s the point of being on a team if you can’t have the top job? A little losing is a small price to pay for that.

“I guess the geezer must be really smart,” Ronny comments at lunch one day.

“He wasn’t smart,” I snap back. “You know the kid. You call that smart?”

“You guys were unbeatable when he was on the team,” Ronny reasons.

“Like you’re the big math expert,” I growl. “You’re not even passing the regular class.”

“Yeah, about that,” Ronny says. “Maybe I could ask you for some help?”

I glare at him. “Why don’t you ask the Ancient One since he’s so smart?”

“You know why. He got kicked out of school.”

“I don’t have time for tutoring,” I tell him. “It’s soccer season. And we’ve got the big pep rally coming up.”

If there’s anything Jackson Sharpe loves more than a soccer game, it’s a pep rally. The whole school is there and I’m always the main attraction. In a game, you can’t keep the ball every second. But at the rally, the attention stays on the star.

It’s scheduled for Friday afternoon to rev up excitement for the weekend game. The bleachers are packed and standees surround the field. The cheerleaders are performing their human pyramid, but nobody cares about them. My teammates form a circle around me and I’m at the center of the group, juggling a soccer ball with my feet. I’m great at that. I practice every day to make sure my performance is flawless. The audience is going wild, clapping in rhythm as I thrust the ball higher with each kick. I’m preparing for my grand finale, where I send it highest of all, bounce it off my head, and scoop it out of play with my arm. The cheerleaders lose their minds for that one.

Suddenly, everybody’s screaming. Me too. Ice-cold water is spraying everywhere, drenching us. The ball comes down on my head, wet and heavy, sending me sprawling onto the soaked grass.

“The sprinklers!” I hear Coach Beaufort bellowing. “Somebody turn off the sprinklers!”

I scramble up in time to see a custodian high-stepping through the mist to the shutoff by the field house. He wrenches the main valve. It comes off in his hand. The sprinklers keep on spraying.

By this time, my teammates and I have made it to the sidelines, where we stand panting and dripping. We’re out of the water, but it’s already too late. It’s impossible for a half-drowned rat to look cool—even when you’re Jackson Sharpe.

Eventually, they get the water turned off, but by that time, the field is so wet they have to cancel the pep rally. You can’t rally in these conditions because slipping and sliding could cause an injury. And when you have someone like me on your team, that’s too big a risk.

Dr. Dinkins gets on the PA system and tells everybody to report to ninth period.

A lot of grumbling greets that announcement. Pep rallies are great for the players, but for the average nobody, the best part is getting out of class.

As we start the march back into the school building, Alex Globus sidles up to me. “Too bad you can never find a Swiss Army Knife when you need one.”

That gets under my skin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know—that Dexter kid. He could have used that gadget of his to turn off the water.”

“It’s a Swiss Army Knife, not a magic wand,” I point out in annoyance.

Alex shrugs. “So he would have fixed it some other way. Nothing stopped that guy. He had know-how.”

Know-how? What the—?

The pep rally isn’t supposed to be about the Ancient One. The pep rally is supposed to be about me. Well, the team, anyway, and who’s the most important part of that?

It turns out Alex isn’t the only kid who thought of our favorite grandpa the minute the sprinklers went ape. As we file back in through the main doors, the buzz of conversation is everywhere.

“Dexter would have known what to do.”

“He fixed the drinking fountain with chewing gum.”

“The new step is perfect!”

“They never should have suspended him.”

“Did you hear what really happened?”

Yesterday, Gianna printed up a mini newspaper about how the Ancient One is innocent. Like the entire seventh grade wasn’t right there in the cafeteria to see it with their own eyes. But people are starting to come over to his side. And now the idea is out there that he could have saved the pep rally. What kind of loser would believe something like that?

Ronny finds me in the hall. “I guess you miss your geezer now.”

“He’s not a plumber. He’s a regular kid.” What am I saying? I just described the Ancient One as regular! It goes to show how all this is getting to me.

“Don’t sell him short,” Ronny advises me seriously. “He got into that vending machine in, like, two seconds.”

I have to call him out. “You can’t stand that guy any more than I can. You tried to punch him, remember? It just about cost you every bone in your hand.”

He nods, almost in admiration. “I don’t have to like the geezer to appreciate him. Gianna’s right—he never should have gotten suspended. I mean, sure, the knife’s on the weapon list. But growing up where he did makes a guy really different.”

“That kid,” I tell him evenly, “wanted to be suspended even more than I wanted it for him. He hated the school and everybody in it. All he ever dreamed of was going to back to his vegetable farm to be with the rest of the carrots.”

Ronny squares his jaw. “He got a raw deal. Maybe you don’t know what that’s like but I’ve got hard experience. I don’t have to love the guy to be on his side.”

I can see it happening, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it or even slow it down. The Ancient One is becoming popular just sitting on his grandma’s couch—way more popular than he ever could have been in person, because then everybody would see what a creep he is! If Ronny can change his mind about the guy, anybody can.

As we pass by the school store, Gianna is perched on the table, handing out copies of her newspaper retraction to anyone who might have missed it the first time around.

“If they can suspend Dexter just for being himself,” she challenges us, “then you never know who’s next!”

Kids are grabbing for her papers and the excited chatter is all about the Ancient One—a person none of them even knew a couple of months ago. It’s like he rode into school on a unicorn with a Swiss Army horn and fought for us one broken radiator, one missing stair, one leaky drinking fountain at a time.

There’s only one word for someone like that: hero.

Not the guy who wins the trophies or scores the goals or gets named captain.

Not me. Him.

19

Ronny Greco

Midterm progress reports go home this weekend—never a good time in the Greco house.

Gianna’s straight As only make my lousy grades seem lousier. Worse, Napier puts a special note on my card about how I’ll have to repeat the year if I don’t “pull my socks up.”

Sounds like something the geezer might say.

My father goes on one of his famous yelling streaks. By the end of it, I look like I’ve just come out of a wind tunnel, my hair pressed back against my scalp and little saliva drops on my forehead. He was in a bad mood to start with because he was all hyped up to waterproof some new fence posts and he can’t find the creosote. Like that’s my fault. Okay, it is my fault, but Dad has no way of knowing that. Gianna might suspect something but she’s a pain, not a snitch.

I’m upstairs pretending to study and I can see him in the backyard ransacking the shed for the paint can that isn’t there anymore. Eventually, he gives up, gets in the car, and drives off to the paint store.

This is my chance to get out of here before he comes back. I’ll only be in more trouble when he realizes I’m not in my room working on math, but I’ll deal with that later. I run downstairs, pull my bike out of the garage, and start to ride, enjoying the change of air in my head. Maybe I’ll run into somebody I know and they’ll complain about their progress reports. My luck, it’ll be Jackson out on the new bike he got for having such great grades. Or the new Maserati.

But nobody’s around. I’m just riding in circles through our boring neighborhood with no destination except anywhere but home. The suburban streets eventually lead me onto the feeder roads for the mall, so I ride around the parking lot for a while. There’s no point in heading home, since Dad could be back from the paint store by now and he might try to make me help him creosote. That’s something I definitely don’t do. My creosote career is over before it started. Actually, now I’m glad I never slimed that locker. Getting suspended is enough bad stuff to happen to one geezer.

So I stick my bike in the rack and enter the mall, but I don’t see anybody there either. I’ll bet every other kid is at home studying the subjects they bombed out on in their progress reports. That doesn’t work for me. I’m so bad at math that the more I study it, the more clueless I get and the more down on myself for not understanding it. There’s probably a mathematical formula for it, but of course, I’m too terrible at math to know what it is.

I’m standing on the concourse, wishing I was anywhere else, when a window display catches my attention. It’s Logos, advertising their big fall sale. They’ve got a lot of shirts behind the glass—a variety of colors, slogans, and designs. But my eyes are drawn to a hanger about halfway up: a white background with a single word on it: “T-SHIRT.”

Well, what do you know—there’s another one. I’ll bet the Logos people were so amazed that somebody bought the first that they made a second just to see if there’s one more doofus out there.

Maybe it’s my weird mood, but suddenly, I know I’m going to be that doofus. I check my pockets. Turns out, I have just enough money stashed away from other things that it puts me over the sale price: ten bucks plus tax.

I’m half expecting the sales guy to laugh in my face. You know: “You wouldn’t believe the twelve-year-old grandpa who bought the first one of those!” But he doesn’t even crack a smile. Standing right there, I pull the shirt on over my other one. For some reason, it makes me feel fantastic, even special. That’s when I decide on my next destination: I’m going to Geezer Land to show my fellow doofus he’s not the only one around here with good taste in T-shirts.

Back on the bike, I head west from the mall. I’m not sure exactly where The Pines is, but if I can get myself on the school bus route, I’m pretty sure I can find it. A couple of drivers squint at me and swerve as they pass and I’m pretty sure they’re reading my shirt. That makes me feel even better.

From the bus route, it’s about a ten-minute ride to the gate of the retirement village. The first thing I notice is how nice it is—the grass is perfectly cut and the bushes and trees have been trimmed by a professional gardener. Not like the Greco place, with fallen sticks and twigs everywhere, and tiny pebbles for the lawn mower to grab and fire at you like bullets. I’m jealous that the geezer gets to live here until I remember that living here is part of what makes him such a Herb.

It’s pretty big too, which brings up the problem of finding one guy in a large community. I ride along the roadway until I come to a couple of ladies walking on the path. They’re both pretty old, but one of them is wheeling along with a walker.

She beams at me. “Can I help you, young man?”

“I’m looking for the geezer—” And then my mind goes completely blank and I can’t come up with his name. Worse, I just said “geezer” in a place full of them.

Her companion laughs. “Well, that doesn’t really narrow it down around here. We’re all geezers—and old biddies.”

“Are you looking for a boy your age?” the walker-lady asks. “That would have to be young Dexter Foreman.”

“Right! Dexter—you know where he lives?”

She smiles. “Everybody knows Dexter. He’s the most popular boy at The Pines—and the only boy at The Pines.” They both enjoy a long laugh at that hilarious joke.

They’re really nice to me, even though I sort of insulted them. I felt sorry for the walker lady but I don’t anymore. She seems like she has a great attitude. Plus, she’s found a way to make her life work for her—which is a lot more than I can say for myself and math.

I start off for the Foreman condo, but the paths are so curvy and annoying that I cut across a large lawn to avoid riding half a mile out of my way. There’s a whirring in my ear and something whizzes past my head, missing me by centimeters! I watch, stunned, as an arrow thumps into a wooden target at the far edge of the lawn.

“Hey!” bellows an angry voice behind me.

I stop and turn around in time to see a burly old man storming across the lawn, a bow over one shoulder and a quiver of arrows in his free hand. “You dunderheaded numbskull, why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

I jump down off my bike and get right in his face. “You’re the one shooting arrows and I’m the problem? You could have killed me!”

“I should have put you out of your misery! If you’d have stayed on the road, you would’ve been fine!”

“Who do you think you are—Robin Hood?” I rage. “Yeah, I bet you’re the real one!”

That sets the guy off. He’s got a volume control that puts my dad to shame. Birds are actually flying away from us.

And then a familiar voice calls out, “Archie, you know the rules. No target practice in the common areas.”

“Everything was fine until this nincompoop rode into my line of fire,” the old guy mutters.

That’s when I recognize the person who ran onto the scene to rescue me from the world’s oldest archer. It’s the geezer—the real geezer. Dexter.

He stares at me. “Ronny?”

That’s when I remember what I came for. “We have the same T-shirt,” I announce, spreading my arms so he can read my chest.

“Wait.” The old guy who almost killed me turns to the geezer. “This kid’s a friend of yours?”

“From school,” Dexter acknowledges. “I mean, where I used to go to school.”

“That was heinous,” I tell him, and mean it. “Total rip-off. They had no right to kick you out.”

“We should sue!” Archie exclaims. “This kid is our witness—right, kid?”

I nod. “It was my chips that started the whole thing.”

“Nobody’s suing anybody,” Dexter insists. “For all I know, I’m better off out of that place.”

“You’re lucky to be gone,” I agree. “Napier says if I can’t pass math, I’m going to be in middle school till I’m forty!”

The geezer looks at me. “You’re having trouble in math?”

“Not everybody’s a genius, you know.” It comes out more bitter than I intend it to.

“I’ll help you,” Dexter volunteers.

“Really?” I think of all the rotten things I’ve done to him. I punched him—at least I tried to. I was inches from creosoting his locker. I mooch his food and never offer so much as a thank-you. Not to mention that it was my chips that got him kicked out of school.

Why should the geezer help me when Jackson, who’s supposedly my friend, can’t even be bothered? Yet somehow, as I hold my breath, waiting for Dexter’s answer, I know exactly what it’s going to be.

“Sure.”

He’s still a geezer, but he’s my geezer.

It’s an honor to own the same T-shirt as a guy like that.

20

Dexter Foreman

I’m starting to get a little worried about Leo.

He isn’t sick exactly, but he’s really tired all the time. He falls asleep twice during our math lesson today and once he calls me Burt by mistake.

“It’s not Burt, Leo. It’s me, Dex.”

He looks blank for a moment and then laughs like he’d never heard anything so funny. Burt Hopkins, he explains, was the corporal who brought the Bunker Boys their lunch every day back in World War II.

“He must have been a circus performer in peacetime, because he had to climb down the steepest flight of stairs you ever saw balancing a stack of trays taller than he was,” the old man reminisces. “One time, we heard a lot of crashing and cursing and there was Burt at the bottom of the steps covered in blood and chipped beef on toast.”

Normally, I love Leo’s war stories, but why would he mix up an army corporal he hasn’t known for decades with a twelve-year-old kid who’s sitting right in front of him?

It also takes him almost half an hour to crack my latest code. That would be good news if it means my codes are getting better. But I’m afraid it means that Leo is becoming more confused.

So I’m deep in thought when I head back to Grandma’s condo.

“Hi, Dex!” greets a voice—definitely not Grandma’s.

Gianna is sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea. And she’s not the only one. Sophie is there too, poring with Grandma over the photo album of my baby pictures!

She looks at me and beams. “You were adorable!”

Sophie is one of the popular crowd at WEMS. I don’t think she’s ever said more than three words to me. Why is she here with Gianna, in my house with my grandmother, commenting on how I looked in diapers?

“Isn’t it lovely?” Grandma declares. “Your friends came to visit.”

“Ethan’s here too,” Gianna supplies. “He went off with one of the neighbors to help him figure out his new phone.”

Grandma giggles. “Good luck with that. Felix Menard buys all the latest gadgets, but he’s not exactly a techie. I think most of them end up as paperweights.”

I focus my attention on the girls. I don’t want to be rude but there’s a pretty important question that needs to be asked.

“Why are you here?”

“Dex . . .” It’s a warning from Grandma.

“No offense,” I add quickly. “But what’s this about?”

“You’re our friend and we miss you!” Sophie declares with such sincerity that I almost believe it.

Gianna tries to explain. “Things have changed at school. Kids understand that what happened really wasn’t your fault and how unfair it is that you got suspended.”

“Well—uh—” I manage. How can I explain to these girls that I’m not even sure I want to be reinstated as a student?

“There’s a petition,” Sophie takes up the telling. “‘Unsuspend Dexter.’ Everybody I know has already signed.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Grandma comments. “It reminds me of the sixties. Power to the people!”

I feel like my brain is about to boil over and spill out my ears when there’s an explosion of shouting from the unit next door.

“Felix!” I exclaim. God only knows what Ethan’s done to that brand-new phone.

I run outside to the adjoining unit, the girls and Grandma hot on my heels.

I ring the bell. “Felix? Are you okay?”

Nobody answers, but we can still hear the shouting. It’s getting louder and more intense.

In alarm, I throw open the door and rush inside. Ethan and Felix are seated side by side on the couch opposite the sixty-inch TV. A chaotic space battle is taking place on the screen, complete with laser blasts and hurtling asteroids. Both players are yelling at top volume, red-faced with excitement, thumbing wildly at their phones.

“Felix—?” Grandma breathes in amazement.

“Not now!” the old man roars. “We’re almost—”

The explosion on the screen shakes the walls of the small condo. And then the players—seventh grader and senior citizen—dance around the room in a joyous embrace.

“What just happened?” Grandma demands.

“We leveled up!” Ethan crows.

Felix is beside himself. “When I bought a smart TV, I thought that meant smart as in ‘stylish.’ But Ethan showed me how to mirror our phones and use them as a gaming system!”

“Hi, Dex,” Ethan greets me. “How are you holding up?”

“I saw the baby pictures,” Sophie chimes in. “Super cute.”

Ethan is impressed. “I’ve got to check those out.”

Why are these people who didn’t give me a second thought while I was at WEMS suddenly obsessed with me now that I’m gone?

“I have an idea,” Grandma announces. “I’ll put on another pot of tea.”

I can’t go to Wolf’s Eye Middle School anymore. But over the next week, Wolf’s Eye Middle School starts coming to me.

It usually happens around four o’clock. There’ll be a knock at the condo door, and when I answer it, Marco Sandvik will be on the front walk or Julie Tavener or Alex Globus. Half the time, I can’t come up with their names and just stand there, babbling something like, “You’re here. . . .”

“Invite your friends in,” Grandma tells me. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

For her, tea is the solution to everything. For me, not so much. What do I say to these nonfriends? We can’t reminisce about the good old days at WEMS because there weren’t any. But even if my time there had been one extended party, there still wouldn’t be anything for us to talk about because we’re basically strangers.

It’s all thanks to Gianna. She printed that retraction and now everybody wants to support me. But if they really knew me, they’d see I don’t want their support. Or maybe I do. It’s pretty confusing, to be honest. I’m grateful so many kids like me now, even though I’m not sure what’s so different.

I definitely don’t want to hear about this petition everyone is signing to get me unsuspended. Supposedly, it has over three hundred signatures already—almost the entire seventh grade plus some of sixth and even a few eighth graders, who usually don’t care about anything. Like all the signatures in the world could convince the school board that Swiss Army Knives are suddenly okay.

One day, I answer the door to find my entire sixth-grade shuffleboard team standing there. They kind of swarm me in a group hug, and it actually feels pretty good. Which doesn’t solve the problem of what to do with them beyond hello. We have absolutely nothing in common except shuffleboard.

So I take them out to the shuffleboard court, where a few of The Pines’ regulars are playing. To my sixth graders, this is the first time they’ve seen “the real thing.” And when the elderly shuffleboarders invite them to join in some games, the kids act like they’ve just stumbled into one of those fantasy camps where average Joes can suit up against real major leaguers.

I can’t stick around to watch, though. I’ve got to get home because Ronny is coming over for math tutoring. It’s been pretty tough sledding so far. He’s convinced himself that he absolutely can’t do it, so the minute he sees numbers on a page, he panics. The only thing that will calm him down is Grandma’s brownies. He’s half a plate in by the time I get to the condo and he and Grandma are drinking tea and chatting like old friends.

“Where’s your shirt?” he ask me.

He means my “T-shirt” T-shirt. He always wears his when he visits me.

“It’s in the wash,” I say automatically.

“No, it isn’t, dear,” Grandma corrects me. “It’s in your top drawer.”

He eyes me expectantly, stirring another heaping teaspoon of sugar into his already supersweet tea.

So I change and Ronny and I work on math for the next hour. Is it me or is he starting to show just a glimmer of progress? Maybe it’s the T-shirt.

Afterward, I rush back out to the shuffleboard court, only to find it deserted. I lost my sixth graders. Okay, they came to me; I didn’t send for them. But since I’m the one who brought them to the shuffleboard court, aren’t they sort of my responsibility?

I start searching around, but they don’t seem to be in any of the obvious places—not the big lawn with the gazebo, not poolside, not at the garden plots, the tennis courts, or the pitch-and-putt golf course. I’m passing the recreation center when I hear the usual excited voices and then something more—younger, higher pitched. I rush into the community room and there they are, my shuffleboard team, spread out among the residents, placing tokens on their Bingo cards, every bit as rowdy as their senior companions.

What can I do? I take a fresh card from the pile, toss my quarters in the jar, and find myself a seat. As I make my way through the crowd, every single sixth grader high-fives me—and so do a few of the residents.

My life is changing. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But good or bad, I know it’s my own fault.

21

Ms. Napier

. . . with liberty and justice for all.”

The final words of the Pledge ring out in the auditorium at the start of our annual antibullying assembly. This is followed by a cacophony of chair squeaks as the kids begin to take their seats.

That’s when it happens. Not everybody sits down. Fully a quarter of our student body remains standing, their hands still over their hearts.

“Justice for Dexter!” they shout far louder than the original pledge. The whole place erupts into thunderous cheering.

I almost cheer along with them from my spot in the front row with the other faculty. Hundreds of middle schoolers, motivated and passionate. It’s a guidance counselor’s dream! Then I catch sight of Dr. Dinkins shooting me a stink-eye. Considering this is supposed to be an antibullying assembly, I’m feeling bullied by my own principal.

Of course I realize that Dexter Foreman never wanted to come to our school and wasn’t very happy when he was here. That’s not the point. The kids are rallying behind him—our kids, who wouldn’t get excited if you put ten thousand volts through them. They are absolutely convinced that Dexter never should have been suspended for the incident in the cafeteria and they are determined that the school must reinstate him immediately if not sooner.

After the presentation, the performers throw open the floor to questions.

“How can you talk about bullying when Dexter has been bullied right out of the building?”

A roar of agreement and appreciation goes up in the auditorium.

I feel bad for the performers, who have no idea what this is about. But when one of them asks “Who’s Dexter?” the whole place erupts into a wild, garbled account of what happened.

“He got kicked out for no reason!”

“He taught me how to play shuffleboard!”

“His rights are being violated!”

“I sprained my ankle on the stairs before he fixed them!”

“He’s innocent!”

At this point, most of the eight hundred are back on their feet, red-faced and shouting. With one final annoyed look in my direction, Dr. Dinkins calls an end to the assembly and the kids begin to file out. That’s another complaint to lay at the feet of the Dexter Affair: The school invested a good chunk of its limited budget to bring in an antibullying assembly, but the students barely noticed it because of what happened to you-know-who.

Back in the hall, I don’t think I’ve taken three strides before I see it, Magic-Markered on a locker: “Justice for Dexter.” This past weekend, the custodial staff washed every locker in the building and by lunch on Monday, it was up again in dozens of places around the school. Dr. Dinkins can’t seem to understand that the more slogans we erase, the more we’re going to get.

“Are you saying that we should let them deface school property as if vandalism is something we encourage?” he asks angrily.

“No, I’m saying we can’t stop them and we’re only antagonizing them by trying,” I reason. “We’re never going to convince them that they’re wrong and we’re right. But if we don’t push back at every turn and give them an enemy to rebel against, chances are all this will burn itself out.”

These are the kinds of things you learn in college when you’re becoming a counselor. Unfortunately, they don’t teach the same psychology to principals, because Dr. Dinkins just keeps getting madder and madder. Seriously nonproductive.

How can he not see what we have here? An entire middle school energized and motivated. We should be harnessing that spirit, directing it toward something positive. Instead, we’re fighting with our own students.

When I pause at a drinking fountain, I’m greeted by a cardboard sign: “Dexter Fixed This Fountain.” Short and sweet compared with the one on the step he repaired, which reads: “The Dexter Foreman Memorial Staircase.”

“‘Memorial’ implies that he’s dead,” I inform Sophie as she affixes the sign to the banister. “He didn’t die. He was suspended.”

“Memorial means everybody remembers him,” she retorts. “And how great it was when he was a student here.”

“I didn’t realize you and Dexter were so close,” I comment.

She flushes. “We weren’t. He got the boot out before I could get to know him. But I remember all the great things he did for our school.”

“What would you say if I were to tell you Dexter only came here because a truancy officer forced him to?”

“That’s what they want us to think,” she replies immediately.

The kids talk about they a lot. They are the people with the power—the principal, the administration, the faculty. They are the ones who forced Dexter out and won’t let him back, no matter how unfair that is. And try as I might to avoid choosing sides, it’s pretty obvious that the students consider me one of them.

It’s exactly as I feared. This incident has gone beyond the incident with the Swiss Army Knife and turned into a kids-versus-adults thing. They’re never going to listen to us, even though we’re telling them the truth.

Ronny’s opinion is even simpler. “He’s the GOAT.”

“Don’t be unkind,” I say sternly. “You don’t have to resort to name-calling.”

“Not a goat. The GOAT: Greatest Of All Time.”

For me, the worst part of this is watching a wonderful educational moment go down the drain. Think about it: Our entire student body is united. They’ve found something they believe in, something they can get behind 100 percent. I might never again see a group of kids so impassioned by a single idea. It’s a living laboratory of a vibrant democracy!

And they’re getting it all wrong.

Their hero, the kid who risked everything to improve the school he loves, never wanted to be here in the first place. I can still hear his final words to me as he waited in my office for Mr. St. John to drive him home: “Don’t be sad, Ms. Napier. This might be the best thing that could have happened.”

I guess it’s fitting that the boy who practically had to be kicked into WEMS ended up being kicked out.

That afternoon, Dr. Dinkins keeps the entire staff after school for an emergency meeting. There are so many of us that we have to hold it in the cafeteria—the exact spot of the incident that started this avalanche rolling downhill. I’m surprised to see J. Enoch Dunwoody, chair of the Wolf’s Eye school board, sitting in with us. If it’s important enough to involve him, this must really be turning into a crisis.

Dr. Dinkins opens the meeting by calling for updates on what he describes as the “Dexter Situation.” I’ll bet he wishes he hadn’t. A chorus of aggrieved voices rises in the cafeteria.

“My calligraphy unit is ruined,” laments Carrie Hoffenheim, the art teacher. “They’re all making protest signs with my very best ink!”

“I’ve seen those,” Coach Beaufort grumbles. “‘Free Dexter’—like he’s in jail.”

“We’re studying the secession of the Confederacy in eighteen sixty,” reports Ted Lam, social studies. “Every day, it turns into a shouting match. The kids are threatening to secede from school until Dexter is reinstated.”

“Custodial Services has the biggest gripe of all,” complains the head custodian. “We’re the ones who have to clean up all that scrap paper from those signs and leaflets and newsletters. We’re the ones who wash the lockers twice a day and still can’t keep up. I wish I’d never heard the name Dexter Foreman!”

I have to speak up. “I’m as frustrated as any of you, but the one person we can’t blame for all this is Dexter himself. He didn’t ask to come here and he isn’t inciting any of this rebellion. All he ever tried to do was be helpful.”

“He had a weapon,” Dr. Dinkins reminds me.

“To him, that isn’t a weapon,” I argue. “It’s a useful tool no reasonable person would be without. That’s how he was raised—by an older generation who never threw anything away. They patched and repaired and made do. It’s all he’s ever known. You’d think we’d be able to relate to that. We work in an ancient building where the only way to get through the day is to patch and repair and make do.”

Mr. Dunwoody stands up and raises both hands for order. “I hear you all. I have to admit this is turning out to be a lot more complicated than I thought it would be.”

Dr. Dinkins nods his agreement. “We need a verdict on Dexter. Whether he stays or goes, we can deal with it. But as long as he’s in limbo, the kids are never going to settle down.”

“Fair enough,” Mr. Dunwoody acknowledges. “The next board meeting is on November twenty-first. The whole session was supposed to be deciding whether to tear down the old middle school and build a new one but I’m adding Dexter Foreman to the agenda. You’ll have your answer then.”

November 21—less than two weeks away.

22

Teagan Santoro

The minute I step out of the secure area of the airport, I see the hand-printed placard: WELCOME, SUNSHINE.

I grimace. Do Nana and Poppy honestly think I wouldn’t find them if they didn’t bring a giant sign? And I’m so over that “Sunshine” thing. It was sweet when I was five. But now it’s a little mortifying.

“How’s our girl?” Nana gushes, hugging me.

Really? I was here just three weeks ago. I was fine then and I’m still fine. Well, maybe a little annoyed at being back so soon. Mom and Dad went to Paris and didn’t include me in their trip. The Pines is where they park me when they’ve got something better to do. I love my grandparents but nobody likes to be excess baggage.

Like a retirement community is the most happening place for an almost-teenager to hang out. Everybody’s old—and not just old like Nana and Poppy. I mean ancient! There are basically no kids. Okay, there’s Dexter, but I’m over that. Cataloging birds’ nests? Hard pass.

I can’t really blame him. The reason we grew apart is because I live in the real world and he lives in senior citizen la-la land. Like his clothes. A few years ago, it didn’t bother me that he dressed like such a weirdo. But now the fact that he looks like a miniature version of my grandfather is something I can’t ever unsee. We just grew apart. It happens.

Poppy loads my bag into the car and we set off for The Pines. It’s a pretty long drive. That’s the thing about Wolf’s Eye—it isn’t near anything.

The car ride lulls me into a semistupor, so when we actually reach the place and drive in, it takes me a while to notice that there’s something different about it. There are kids around—and not just one or two. They’re everywhere. On all the paths, hanging out at the gazebo and on the tennis, badminton, and shuffleboard courts. And the weirdest part is they look like middle schoolers. Okay, The Pines gets young visitors, but they’re all ages, grandkids and great-grandkids, from zero on up. This crowd seems to be my age!

“Where did all these kids come from?” I ask in amazement.

“They’re Dexter’s friends,” Poppy tosses over his shoulder as we wheel into the parking lot. “Your old pal has turned into a really popular fellow.”

“Dex?” I echo. A lot of words come to mind when I think of Dexter. Popular isn’t any of them.

Nana tries to explain. “So much has happened since you were last here. Dexter was having a difficult adjustment at that school and Adele was worried that he wasn’t fitting in. All that changed when he got suspended.”

I’m shocked. “Suspended? Dexter? For what?”

“Having a weapon at school,” she supplies.

“A Swiss Army Knife!” Poppy scoffs. “What are they teaching these kids, anyway? We’re raising a generation of weaklings!”

“But”—I look around—“all these people can’t be here for Dexter, right? I mean, I don’t see him out here with them.”

“Well, they’re not exactly friends. More like fans,” Nana goes on. “They’re supporting him. They think he got a raw deal from the school. To tell you the truth, it’s lovely to have so many young people around. They bring a whole lot of energy with them—something we oldsters can always use more of.”

It’s true. Everywhere I look, kids are doing stuff with the residents, carrying packages, helping out. Everybody’s chatting, laughing, goofing around—even the old people. The shuffleboard game looks more like a rave; that’s how much jumping and waving and cheering is going on. The pool is closed but there are kids soaking in the hot tub with that superhairy guy—the one Dexter and I used to call Mr. Sasquatch. The Pines always had a calm atmosphere, relaxing but super dull. Now it’s a lot less calm but it seems happier. I hardly recognize the place.

When we carry my stuff into the condo, I’m already dying to get back out there. I don’t want to be rude to Nana and Poppy, but I want to find the guy who somehow turned into Mr. Popularity in just a few weeks. Dex with fans? This I’ve got to see!

It takes a while to locate him. The Pines isn’t a huge place, but I’ve never seen it so crowded. I approach a group of kids who are rolling on the grass, playing with a frisky cocker spaniel. A bald man with a bushy mustache watches, egging them on but not participating.

“I used to be able to rassle with Freddy like that but not anymore.” He chuckles. “Arthritis in both hips.”

“He’s adorable,” I comment as a way into the conversation.

A boy about my age sits up and gives me a sharp look. “Freddy’s a girl. Frederika.”

Everybody’s giving me the once-over now. I’m the right age for this crew but nobody recognizes me since I’m not from their school. Even Freddy eyes me suspiciously.

“I’m looking for Dexter,” I say. “He’s a friend of mine.”

They light up at the mention of his name. It’s like a VIP backstage pass. Freddy’s stubby tail starts wagging again.

They point me in the direction of the shuffleboard courts. The shuffleboarders send me off toward the pool. You get the picture. Everywhere I go, they’ve just seen Dex, but he isn’t there anymore. He’s like a bee, buzzing from flower to flower, never stopping for more than an instant. Definitely not the Dexter I remember.

I’m out of breath by the time I track him down at the edge of the main lawn. It’s only been three weeks since my last visit but he looks a lot different. Gone are the hand-me-down dress pants and heavy cardigan sweaters. He’s dressed more like a normal kid now. Before, he always seemed kind of a mismatch—like somebody photoshopped a twelve-year-old head onto an eighty-year-old body. His hair’s still too short, but he’s growing it out and it’s starting to have a nice curl to it.

He’s got our big nest chart spread out on the grass and he’s surrounded by about six kids who couldn’t be more fascinated as he explains about our bird nicknames and points out the various trees.

Seeing Dexter the center of so much focused attention, I can’t help blurting, “‘Joe Shmo the Crow’ was my idea!”

He looks over at me. “Oh—hi, Teagan.” He doesn’t sound overjoyed to see me, which I guess is fair, considering I basically ignored him last time I was here.

So I address the others. “Dex and I started this bird project a couple of years ago. It’s amazing that so many of the families are still coming back to the nests. . . .”

Hearing it from my own mouth, it suddenly sounds a lot more interesting than it did three weeks ago. As I worm my way into their group, I start to get back into the spirit of our bird nicknames, like America’s Got Talons, and Just One of Those Wings.

“What did we call that barn swallow?” I ask Dex.

“That would be”—he hesitates as if trying to decide whether my sudden change of heart is the real thing—“Governor Gulp.”

It gets a chuckle of appreciation from the group.

Every now and then, someone runs up to Dex with a bulletin, like they’ve found a forty-three-pound zucchini in one of the garden plots and they’re calling Guinness World Records to see if it qualifies. Or to keep him informed that the shuffleboard tournament is going into double overtime so they’re postponing today’s Bingo game by half an hour.

“They don’t play Bingo on Saturday,” I point out. “I thought those games were on Sundays.”

“With so many kids around, they added a few extra to meet the demand,” Dex explains. “You should see the jackpots. Sometimes they need two or three jars just to fit all the quarters.”

We all have to pause as a small bird with a tint of yellow on its hind end flits through the leafless branches overhead.

Dex consults the chart. “Yellow-rumped warbler,” he reports in a whisper.

“Golden-butt!” I exclaim, remembering.

Startled by my outburst, the bird emits a brief warble and flies off.

“Shhh!” some kid cautions me. “You scared him.”

“My bad,” I concede.

A dark-haired girl with sculpted eyebrows I would kill for crosses the lawn and sidles up to Dex. “Your grandma wants me to remind you that she has Bridge Club tonight, so dinner’s going to be early.”

Her eyes narrow when she spots me and I realize that I’ve seen her before. She was here with Dex during my last visit, which means the two of them were friends even before Dex’s recent burst of popularity.

“Thanks, Gianna,” Dex tells her.

Gianna. I take note of the name. It’s pretty obvious that Dex has made a lot of new friends in the brief time since my last visit to The Pines.

Here’s the question: Is one of them his girlfriend?

23

Jackson Sharpe

Bottled Water, Soda, Gatorade, Hot Tea . . . $1.00

“Hot tea?” I point to the whiteboard behind the cashier in the food line. “Since when does this school have hot tea?”

The lunch lady shrugs. “It’s very popular. It’s turned into our number one seller.”

She says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But Jackson Sharpe isn’t fooled. It’s him. The Ancient One may be suspended, but his legend lives on.

Ronny is waiting for me, bouncing a tea bag on a string inside a hot cup. “Nothing like a steaming Earl Grey to give you a little kick in the afternoon.” He frowns at the water bottle on my tray. “Where’s your tea?”

“It’s nowhere,” I tell him. “Because I’m not a little old lady.”

He shrugs. “Your loss. This stuff smacks. And I bet it would help your soccer playing.”

“My soccer playing doesn’t need any help.”

“Fine. Your math-teaming, then.”

I wish he hadn’t said that. We’ve been in a slump since the Ancient One got the boot. If there’s one word Jackson Sharpe shouldn’t have anything to do with, it’s slump.

“Maybe you should worry about your own math,” I say savagely.

“That’s actually improving,” Ronny informs me. “The geezer’s helping me. That’s where I developed a taste for tea. I like mine with boatloads of sugar and a smidgen of milk—”

My eyes narrow. “What’s a smidgen?”

“It’s more than a scintilla but less than a splash,” he informs me. “There’s a science to tea.”

“Will you shut up about the tea? No one cares about tea in middle school!”

He gives me a serene look. “You seem kind of stressed. You know who you should talk to? Adele. That’s the geezer’s grandma. It’s not just tea, you know. She calls it ‘tea and sympathy.’”

“Jackson Sharpe doesn’t need sympathy!” I practically growl. “I’m the guy who has sympathy for everyone else.”

I can’t help noticing that the cafeteria trash cans are loaded up to the top with hot cups and used tea bags. It got cold at our last soccer game and the whole crowd was drinking the stuff. Instead of getting rowdy and loud, they got mellow. Have you ever heard the sound of three hundred people sipping? Me neither. When you’re playing sports, the last thing you want is a low-energy environment. I scored only one goal—which isn’t like me at all.

Doesn’t it figure? The whole time the Ancient One was here, nobody could care less about him. And now that he’s gone, they can’t live without him? “Justice for Dexter”—that’s all you ever hear in this place, all anyone talks about. How can our hero be suspended for having a weapon in school?

Maybe . . . because he had a weapon in school!

Forget it. You can’t argue the point. When it comes to the Ancient One, all logic flies out the window.

“Patrolman Hagler is a real cop,” I try to explain to Sophie. “He knows a weapon when he sees one.”

“It was a Swiss Army Knife,” she returns evenly.

“It was a bad thing that was against the rules. And he used it to break into a snack machine.”

“He was helping Ronny get his chips,” she insists. Arguing with Sophie is like trying to tell the Supreme Court it doesn’t know what it’s talking about.

“It has nothing to do with chips!” I almost scream.

“Yes, it does. Ronny paid. He had a right to his food. That’s justice. And now we all owe it to Dexter to make sure he gets justice too.” She pops a giant pair of sunglasses onto her nose. “I’m going out for recess.”

I blink. I’ve known Sophie since first grade. She wouldn’t wear a hairband unless it came with a written endorsement from Teen Vogue. Where did she get those shades? They’re heavy plastic, dark, and wouldn’t be out of place on one of those gigantic heads on Easter Island. “New glasses?”

“They’re Edna’s.”

“Who’s Edna?”

“Edna from The Pines. I had a headache, so she gave me these to filter out the sun glare. They’re out of this world.”

I roll my eyes. That’s the latest. Kids have been going over to the Fossil Farm every chance they get. They go there looking for the Ancient One, but there’s not enough of him to go around. So they end up hanging out with the Stone-Agers, playing Bingo and shuffleboard, wearing sunglasses that haven’t been cool since JFK was president, and saying things like “out of this world.”

At three thirty, a couple of kids get on the roof and bombard the rest of us with rolls of toilet paper while we’re loading up the buses. It’s a classic prank and I’m having fun along with everybody else—until the crowd starts chanting, “Dex! . . . Dex! . . . Dex! . . .”

Because it has to be about him. Of course it does.

We’re twisting and flailing, trying to board the bus, but every move only gets us more entangled in the miles of tissue. And the chanting gets louder. Now it’s not just “Dex!” anymore. It’s “Jus-tice! . . . Just-tice! . . .” Some kids have their heads thrown back, screaming at the top of their lungs.

Next the teachers are out there, custodians too, trying to un-TP us so we can get on board and go home. It’s a circus. And through it all, the clipboards are flying through the crowd with those Unsuspend Dexter petitions. Kids are practically wrestling to scribble their names on the open lines.

I’m proud to say that I’ve never signed one of them. I don’t think the Ancient One should be unsuspended. In my opinion, suspension was invented for people like him. If there was a petition to have him blasted through a propulsion tube into deep space, I’d sign it in a heartbeat.

But now I suddenly find myself with a clipboard in one hand, a pen in the other, and a lot of eyes on me. When you’re Jackson Sharpe, people notice what you do. I may be the most popular kid in seventh grade, but how long will that last if word gets around that I’m anti-Dexter?

So I sign on the dotted line—Archibald McDoofenbutz—and quickly pass the clipboard along.

Who’s Archibald McDoofenbutz?

He must be someone who likes the Ancient One.

24

Gianna Greco

Traci Vogel is begging me to come back to the Eyeball.

“I know I’ve been hard on you, but I think you’ve got the right stuff to be a good reporter. Your piece on the laminator really spoke to me. I could almost smell the hot plastic coming out of the machine!”

Talk about baloney! Traci couldn’t care less whether I’m a reporter or not. She just knows that I’m Dex’s friend and she wants a piece of that. The school paper took a lot of criticism after I published my retraction. Ever since then, the Eyeball has been 100 percent pro-Dex. Yesterday’s headline: “Suspension Is for Bridges, Not Heroes.” Traci may be awful but she knows how to give the people what they want. Copies were flying off the table in front of the school store.

She sweetens the pot. “You’ll be an eighth grader next year, Gianna. With your skills and experience, you could be editor in chief after me.”

I know exactly what my answer should be: I wouldn’t write for your worthless rag of a paper if there was no other journalism job in the world. Also, a half-stepped-on cockroach would be a better editor than you.

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I tell Traci that I’m happy to be back on board and I’m looking forward to my next assignment.

That advice comes from a New York Times bestselling author, Phyllis Birdwell of The Pines. She says that in the writing business, the editor you hate on Monday could be giving you your big break on Tuesday. So you should never close yourself off from your next plum assignment. That’s what Phyllis calls the good ones.

Phyllis is Adele’s best friend and also Dex’s English teacher. I’m not the only kid who’s found a mentor at The Pines. Sophie has been spending a lot of time with Edna Khalily, who did some modeling in her younger days. Alex has been bonding with Cyril DeSouza, who was a big-time college athlete back in the sixties. Ethan and Felix Menard are practically gaming buddies at this point. And kids line up at Dex’s condo for the chance to bake with Adele.

Even Ronny, who doesn’t get along with anybody, has found a friend. There’s this guy Archie who’s kind of like the Ronny of senior citizens. The two of them can always be found in the gym, boxing gloves on, flailing away at each other. Not that I’m a fan of punching people, but I think this might be good for my brother. He unloads some of his hostility in the ring so he’s a little less angry the rest of the time. And our house is a quieter place because of it.

Dex is supposed to be the reason we’re all here at The Pines, but most of us barely see him. He has his homeschooling, and on top of it all, he’s tutoring Ronny in math. Plus, he spends a lot of time with his old friend Leo, the World War II code-breaker, working on some mysterious project he doesn’t like to talk about.

I hurry to catch up with Dex when I spot him pushing Leo along the main path in his wheelchair.

“Where are you guys going?” I ask.

I mean it as a greeting, not an interrogation, but Dex is cagey about it. “It’s a secret.”

“Oh, bosh.” The old man chuckles. “It’s not that secret. You can tell the little lady about your project.”

Normally, I wouldn’t love being “little lady.” But in Leo’s case, I suspect it might be because he doesn’t remember my name. He’s almost a hundred, after all.

“I can’t tell her,” Dex replies seriously, “because then it wouldn’t be secret.”

“This one gets cranky when his codes don’t work,” Leo informs me with a thumb in Dex’s direction.

“Well, I just wanted to let you know that the microphone in the community room is broken,” I say. “Archie is going to take over as Bingo caller until it gets fixed because he has the loudest voice.”

“Got it. Thanks.” Dex continues to push the old man along the path while I hang back.

A little farther on, a thin blond girl steps out from a block of condos and walks along with them, chatting and laughing. It’s Teagan, Dex’s longtime friend from New York.

I can’t hear their conversation, but it’s pretty clear that Dex has no problem flapping his lips in front of her. Is she in on the so-called secret? Honestly, I don’t even care about this project—only, how come she’s allowed to know about it and I’m not?

It bugs me even though it shouldn’t. Teagan and Dex go back a long time from visiting their grandparents as little kids. How is it my business if he hangs out with his one old friend under the age of sixty?

The last time Teagan was here, she didn’t seem to have any interest in Dex at all. Well, that was then; this is now.

When Dex asks me to go to the mall with him so he can “update” his “wardrobe,” I’m flattered. By this time, Dex is the most popular kid in Wolf’s Eye. He could have asked anybody. He could have asked Teagan.

But he asked me.

Anyway, no one can argue that this isn’t necessary. Dex wore hand-me-downs from eighty-year-olds until Jackson dressed him out of the lost and found. If anybody ever needed a makeover, it’s Dex.

My brother doesn’t agree. “Dude, you don’t have to be more like the crowd,” he tells Dex. “The crowd has to be more like you.”

Dex probably shouldn’t take style advice from Ronny, who wears the same T-shirt every day like Charlie Brown.

I look my brother up and down. There’s something different about him. He’s sporting khakis instead of his usual joggers. But it goes beyond that. His waistline is higher, cinched with a leather belt, just like—

It comes to me—just like the old men at The Pines!

Ronny’s dressing like Archie!

Okay, a few of us have picked up some style pointers from our visits to the retirement village. I reach up to my glasses and feel the silver chain hanging from the temples. Phyllis wears one too. I don’t know if it’s cool, but it’s a surefire way to keep from losing your glasses!

On Mall Day, Dex and I ride The Pines shuttle, which reminds me of the courtesy vans at Disney World.

We’re not alone. In fact, the minibus is packed.

“I’m surprised so many people are going shopping,” I comment to Cyril, who’s in the seat next to mine.

“Oh, we’re not shopping,” he replies. “Who can afford to with prices these days?”

Dex nods understandingly. “Not on a fixed income.”

“And none of the stores accept checks anymore,” Edna adds wanly.

“But why are you going to the mall if you’re not going to buy anything?” I ask.

“For the walking,” Cyril supplies. “Flat floors, no wind, no weather.”

“I might have a coffee in the food court,” Edna adds. “If I need a pick-me-up.”

I wish I could say it’s a really fun trip, but that would be bad journalism. We’re picking out jeans, shirts, and sneakers. Standard stuff, right? Not for Dex. He tries on everything but a wedding dress and takes his time modeling in front of the mirror.

“Does this look good? I mean better than the blue one? Which one do you think is the best?”

“They’re all fine,” I assure him. “Don’t stress so much. You don’t have to be Dapper Dan.” Phyllis always talks about Dapper Dan.

Dex doesn’t pick up on my humor. His expression remains dead serious. I have to admit I’m surprised. The old Dex wouldn’t have cared if he was wearing a green garbage bag so long as there was a pocket for his Swiss Army Knife. He just put on whatever his grandmother laid out for him.

“I want to look better than fine,” he insists. “I want to look—I want to look how kids look in a place like New York.”

And I just know. The “New York” gives it away. This wardrobe edit isn’t happening because Dex wants to fit in better at school. He’s dressing for Teagan.

I’m so stupid. How did I not see it? All this started when she made her glorious return to Wolf’s Eye.

I fight down the impulse to recommend the beige-and-yellow shirt—the one that looks like the cat threw up on it. I’m better than that. I’m here as Dex’s friend and that’s how I’m going to see it through.

When the shuttle finally takes us back to The Pines, Dex doesn’t even thank me for helping him shop. He leaves me standing there, on the sidewalk, while he grabs his bags and runs for the Santoro condo to show her what he bought.

It’s enough to make me lose my lunch. Except I didn’t get lunch. We skipped it so Dex could preen in the mirror of every store in the mall.

So I head straight for the one person I know will understand. Phyllis has written romance novels about women who get totally ignored by guys who are obsessed with some shallow and not very nice girl. Okay, I haven’t read any of them. I tried once, except my mom took it away because it was “inappropriate.” But I’m pretty sure that’s what it was going to be about.

I’m already complaining as she lets me into her condo. “It’s so unfair! I have blisters on my feet! He wouldn’t even let us stop for a lousy slice of pizza! The elevator music is stuck in my head like an earworm! And it was all so he could look good for her . . . !”

Phyllis listens to me patiently. We’re both fiddling with our eyeglass chains.

I go on and on, and by the time I’m finished, I’m surprised at how worked up I am about it. After all, Dexter Foreman is not my boyfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend, but if I did, it wouldn’t be someone like him anyway. And yet, just because Teagan is nosing around like Dex is first prize in a raffle, I can’t escape this feeling that I’m in a competition. And I’m losing.

She listens to my whining, thinks it over, and asks, “Are you saying that you and young Dexter are going steady?”

I give the chain an extra twist and it snaps. Going steady? What’s that supposed to mean?

Just because you’re a New York Times bestselling author doesn’t mean you’re not completely clueless.

25

Dexter Foreman

“Dex . . . Dex . . .”

I’m fast asleep when I wake to find Grandma standing over me. I blink my bleary eyes until she slowly comes into focus. Her expression is serious.

I’m instantly alert. “What’s wrong?”

“Now, I don’t want you to get upset, but Leo had a little accident this morning—”

I sit bolt upright. “What happened?”

“He slipped getting out of bed into his wheelchair,” Grandma explains, “and he hit his head on the nightstand.”

“Is he okay?”

“I think so,” Grandma tells me. “But they took him to the hospital.”

I leap out of bed. “We’ve got to get over there!”

“That’s why I woke you up, dear. I reserved the shuttle. Get dressed and let’s go.”

As I throw on my clothes, all I can think is, Please don’t let anything happen to Leo!

Grandma and I barely speak while riding in the van. My hands are clenched with tension. Leo is my teacher, my mentor, my best friend. What condition will we find him in when we make it to the hospital?

We hear the complaining the minute we step through the sliding doors. “I’m not sticking around this Popsicle stand! I’m a busy man! I’ve got things to do!”

Relief floods through me. He’s okay. Ticked off, for sure. But if he’s this grouchy, that means he isn’t really hurt.

We follow the sound of the familiar voice to a small examination cubicle, where an exasperated young doctor is trying to reason with Leo. “Sir, you’ve suffered a blow to the head. You need to be admitted to the hospital for observation.”

“I’m here now. Observe me.” When the old man spies Grandma and me, he appeals to us. “Adele—talk to this sawbones! Tell him I’ve got work to do—a code to finish!”

When I speak up, my voice is shaky. “It’s okay, Leo. The project is no big deal. I’ll go with the code I have. You’re more important.”

“In a pig’s eye,” he snaps back. “That school board meeting is in three days. You’re going to be ready or I’ll know the reason why.”

That meeting is when the school board will decide whether my suspension is going to be permanent. But I’ve decided to use that opportunity to follow up on the letter from Mr. Dunwoody and demonstrate my code. Leo and I have already worked out how it’s going to go. We’ll bring his transmitters to the meeting, which is scheduled to take place in the boardroom of WEMS. I’ll set up in the hall and he’ll receive the message in front of the board. When an actual genius World War II cipher expert can’t break my code, Mr. Dunwoody will have to admit that my Pines education was as good as any middle school, maybe even better. That might not matter anymore since I’ve been kicked out. But it matters to me.

As for getting unsuspended, I don’t even know what to hope for. A few weeks ago, it would have been a no-brainer. I hated Wolf’s Eye and it was obvious to anybody how I didn’t fit in there. But now I just don’t know.

Last night, Grandma asked, “Well, what do you want?”

I had no answer for her. I can’t believe how the Wolf’s Eye kids get along with my old friends from The Pines. In a lot of ways, it’s a happy ending already—except that it hasn’t ended and I have no idea what the end will be.

“If I get kicked out forever,” I asked Grandma, “do you think all those kids will lose interest and forget me?”

One of the best things about my grandmother: she always gives you an honest answer, even when the truth might be hard to accept. “I can’t guarantee anything, Dex. But if that happens, you’ll be no worse off than before: a twelve-year-old boy living in a retirement village.”

That always used to be enough for me. But now I’ve had a taste of a different kind of life and I think I like it.

All this is running through my head while the doctor pleads with Leo. “Sir, I can’t recommend that you leave the hospital so soon. Not a man your age.”

“Well, if you’re waiting for a note from my mother, you’ll wait a long time,” the old code-breaker snaps back.

I can’t help smiling. Any doctor who tries to match wits with Leo is going to lose big.

Grandma is the peacemaker, as usual. She promises to stick around while the medical staff gives Leo a thorough examination. And when he passes that, we ride back with him on the shuttle.

“Thank God you two dropped in!” Leo breathes his gratitude. “They would have kept me in there till the cows come home! There are a lot of disadvantages when you can’t get up and run away.”

We get back to The Pines in time for me to prepare for the daily invasion of middle schoolers. At around three thirty, they start to arrive by bike, on foot, and the occasional parent car pool. It’s amazing how many kids you can pack in a full-size SUV. Ronny has even come by Uber a couple of times when he was running late for our tutoring sessions.

Around the same time, curtains begin parting and blinds lift. Faces appear in windows, hoping to see young visitors on the well-groomed paths. Equipment for shuffleboard and pickleball mysteriously appears and someone turns on the hot tub in the pool area. Bingo quarters are counted. Grandma fires up the kettle for tea.

Company’s coming.

“This has been a great trip,” Teagan reflects. “I think this might be my favorite since Nana and Poppy moved here.”

We’re sitting by the firepit on the pool deck. A few of the residents had been out here with us. But because they go to bed so early, now it’s just Teagan and me.

“Mine too,” I agree. “Except maybe that first summer of the birds’ nests.”

She sighs. “I’m bummed that I have to go home in a few days.”

No matter how much I loved Teagan’s visits, when she left, I was always fine to return to my old life. Now I’m not so sure and it’s a strange feeling. You never see the change coming, but once it happens, it’s tough to go back.

“You’re not doing Thanksgiving here?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Not this year. I don’t know when we’ll see each other again. Unless . . .” She sits forward. “We could try it the other way next time.”

“The other way?”

“You could come to New York and visit me.”

My stomach gives a lurch. It’s not that I never go anywhere. I’ve been all over the world meeting my parents at their different postings, and New York is a lot closer than Brussels or Tokyo. But that’s my parents. The Santoros are strangers. Teagan and I are closer than ever now, but a few weeks ago, she acted like she couldn’t care less if I was dead or alive. What if it happens again when I’m hundreds of miles from home?

But I can’t say that to Teagan, so I raise a different issue. “I don’t know if I can leave my grandmother. She doesn’t see so well anymore.”

“She’d be fine on her own for a few days,” Teagan argues. “I’ll have Nana and Poppy look in on her. Plus, my school has this big dance the Saturday after Thanksgiving weekend. That would be the perfect time for you to come!”

My head is spinning. Three months ago, I’d never even ridden a bus or set foot in a school. And now I have a chance to jet off to New York to visit a girl. And go with her to a dance. It’s exciting but it also feels like a lot all at once.

Teagan interprets my silence as reluctance. “You’re going to at least ask, right?”

“I’ll ask,” I promise.

Everything happens for a reason.

Sometimes the reason is you’re stupid

and make bad decisions.

I’m still using T-shirt slogans for the codes I test with Leo. Now that so many kids are coming to The Pines, I have all the material in the world.

I hold my breath over the GX-4210 machine in his spare room, waiting for the hoot of discovery that will tell me I’ve failed again.

Leo has slowed down even more since his morning in the emergency room, but he insists on continuing to work on the special project. The school board meeting is tomorrow night, so it’s pretty much now or never.

After his accident, I gave him a simple code because I was afraid to work him too hard. He broke it in about thirty seconds. And he yelled at me. “Where do you get off thinking I’m a feeble old fool who needs to be spoon-fed? If we’re going to get this right, I want your best shot!”

So I do exactly that. Ronny helps. I get him to write out the lyrics to his two favorite rap songs and we match up corresponding letters where they first appear. That becomes my substitution system. Here’s the thing: the system changes for every word of the message, following different verses of the songs.

Leo may be the smartest person I’ve ever met, but if there’s one thing he knows nothing about, it’s rap lyrics.

Right now there’s dead silence from the bedroom. Ten minutes. Then twenty. Half an hour.

Finally, I peek in there to make sure he’s okay. After all, this is a guy who was in the hospital a couple of days ago.

He’s hunched over the tray of his wheelchair, staring at my code through a gigantic magnifying glass. When he spots me lurking there, he says in a voice that’s part dejected and part triumphant, “Well, you beat me. I hope you’re satisfied.”

I feel a rush of triumph. I’ve stumped a real Bunker Boy!

But Leo seems so tired—so old—that my elation drains away. Even though he’s ninety-nine and uses a wheelchair, I never picture him as ancient or feeble. He’s sharp and funny—always quick with a joke or a cool story from World War II.

Now he makes me remember that ninety-nine is a really big number. I’m used to being surrounded by elderly people, but Leo is the oldest person here, and right now, he looks every minute of it.

“That’s—great,” I manage, trying to sound upbeat. “Well, I should let you get some rest—”

“Not so fast, mister.” He cuts me off. “You think you can make a monkey out of me and then just waltz out of here?”

He won’t let me go until I break down the code for him. And when I show him my worksheet with Ronny’s rap lyrics, he lets out a hoot of delight. “Good one!”

“It’s not really fair,” I confess, a little shamefaced. “I mean, how are you supposed to know that stuff?”

“There’s no ‘fair’ in this kind of work,” he lectures. “You think the Nazis cared about fair? They did everything they could to keep us guessing—like you just did to me.” He chuckles. “You would have made a heck of a Bunker Boy.”

I know I’m never going to get a higher compliment from Leo Preminger. “I never could have done it without you.”

For the first time, there’s effort behind his normally easy smile. “No charge.”

26

Ms. Napier

As soon as Traci opens the door to the Eyeball office, the overpowering aroma of frying grease almost knocks me over.

“Oh, hi, Ms. Napier. What can I do for you?”

I wave the latest edition of the paper in her face. The headline, in block capital letters, screams:

CALL TO ACTION:

COME TO SCHOOL BOARD MEETING TONIGHT!

This is our last chance to get justice for Dexter! If he doesn’t get reinstated tonight, that means he’s out forever, with a black mark on his record that never goes away. We all have to be there—to show the school board we’re not going to take this lying down. If you don’t have a ride, text the number below and we’ll hook you up with a car pool. Whether it’s by car, bike, foot, scooter, or pogo stick, be here for Dexter. He helped us. Now it’s time for us to help him. . . .

“I know that we give you freedom to publish whatever you feel is important to the school community,” I say, trying to keep the shrillness out of my voice, “but we also expect you to use a little judgment. Why would you do this?”

Gianna appears at Traci’s side. “But on the morning announcements, didn’t Dr. Dinkins encourage everybody to come to the meeting?”

“Yes—to show the board how people support building a new school.” I wave the newspaper at them. “You don’t even mention that. The biggest decision this town has ever had to make, and when it comes up at the meeting, all our students will be able to talk about is one boy, thanks to the Eyeball.”

“Maybe that one boy is important to us,” Gianna reproaches me. “Maybe we believe that what’s happening to him isn’t right. And if we let it happen to him, it could happen to any one of us.”

I feel my face twist a little. “I love that you’re urging students to get involved. But when you use the kind of language you put in the paper, you’re bound to get more than involvement. You could end up with a riot.”

Traci is growing nervous. “There won’t be a riot. But if there is—I mean, that’s not the Eyeball’s fault, right? It’s definitely not the editor’s fault—”

Gianna puts an arm around her shoulders. “You’re not alone. I’m with you all the way.”

“There won’t be a riot,” I try to reassure them. “But I want you to understand that words have power. And there’s no way to call them back. All the copies are gone from the school store.”

“Good,” Gianna says stubbornly. “I want a lot of kids there tonight. If the school board expels Dex, they should know exactly how we feel about it.”

I start back to my office, head spinning. When I was getting my counseling degree, I believed in student involvement. But now that I’m up to my ears in the real thing, I’m not so sure—especially since none of the kids seem to understand that Dexter might not even want to be reinstated.

When I get back to my office, I find Ronny already there. Exactly what I need—a little bit of good news. “Congratulations, Ronny. I saw your latest math grade: a B minus! Mr. St. John is proud of you and so am I!”

If I’m expecting him to crack a smile at this news, I don’t get one. Is it possible that Ronny is so used to terrible grades that he doesn’t know a pretty good one when he hears it?

“What’s wrong?” I ask in alarm. “This is a tremendous improvement. I’m so happy for you! Why aren’t you happy for yourself?”

“I am,” he admits. “It’s just that—I’d still be flunking if it wasn’t for the geezer—I mean Dexter. I can’t be happy for myself when he might get the boot tonight.”

I toss my copy of the Eyeball on my desk—headline down on the off chance that Ronny hasn’t seen it yet. “Are you saying Dexter has been tutoring you? How is that possible? He doesn’t come here anymore.”

“I go to The Pines,” he explains. “Everybody does.”

“What do you mean ‘everybody does’?”

“Practically the whole school. I’m the only one getting math help. Everyone else just—goes.”

I’m flabbergasted. “But why?”

He shrugs. “At first we all went to support the geezer. But the tea— What’s in that stuff, anyway? And the old people, they’re real mensches. I can’t explain it. It’s just the place to be. This guy Archie—mean right hook, by the way—he gets me.”

My head is spinning. I had a picture in my mind of Dexter alone and isolated at The Pines, with nobody under seventy to talk to. Now I find out that the entire school has come to him. It puts a different spin on everything.

“So, would you say that Dexter’s attitude has improved toward the school?” I ask.

“I doubt it,” he replies. “I mean, who likes school?”

“I’m talking about this school. When Dexter first arrived, he was so negative. . . .”

My voice trails off at the blank look on Ronny’s face. He has no idea that, if Dexter is reinstated tonight, the person most upset about it might very well be Dexter himself.

Or maybe not. It’s pretty obvious that a lot has changed in Dexter’s life since he was suspended. If even half of what Ronny says is true, something pretty impressive must be happening at The Pines. Retirees and middle schoolers seeking out each other’s company—all thanks to one boy. Has that had any effect on Dexter’s attitude? He has friends now. Supporters. If he feels he belongs with them, maybe he can feel he belongs here.

When I’m finished with Ronny, I head straight to the office to update Principal Dinkins on what I’ve just learned.

He’s alarmed. “Do you think a lot of them will crash the school board meeting?”

“They can’t ‘crash’ it,” I point out. “They’re invited. It’s open to the public.”

“Yes, but will they come and make a big stink?”

“Don’t you see that what’s happening here is much bigger than any school board meeting?” I insist. “Our kids are so loyal to Dexter that even after we suspended him, they sought him out and made themselves a part of his life. I know middle schoolers. They don’t do that. They don’t put themselves out for anybody. Dexter Foreman is special!”

“Just our luck,” the principal groans. “This meeting is going to turn into a food fight and it’s going to be blamed on us.”

I stare at him. Something earthshaking is going on: students rallying behind a classmate; friendships blossoming between young people and the elderly. And Dr. Dinkins can’t get beyond one school board meeting where something might happen to make him look bad.

Is that what it means to be a principal? If so, I hope I never get the job.

The woman who answers the door is younger than Great-Aunt Corinne—probably in her midseventies, small and neat, wearing a pair of thick-lensed glasses.

“Adele Foreman?” I greet her. “I’m Vivian Napier, head counselor at Dexter’s school. We’ve spoken on the phone.”

“Oh, hello. Come on in. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

She ushers me inside and sits me down at the dining room table. Before I know it, a steaming teapot and two cups appear between us.

I’m surprised. “Were you expecting me?”

“I always keep the kettle hot,” she explains. “We can’t say anything that won’t sound much better with tea. Besides, the children will be here soon.”

Now I understand why tea has become a surprise bestseller in the cafeteria. Ronny may not be the most reliable source of information but it looks like he didn’t steer me wrong. The kids really have been visiting Dexter here.

Adele pours two cups and sits down opposite me. “Are you here to prepare us for bad news at the school board meeting tonight? Is Dexter going to be expelled?”

“I honestly don’t know,” I reply. “That decision is entirely in the hands of the school board. Even my principal has no idea.”

She looks grave and I can tell that the stakes are weighing on her.

“I’d like to speak up for him,” I go on. “That’s why I’m here. I want to fight for Dexter, but before I get involved, I want to make sure I’m fighting for what he wants.”

“I appreciate that,” she says. “Well, if you ask Dex, he might still say that he doesn’t want to go back. I know he’s working on the special project to prove that he’s too advanced for middle school. He’s presenting it at the meeting tonight.”

I frown. “I haven’t heard anything about that.”

“It’s for Mr. Dunwoody,” Adele goes on. “And I have no doubt it will be brilliant. Dex is a very smart boy and his teacher is a renowned genius. But I’m hoping he’ll go back to school. You should see him when the kids come around here. He’s a new person. He’s one of them.”

“When I first met your grandson, I didn’t have very high hopes of him fitting in,” I admit. “Our education system isn’t great at dealing with kids who are different. But as I’ve gotten to know Dexter, I’ve come to see what a remarkable young man he is. He’s intelligent, obliging, helpful, resourceful, and kind. And while I don’t think the other kids appreciated him at first, today he’s a rock star.” I take a sip of tea. Wow, that’s good—not just tasty but bracing and full-bodied. No wonder the students have taken to it.

“Dex receives a fine education here,” Adele says stoutly. “But he needs to be in school with kids his own age. I take the blame for not realizing it sooner. And I’m terrified that the school board will close the door on that tonight.”

“I can’t guarantee anything,” I tell her honestly. “No reasonable person could think your grandson is a bad kid. But schools can be very inflexible when the words zero tolerance are involved. I really can’t predict how tonight is going to go.”

At that moment, the door opens and Dexter himself steps inside. “The first of the kids are starting to—” He freezes when he sees me. “Oh—Ms. Napier.”

“Hi, Dexter. It’s been awhile.”

He jumps to the same conclusion his grandmother did. “Are you here because of the meeting tonight?”

“In a way,” I say. “Mostly, I wanted to meet your grandmother and talk about how you’re doing. I understand you’ve made some new friends.”

“I have more school friends now than I ever had when I went to the middle school.” His tone is frank, honest, but I detect a hint of defiance in there somewhere.

“I’m also here to tell you something I never had a chance to when you were my student. However things go at the meeting tonight, I want you to know how much I admire you—as a student and as a person.”

He looks startled, as if that was the last thing he ever expected from me.

Adele speaks up. “The proper thing to say, Dex, is thank you.”

It’s possible he would have said it but I’ll never know because that’s when we hear the siren.

Dexter rushes to the picture window. A howling ambulance, lights blazing, rushes past the condo, disappearing out of view. But we can tell from the flashers reflecting off the rooftops, that it has stopped somewhere on the next block.

All the color drains from Dexter’s face. “Leo!” he breathes.

27

Dexter Foreman

I’m out the door like a shot, sprinting along the path to Leo’s condo.

Sure enough, the ambulance is parked in front of his unit. As I pound down the lane, two EMTs emerge from the door, carrying my best friend on a stretcher.

“Leo!” I howl.

The EMTs are about to load him into the back, but he raises a shaky hand and removes the oxygen mask that covers his face.

“Change of plan, kid,” he says in a strained voice. “You have to do the demonstration without me.”

“I’m not doing the demonstration,” I snap back. “I’m not even going to that meeting. I’m coming with you!”

“Don’t you dare,” he returns with a little more vigor. “We’ve both worked too hard for you to give up on this now.” He addresses the lead attendant. “If this stubborn little cuss tries to get in the ambulance, kick him to the curb.”

“We don’t do that, sir,” the EMT tells him. “And we don’t have time to waste. We have to get you to the hospital.”

“I don’t care about the school board,” I say stubbornly. “I only care about you.”

“You want to do something for me?” Leo challenges. “Go to that meeting and knock their socks off! Take my equipment. You can tell me all about it tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but you won’t be there,” I argue. “Nobody’s as good as a real Bunker Boy!”

“What are you talking about?” he retorts. “You’re as good as any Bunker Boy.”

My eyes well up. “I’m not—”

Leo places the oxygen mask back over his face, indicating that the discussion is over. He’s never looked older or weaker.

The EMTs load the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. One attendant climbs in with the patient.

I move to follow—at least I think I do. I’m rooted to the spot.

A hand clasps my shoulder. Grandma. “Dex,” she says softly. Ms. Napier is with her, looking concerned.

With a whoop of its siren, the ambulance makes a U-turn and speeds away.

I watch it go, feeling like it’s taking a part of me with it.

“What am I going to do?” I whisper.

As usual, Grandma has the answer. “You heard Leo. You’re going to the meeting—and you’re going to make him proud.”

Tonight’s meeting of the Greater Wolf’s Eye school board is set for 7:00 p.m. sharp, but we leave at six to make sure we get there early and set up Leo’s coding machines. Since Grandma can’t drive anymore, we get a ride from Archie, which is always an adventure. He drives like he does everything else: angrily and at top volume. At the wheel of his giant pickup truck, he leans on the horn, dividing all the other motorists into three categories: maniacs, imbeciles, and sheep. Being his passenger is always a strange sensation. I’m usually in a state between fear for my life and giggling—although tonight it’s impossible to feel anything except worried about Leo.

Grandma’s lips are moving as we swerve in and out of traffic, tires squealing. I think she’s praying. Archie’s driving has that effect on people.

When we get to the school, the parking lot is jam-packed. Archie has a few things to say about that too. “God Bless America! It’s a school board meeting, not Woodstock!”

“It’s a pretty big deal,” I try to explain. “Tonight’s the night they decide whether to tear down the old middle school and build a new one.”

“Just our luck!” he growls. “Now we have to park in Siberia!”

“It’s all right, Archie.” Grandma tries to play peacemaker. “You don’t have to stay. We can get a ride home.”

“Are you joking?” he demands. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world! Sonny-boy here is going to pin their ears back and show them how it’s done!”

Eventually we squeeze into a spot between two “Einsteins who can’t park for beans.” Archie and I carry the coding machines into the school, Grandma bringing up the rear.

“What a dump!” he comments once we get inside the building. “No wonder they want to tear it down. Wait a few days and it’ll fall down on its own.”

Grandma is more polite but her expression clearly states that she didn’t expect the school to be such a crumbling ruin.

The meeting was supposed to be held in the conference room, but a cardboard sign announces that it’s been moved to the gym to accommodate a larger crowd. That explains the state of the parking lot and the busy hallways. It’s a mixture of students and adults. The kids greet me with cheers and high fives, welcoming me back.

Sophie throws her arms around me in a bear hug. “We’re with you, Dex! They wouldn’t dare expel you when they see how much support you have.”

“What’s up with the typewriters?” asks Jackson, who’s with Sophie.

“They’re coding machines,” I correct him. “They’re part of a special project I did for Mr. Dunwoody.”

When I say that, Jackson gets a very strange look on his face and turns beet red. Maybe he’s upset because I was invited to do a special project and he wasn’t—just like it always bugged him that I took over his spot as captain of the math team.

The gym has been set up with hundreds of folding chairs. It’s already half full, even though the meeting doesn’t start for another forty minutes. I look around for Teagan, who’s going to step in and help me with my coding demonstration, but she hasn’t arrived yet. Obviously, she’s no replacement for Leo, but I gave her a crash course in how to operate the second GX-4210 machine. As for proving that my code is good enough to stump a genuine Bunker Boy—well, the school board will have to take my word for that.

There’s a stir of recognition when I walk into the room, followed by a smattering of applause. I’m suddenly mobbed by my sixth-grade shuffleboarders, who are buzzing with excitement and purpose.

“Follow us, Dex!” Allie Westerberg urges. “We’ve got something to show you!”

“I’d better stay here,” I tell her. “I’ve got a presentation to set up for.”

“It’ll only take a second,” she promises. “This is really important!”

Grandma smiles at me. “By all means, go with them. There’s plenty of time and your equipment will be safe with us.”

So I allow myself to be dragged along—not that I have much choice. My sixth graders are champing at the bit and not about to back down.

“What’s this about?” I ask as they hustle me out the gym door that leads directly into the schoolyard.

“Remember when we talked about starting a shuffleboard league here?” Allie replies. “Well, we’re going to need a league office and we found the perfect place.”

They pull me along to the steep narrow staircase leading to the basement storeroom where we found the original shuffleboard equipment.

“The storeroom?” I say. “I don’t think you’ll be allowed to use it. There’s too much stuff down there already.”

Two of them heave open the heavy door and there we are in the musty basement, picking our way among boxes, crates, and old sports equipment.

“We’ve been coming down here every day to clean it up for you,” Allie explains proudly. “We want you to be the head of the league when we start it. And if the school gives us money to buy a trophy, we’re going to call it the Foreman Cup.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m honored—honestly I am. But I’m also wondering where all this work took place. The storeroom is every bit as cluttered and dusty and dank as I remember it. My sixth graders may have learned the ins and outs of shuffleboard, but they don’t know much about cleaning up. Besides, I might not even be at this school to run their league.

Allie reaches for the interior door.

“Don’t open that,” I advise. “There’s nothing in there but an old table and most of the ceiling is on it.”

“Not anymore!” She flings the door wide and flips a wall switch. A bare bulb illuminates the room and I finally see what they’ve been cleaning. The big table is still there, cleared of debris and polished to a shine. There’s a hole in the ceiling where the plaster came down, but nothing is dangling and the overhead beams look solid. The walls have been washed. They’re kind of streaky but clean. The swirling dust is gone and so is the moldy odor, replaced by the scent of floral cleanser.

“Wow,” I comment, impressed. “You really did put in a lot of work down here.”

“There’s no desk,” Allie says apologetically. “But the table is okay, right? We even picked out your spot. See?”

I follow her pointing finger to one end of the rectangular table. An old soup can contains a pen and a pencil and a nameplate has been fashioned out of a folded piece of cardboard. It reads: D. FOREMAN, LEAGUE COMMISSIONER.

They all demand that I sit in the “commissioner’s chair” so they can take pictures.

“Okay,” I concede. “But after that, I have to get back to the gym.”

I take my seat amid the clicking of cell phone cameras. I’m smiling all over my face even though I’m pretty sure I’m never going to hold this position or if this so-called league will ever exist. Come to think of it—depending on tonight’s school board vote—this “office” might very well end up demolished along with the rest of the building.

That’s when I see it. The new polish has brought out every scratch in the old table, including a message carved into the wood a long time ago.

Welcome to the Bunker

The Bunker?

Oh, sure, I get that a windowless room buried in the basement of a big building might be called a bunker. But I instantly know that I am seated at the table in the Bunker, where young Leo Preminger and his fellow Bunker Boys spent fourteen-hour days sweating over enemy codes. Leo always said that the Bunker was in Wolf’s Eye, but he never mentioned it was in the school itself. Mostly, he talked about a classified location where they were brought before dawn and taken out after dark. I never pressed him on that because his unit was top secret. But I’m positive this is it. I’m sitting at the very table where the Bunker Boys made history all those years ago!

I stare. Underneath the message are etched eight pairs of initials. I get up to search the tabletop until I find it—L. P. for Leo Preminger. There it is—proof positive that I’m standing in the footsteps of heroes.

I choke up a little as I run my finger over the L. P., trying to imagine a seventeen-year-old Leo—eighty-two years younger than the old man I just saw carried off by ambulance.

“Wow,” I manage, my voice hoarse. “This is—incredible.”

My shuffleboarders beam with pride. They have no way of knowing that their league office is a piece of World War II history.

They accompany me back to the gym, where the school board meeting is almost about to begin. The room is now jam-packed and my sixth graders have to find places to stand along the back wall. The only reason I have a seat is because Grandma and Archie saved me one.

“What took so long?” Grandma asks urgently.

“You’ll never believe it!” I tell her, brimming with awe. “Wait till you hear!”

“Never mind that,” Archie interjects. “You haven’t set up your equipment yet. Where’s that little gal who’s helping you out?”

From my spot near the front, I stand up and scan the crowd. Every age group is represented here tonight, from babies clear on up to Grandma and Archie. There are a lot of middle school kids with their parents—and also a pretty good turnout from The Pines. I spot Phyllis, Edna, Cyril, and even Miss Wefers, who is wearing a glittering full-length evening gown she saves for special occasions.

I can’t find Teagan, though, and that’s a problem. Her grandparents are probably circling the school looking for a parking space.

A large bald man busting out of a pinstriped suit steps up to the microphone. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. I’m J. Enoch Dunwoody, chair of the Wolf’s Eye school board. I’m delighted to see such a tremendous turnout because our little community has a big decision to make tonight: Do we build a new middle school or do we continue to patch and fix this century-old building?”

I think Mr. Dunwoody is expecting a big response to that question, but he doesn’t get one. The audience is quiet, waiting expectantly.

“We’ll also be taking up the matter of seventh-grader Dexter Foreman—” Mr. Dunwoody goes on.

An earsplitting roar drowns him out. Startled, I look around. The middle school students in the room are on their feet, stomping and cheering, some standing on their chairs. I feel a surge of warmth that starts in my gut and works its way out through my fingers and toes and the top of my head. Mr. Dunwoody’s “tremendous turnout”—it has nothing to do with deciding whether to build a new school. All these kids—they’re here for me!

Mr. Dunwoody waits for the ovation to die down. Eventually, he has to hold up his hands for order. “All right, that’s enough. Are Dexter and his family here tonight?”

Grandma and I stand up. So does Archie, as if daring the school board to tell him he isn’t related to me.

The lights dim and a photograph of my Swiss Army Knife, blades open, is projected on the big screen. “A student resource officer found Dexter in possession of this weapon in the school cafeteria. The Wolf’s Eye School District—along with most other districts across the country—has a zero tolerance policy regarding weapons. Dexter, is there anything you’d like to say to the board before we vote on your case?”

“I don’t have anything to say about the Swiss Army Knife,” I tell him honestly. “But I’m ready to demonstrate my special project now.”

Mr. Dunwoody frowns. “Special project?”

I pull the school board letter out of my pocket, unfold it, and hold it up. “The one you invited me to do to show—”

He cuts me off. “The board never sent you any letter.”

“Sure, you did. I have it right here.” I take the paper up to the podium and hand it to Mr. Dunwoody.

The chair examines it. He looks up at me. “This is a forgery. It’s a very stylish signature; unfortunately, it’s not mine. I’m afraid someone has been playing a cruel trick on you.”

“But—” My stomach tightens. I struggle to put my finger on exactly why I’m so devastated. Okay, nobody likes to be duped, and yeah, I want to show the school board what I’m capable of. But there’s something much bigger. “My friend Leo, who helped me with this project—he’s pretty sick right now. This was important to him, so it’s extra important to me. Even though it isn’t official, can I please do my demonstration? It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“I’m sorry, Dexter,” Mr. Dunwoody replies. “We have a very full agenda tonight.”

A huge eruption of protest goes up in the gym. The kids are on their feet again, howling with outrage. There are shouts of “Unfair!” and “Kids’ rights!” and “Dex fixed your crummy school and now you’re throwing him under the bus!” Even Archie gets in on the action, shaking his fist and bellowing, “Let the kid talk, you big Herb!” He must have gotten that from Ronny.

Mr. Dunwoody shakes his head defiantly at first, but when the protest roars on, he becomes a little less certain. Seated at the long table, the other board members exchange nervous glances as it becomes clear that the kids of Wolf’s Eye Middle School—and some adults too—are not about to take no for an answer.

This time, the chair has to tap the microphone to get the noise to die down. “How long is this going to take?” he asks me in annoyance.

“Not long,” I promise, scanning the crowd anxiously. “I just have to find the person who’s going to work the second machine. . . .”

But as my eyes pan the packed gymnasium, I have to face an alarming fact. Teagan is nowhere to be found—and there’s no way she and her grandparents are still out there looking for parking. She’s a no-show.

The last thing I said to Leo before the ambulance took him away was my promise that the code we worked so hard on would be presented to the board tonight. And now I can’t keep that promise.

That’s when a new voice pipes up over the murmur of the crowd.

“I’ll do it.”

28

Gianna Greco

I push my way forward, squeezing between the chairs, until I’m standing next to Dex.

He seems genuinely bewildered. “Do what?”

“The demonstration. I’ll be your partner.”

“But you don’t know the GX-4210,” he protests. “It took me an hour to explain it to Teagan. We don’t have time!”

Wouldn’t you know it? Teagan. Of course he picked her to be his partner. Not me, even though I’ve tried to be his friend ever since that first day on the bus, while she abandoned him here tonight.

“I can learn anything she can,” I insist. “Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

Dex looks uncertain.

“Give her a chance, Dex,” his grandmother urges. “She’s trying to help.”

Mr. Dunwoody folds his arms in front of him. “We don’t have all night.” This earns him a few stray boos from the audience.

To save time, the school board members give up their table onstage so Dex and I can set up our equipment—basically two coding machines that resemble typewriters. They look old because they are—dating all the way back to World War II.

Dex gives me a quick tutorial in what I have to do. I don’t really understand it, but I don’t have to. I can follow instructions. Anyway, he’s doing all the hard stuff. He programs the first machine, so when the encrypted message clatters out the second, it’s pure gibberish—just random groupings of letters. I regard them blankly, wondering how anyone could make sense out of this mess.

Mr. Dunwoody is peering impatiently over my shoulder. “Well?” he prompts. “What does it mean?”

“My friend Leo and I have been working on this code for two months,” Dex explains. “If he was here, he would try to crack it. And he’d have to admit he couldn’t, even though he was one of the famous Bunker Boys—the greatest American code-breakers of World War Two.”

“That’s all very well,” Mr. Dunwoody counters, “but your code-breaker isn’t here right now. And what I see is a page of nonsense.”

In answer, Dex takes over my GX-4210, pressing buttons, twisting dials, and adjusting settings. Like magic, the translation prints itself out. I take the page and read aloud.

“‘I tried to be normal once. Worst two minutes of my life.’”

A primal scream comes from the middle of the audience and Ronny leaps to his feet. “That’s my T-shirt! He got that from me! I made it into the school board meeting!”

It gets a gigantic laugh from the audience and even a chuckle from Mr. Dunwoody.

The chair addresses Dex again. “This Leo—I presume he’s one of your acquaintances from The Pines?”

Dex shakes his head vehemently. “Not an acquaintance. A friend—my best friend. The Bunker Boys did their work right here, in a room with no windows behind the storage area in the basement.”

Principal Dinkins speaks up. “Your friend told you that? They worked in this very building?”

“No,” Dex admits. “I don’t think he remembers. He’s almost a hundred years old. But all the things he told me about the Bunker—they’re a perfect match for that room. And just tonight I saw the Bunker Boys’ initials carved into the table.”

“That’s very interesting if it’s true,” Mr. Dunwoody says. “But we’ve got some big decisions to make tonight—not the least of which is whether this community is going to make the major investment of a new middle school.”

That is so wrongheaded that I practically hear a buzzer going off in my ears. The reporter in me has to set things right. No journalist can sit by and say nothing when the biggest story of them all is being overlooked.

“Well, that’s one less decision we have to make!” I exclaim. “We can’t tear this school down!”

If Mr. Dunwoody’s eyebrows were any higher, they’d be hovering over his head. “How do you figure that?”

“That room in the basement—it’s a piece of World War Two history,” I explain, projecting my voice so it reaches everybody in the gym. I catch Dex staring at me. “Well, it is,” I insist. “You always talk about how the Bunker Boys helped win the war. That’s where they did it.” I turn to face the audience. “It isn’t easy to be proud of growing up in a boring place like Wolf’s Eye, where nothing ever happens. But this is something our town did for humanity! You don’t just rip it out and throw it in the garbage. It’s our contribution to the entire world.”

The crowd response begins with some scattered applause and builds to an approving ovation.

Mr. Dunwoody smiles at me. “You make a good point, young lady. This will all be authenticated, and if it turns out to be true, it will receive the attention it deserves. I know Wolf’s Eye is hoping to build a town museum. I can’t think of a better place for it than right here. It can be a joint project with the refurbishing of the school.”

The other board members join the crowd’s hearty applause.

For a community that’s been agonizing over what to do with this school for so many years, it’s a pretty big moment. I know I should probably quit while I’m ahead and keep my mouth shut, but there’s one more thing I have to tell the chair.

“Mr. Dunwoody, you talk about refurbishing the school. Well, that’s all Dex was trying to do with his Swiss Army Knife. Oh, sure, he’s not a contractor, but he was fixing things one at a time because he’d always been taught to be handy at The Pines. It wasn’t a weapon to him. Honest.”

Dex looks at me and mouths the words Thank you.

Mr. Dunwoody regards Dex and me, his expression unhappy. “I believe you. I believe Dexter. But the whole point of zero tolerance is the zero.”

A chorus of protest rings out.

“Lay off my geezer!” Ronny complains.

“You can’t kick him out for trying to help!” adds Sophie.

“He’s the best of any of us!”

“He’s awesome!”

The chair sighs. “I don’t doubt that. But—”

Suddenly, both outside doors fly open and in burst black-clad police officers in full military gear. In alarm, the crowd surges toward the main exit from the gym only to be stopped by a tall man wearing a tactical vest.

“Nobody’s going anywhere!” he announces into a bullhorn, backing people away from him. “This room is locked down by order of the FBI!”

The FBI?

29

Dexter Foreman

The FBI!

People at The Pines watch a lot of TV shows about the FBI, but you never expect to wind up right in the middle of an FBI raid. What’s going on?

Mr. Dunwoody finds his voice first. “Excuse me, Officer—”

“It’s Special Agent Corrigan,” the head man cuts him off.

“Yeah, well, you’re in the wrong place, Agent Genius,” Archie pipes up. “This is a school board meeting. Unless you’re selling chalkboard erasers, get lost.”

“We’ve been tracking coded messages in this area for weeks now,” Corrigan explains. “Our experts haven’t been able to crack the code, but we’ve been triangulating the source of the signals. Tonight we narrowed it down to this building.”

I can’t keep the grin off my face. I was afraid that Leo couldn’t crack my code because he was getting old and confused, but the FBI isn’t old and confused. They have the best code-breakers in the world and I stumped them too. Wait till Leo hears this!

I wave my hand at Special Agent Corrigan. “It’s me!”

He ignores me. “Don’t interrupt, kid. This is serious business. We could be looking at a terror cell planning a major attack.”

“But it isn’t a terror attack,” I insist. “It’s a school project.” I hold up the GX-4210, and beside me, Gianna holds up hers. “I’ve been using these old coding machines from World War Two. Those are the messages you’ve been picking up: T-shirt slogans.”

“My T-shirt slogans,” Ronny adds from the crowd.

The FBI agent glowers at me. “Where does a middle school kid get ahold of World War Two coding machines?”

“From Leo,” I reply readily. “He’s ninety-nine and he was a Bunker Boy. So when the school board gave me a chance to show off my education at The Pines, a code was the first thing I thought of.” I feel myself grimace. “Except it was a hoax and I fell for it. So maybe I’m not as smart as I thought I was. I guess I’ve got a lot to learn—and I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to learn it. I was actually in the middle of being kicked out of school when you guys showed up.”

“About that . . .” Mr. Dunwoody faces me. “Well, any boy who can design a code that baffles the FBI has a lot to offer a district like ours. And it’s pretty obvious you’ve made a place for yourself within our student community. Why don’t we start over? Come back to school.”

Before I can react to that, Ms. Napier turns to face me. “I know you’ve always had mixed feelings about coming to Wolf’s Eye. You’ve proven you can learn at home as well as anybody—better than most. What is it you really want? Do you need a few days to think it over?”

All at once, the place goes quiet—silent, like you could hear a pin drop. Kids sit forward in their chairs, barely breathing. Even the FBI agents stand motionless, as if hanging on my answer.

In the months since the truancy officer busted in on our Bingo game at The Pines, this is the first time anyone has asked what I want. It’s been a series of commands: go to this school; take this bus; go to these classes in this order. And then, after the incident in the cafeteria: you’re kicked out; stay home.

Now, suddenly, it’s all my choice.

The answer should be easy. I never wanted to come to school here. I was happy with my community at The Pines. I never wanted more friends or better ones or even younger ones.

But everything is different now. I used to think I was lucky because I didn’t have to be a kid—almost like I stumbled onto a free pass straight into adulthood. But when I picture my spot at the table in the shuffleboard office where the Bunker Boys once wrestled with life-and-death codes, I want to be the shuffleboard league commissioner. I want it more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time. That has to mean something.

It means I have my answer.

“I don’t need a few days,” I reply. “I don’t even need a few minutes. I want to come back.”

The roar of approval from the crowd is nothing less than an explosion. At the same time, hundreds of kids toss their copies of the meeting agenda into the air and a blizzard of white fills the gym. Gianna throws her arms around me and gives me a big hug, but it doesn’t last long because Ronny tackles us both, howling in celebration. Squeezed in a Greco sandwich, I feel rather than hear the vibration of the hardwood floor as most of the population of Wolf’s Eye Middle School rushes the front.

“Please return to your seats, everyone!” Mr. Dunwoody pleads into the microphone. “We must have order!”

Nobody listens to him. Waves of kids climb up onto the stage, surrounding me. Hands pound at my back and arms. High fives wave in front of me, waiting to be slapped.

All I can think of is the two coding machines. In this wild crowd, they could get stepped on and smashed before I can give them back to Leo. Gianna reads my mind and moves them to a high shelf in the wings.

The next thing I know, I’m being hauled off the stage into the arms of Ethan, Sophie, Alex, and a mob of students, including a few of my sixth-grade shuffleboarders. They hoist me on their shoulders and parade me around the gym. Still more kids swarm us, dancing and cheering.

“You don’t have to do this—” I try to say.

I can barely hear myself over the chanting. “Dex! . . . Dex! . . . Dex! . . .”

Even at The Pines—where I was always special because I was the only kid—I never could have imagined an outpouring like this. I’m not sure what I did to make people love me so much. Surely it can’t be just because of a few small repairs. But it definitely feels good.

From my perch above the crowd, I survey the room. Grandma is beaming up at me and beside her, Archie wears a self-satisfied smirk. That probably has less to do with me than the fact that he got to mouth off to a real FBI agent. The other residents of The Pines look proud, as if they’re watching “their boy” make good.

The middle school parents are trying to gather up their kids to head home, but no one wants to leave. In fact, the only student who isn’t in full party mode is Jackson, who’s usually at the center of everything. His face is gray, his shoulders drooping. I have a sneaking suspicion that he was the one who sent me that fake letter from the school board. I wouldn’t put it past him. He always smiled and pretended to be my friend, but he never really forgave me for replacing him as the captain of the math team—a position I didn’t want anyway. My teachers at The Pines showed me a lot of things. But spotting a rat like Jackson is something you can learn only by being in the real world.

Mr. Dunwoody is in animated conversation with Agent Corrigan. I think he’s trying to get the FBI to help him shut down the meeting. But Corrigan isn’t interested in crowd control. He gathers up his people and whisks them away.

Eventually, the crush thins and I find my feet back on the floor. I shake a lot of hands and bump a lot of fists, but pretty soon it’s time to go home.

Grandma seems almost as wired as I am. “I can’t wait to tell your parents about this,” she says as we make our way with Archie to the parking lot. “It’s too late to call Belgium, but I’m afraid if I wait till morning, I’ll forget some of the details!”

“The person we have to talk to is Leo!” I enthuse. “He doesn’t even know that I found the Bunker! And when I tell him our code stumped the FBI, he’ll flip out! I wonder if he’s back from the hospital yet.”

When we get back to The Pines, Felix is waiting to give us the news. Leo Preminger died at 6:53 p.m.—at just about the same moment I discovered his initials carved into the table in the Bunker.

30

Dexter Foreman

Probably the hardest thing in the world is saying goodbye to your best friend.

But Leo’s funeral is almost like a celebration. Not too many people live for ninety-nine years. His three kids are almost as old as Grandma. His grandchildren are my parents’ age. And there are fourteen great-grandkids.

Leo’s will said he didn’t want a eulogy, so instead, people got up and swapped stories about him. He was a high school baseball star, a Bunker Boy, and a math professor. Gianna encourages me to talk about how we found the real Bunker at Wolf’s Eye Middle School. I can’t resist adding that, on the very last night of his life, Leo and I flummoxed the FBI with our code.

“I never got to tell him that,” I finish, almost choking on the words, “but I bet he knew.”

After the service, Archie drives Grandma, Gianna, and me back to The Pines.

Teagan is waiting in front of our condo as we walk in from the parking lot. Seeing the way we’re dressed, she asks, a little awkwardly, “How was the funeral?”

My throat is suddenly too dry to answer. What does she expect me to say? Leo was an amazing person, a war hero, a fantastic friend. But we’re all only human. And some things can’t be fixed with a Swiss Army Knife.

Gianna steps forward. “It was nice. Sad but . . . nice.”

Teagan nods. “Sorry I couldn’t make it. I had to pack. My flight home is later today.”

What I want to point out is that if Teagan had been so high on paying her respects at the funeral, she could have packed yesterday. The real reason she didn’t show up is that not showing up is just what Teagan does. Like when she left me high and dry at the school board meeting when I really needed her.

On the other hand, maybe Teagan did me a favor there because it gave Gianna a chance to jump in and save the day. Without Teagan deserting me, I might never have seen how a real friend acts. Gianna even insisted on coming with us to Leo’s funeral, although she only met the old man a few times. She wanted to be there with me because she knew how upset I was.

But I don’t say any of that out loud because what would be the point? Teagan didn’t come to the funeral for the same reason she didn’t come to the board meeting: she couldn’t be bothered.

“No problem,” I tell her. “Have a great trip home.”

“What about the weekend after Thanksgiving?” she probes. “Visiting me in New York?” Her gaze remains on me except for one split second when her eyes dart over to Gianna. “You know, the dance?”

There was a time when I would have given anything for an invitation like that from Teagan. I wanted it for so long that, even now, part of me is tempted to say yes. But I’m not that kid anymore. That’s another thing the real world teaches you. You learn to recognize when you’re being wrapped around someone’s little finger.

“Turns out I can’t make it.” I don’t apologize because I’m not sorry.

“Oh—okay. Too bad.”

Her smile never wavers, but in that moment, I realize that Teagan Santoro is through with me. I can’t say it doesn’t bother me because it does a little bit. For the longest time, she was just about my only kid friend. And we were friends. Our bird-cataloging days were really awesome. But times change.

During her last visit, I was afraid she’d outgrown me. Who could have guessed that it was really me outgrowing her?

“Bye, Teagan,” Grandma puts in. “Give my best to your grandparents.”

“I will,” she promises and rushes off. She doesn’t acknowledge Gianna at all.

Monday morning is my first school bus ride since I got suspended. Believe it or not, I’m actually looking forward to it. Not the part where I get my guts rearranged thanks to the amazing driving of Mr. Milinkovic and the nonexistent suspension of Big Orange. But this feels like the first day of the rest of my life and I’m excited about that.

Grandma volunteers to come with me to the stop, but I tell her I’d rather go alone.

“Nobody else brings their family to the bus stop,” I explain.

“There used to be a time when you didn’t care what everybody else did,” Grandma reminds me.

“I remember,” I agree. “It took me a long time to get to middle school. But I really am ready for it now.”

Grandma smiles as she puts the finishing touches on my bag lunch. It’s much smaller now—only one dessert allowed. There’s also no thermos of tea. According to Ronny, they sell it in the cafeteria now.

Anyway, that’s why I’m all alone at the bus stop, waiting for the engine roar and grinding of gears that announce the arrival of Big Orange. Imagine how shocked I am when a brand-new, whisper-silent electric bus hums up to the curb in front of me.

I stare. It’s big and orange, but it definitely isn’t Big Orange. The door glides open and there sits Mr. Milinkovic, beaming at me.

“Where’s the old bus?” I ask suspiciously.

“You called it, kid,” the driver replies. “It needed a ring and valve job. It’s in the shop, but I think they’re going to put it out of its misery.”

Actually, Leo called it because Leo calls everything. Just because he’s not around anymore doesn’t mean he’s stopped being right. I hold that thought to my heart and it warms me, even though it’s a chilly morning.

I get a standing ovation from the other riders and Mr. Milinkovic has to honk the horn until everybody sits down. The horn makes a normal sound instead of the ear-shattering air-blast of the old one.

I take the seat Gianna has been saving for me. It’s comfortable, like no school bus seat is supposed to be. What happened to all the lumps and bumps of Big Orange?

“I hate it too,” Gianna confides to me. “But it’s better for the environment. Anyway, it’s all your fault.”

“My fault? Why?”

She smiles. “The district is saving so much money not having to build a new school that they splurged on new buses. They’re also astroturfing the soccer field.”

“Jackson will be happy about that,” I comment, thinking about how it was probably him who sent me that fake letter. But when I see Jackson at the back of the bus, he isn’t his usual bubbly, confident self. He’s slumped against the window, his frowning gaze trained anywhere but at me. Maybe he’s upset because, with me back, he won’t be the captain of the math team anymore.

Gianna reaches over and flips a strand of hair out of my eyes. “I like the new haircut,” she says approvingly.

That’s another change. I decided that twelve is too old to be getting haircuts from your grandmother.

The new bus rides quiet and smooth as silk. Even the potholes are barely noticeable with its heavy-duty suspension. It’s hard to believe these are the same roads Big Orange drove on.

Ronny appears at my elbow and perches on the armrest. “I wore our T-shirt in honor of your return.” He opens his jacket to reveal the message: “T-SHIRT.”

Gianna laughs. “Come on, Ronny. You wear that shirt every day.”

“Not true,” he insists. “I bought four more, so I can wear a fresh one every day. Life is good. We’ve got our geezer back, I’m not flunking math anymore, and we’ve got this brand-new bus instead of the old junker. What could be wrong?”

That’s when I spot it. A single screw protrudes from the window frame. That’s not right. Someone’s going to scratch their arm on that!

Immediately, I pull out my Swiss Army Knife, select the screwdriver attachment, and tighten the screw until it’s flush against the metal.

That was kind of a big deal about coming back to school. Mr. Dunwoody made me take off all the knife blades, but I’m still allowed to keep my Swiss Army Knife. Which is important because I’m going to need it.

Over the next eight months, they’re fixing up the entire school and building a whole new town museum around the basement room that used to be the Bunker. Oh, sure, a construction company will be doing the work, but someone will have to keep an eye out for the little things that are guaranteed to pop up.

No charge.

About the Author

GORDON KORMAN published his first book at age fourteen and since then has written more than one hundred middle grade and teen novels. Favorites include the New York Times bestselling Ungifted, The Unteachables, Unplugged, Operation Do-Over, The Superteacher Project, Slugfest, and the Masterminds series. Gordon lives with his family on Long Island, New York. You can visit him online at gordonkorman.com.

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Copyright

OLD SCHOOL. Copyright © 2025 by Gordon Korman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

www.harpercollinschildrens.com

Cover art © 2025 by David Miles

Cover design by Andrea Vandergrift

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024940307

Digital Edition JANUARY 2025 ISBN: 978-0-06-323816-9

Print ISBN: 978-0-06-323814-5

FIRST EDITION

About the Publisher

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Contents

1. Cover

2. Title Page

3. Dedication

5. 1. Dexter Foreman

6. 2. Gianna Greco

7. 3. Ms. Napier

8. 4. Dexter Foreman

9. 5. Jackson Sharpe

10. 6. Gianna Greco

11. 7. Jackson Sharpe

12. 8. Dexter Foreman

13. 9. Ronny Greco

14. 10. Gianna Greco

15. 11. Dexter Foreman

16. 12. Ms. Napier

17. 13. Dexter Foreman

18. 14. Jackson Sharpe

19. 15. Dexter Foreman

20. 16. Gianna Greco

21. 17. Dexter Foreman

22. 18. Jackson Sharpe

23. 19. Ronny Greco

24. 20. Dexter Foreman

25. 21. Ms. Napier

26. 22. Teagan Santoro

27. 23. Jackson Sharpe

28. 24. Gianna Greco

29. 25. Dexter Foreman

30. 26. Ms. Napier

31. 27. Dexter Foreman

32. 28. Gianna Greco

33. 29. Dexter Foreman

34. 30. Dexter Foreman

35. About the Author

36. Copyright

37. About the Publisher