"No way. Is he suspended?"

"No. It was off grounds. With little Wheaton Smithwick."

"Good. Not for Wheaton, but good for me." Tyler Wilkins is the school psychopath. He slapped my sister across the face last June when she grabbed at a lighter he was holding to a tent-caterpillar nest. I hit him back, of course, but he pounded the c.r.a.p out of my ribs. I chased after him and tackled him on school grounds, where he wasted my face for an encore, and we both got suspended. It was embarra.s.sing. I'm a stocky football player. Tyler is a wiry cigarette addict. But he's tall and has mania in his corner. The school took his parents to court when he was eight years old to force them to medicate him. It hasn't helped.

I gained fifteen pounds of muscle this summer and paid Dallas's brother to teach me how to fighta"all so I can beat Tyler Wilkins half to death when I go back to school tomorrow. Austin is as much of a savage as Tyler, but he supplemented his savagery with Muay Thai and growth hormones. He's a supreme fighting instructor. A little light on top thougha"he's farting in the background right now, aiming at Dallas's head.

"I have to go," Dallas says.

Austin sticks his face in the screen and shouts, "Call's over, f.a.ggot!"

I sink into my leather couch and skim celebrity gossip on my RIG while Mom fries bacon for tomorrow's lunches. I love my rancid peeling home. It's cramped and flimsy and we don't belong here any more than the teak tables and oil paintings we carted over with Dad's ashes, but I am joyous to be back.

Ally stands at the living-room window, talking into her RIG. "I'm calling my best friend Melissa," she whispers.

"I thought your best friend was Peanut," I say.

She giggles. "I have lots of best friends."

I search student journals for s.e.x and violence, but come up wanting.

Ally dissolves her screen with a frown. "They don't want me calling unless it's about school."

I shrug. "It's late. You'll see Melissa tomorrow. Eat your snack."

We take turns eating crackers with cream cheese until there's only one left. Ally points back and forth between us, chanting, "One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, shut the doora""

I eat the cracker.

"You didn't wait!"

"Whoever is number two is chosen in the end." I've told her this a thousand times, but she still counts out the rhyme until she's satisfied that fair is fair.

Mom slips her feet into ugly white orthopedic shoes. "I've been put on night shifts for a few weeks."

"You're going to work?" I ask. "We just got home."

She shrugs. "I'll be back in the morning. I'll sign out a car and drive you to school. Get breakfast and help Ally pack her bag, would you?"

"Fine," I say. I hate pouring breakfast and packing lunch.

I stick my head out the window and breathe in New Middletown's warm dust. It's eight o'clock at night and one hundred degreesa"too hot for September. In this heat, in this apartment, it smells like rotting fruit. Down the street, a billboard announces the opening of another Chemrose hydroponics factory this winter, good times ahead, rows of young men and women in blue uniforms and pink smiles.

"Mommy's driving us to school tomorrow," Ally says. That's a thrill for hera"two cars in two days. We probably can't afford the fuel.

Life is lean without a father. We could get a stepfather easilya"with sperm so feeble after years of herpes, hormones and heavy metals, the useless men like to marry into childrena" but I couldn't withstand that. Mom says Ally and I are all she needs. As long as we have each other, we'll be okay.

"I hope we're not in trouble for missing the first week of school," Ally says.

I kiss her head. "Nah. It'll be fine. Grade one is premium. They'll love you there. Can't you feel it? It'll be great."

She nods to convince herself. "It'll be the best year ever."

TWO.

Mom drives us to school in a car that smells like a chemical spill. It's glorious not to walk. It's only a mile and I don't have much to carry, but I like pretending we're still rich. Ally sits behind me with a red backpack on her knees, crammed with emergency undies, gym shoes, jump rope, lunch box, whiteboard and twenty fat markers I secretly covet.

We drop her off first. Her schoolyard is a fenced field of concrete and sand writhing with a thousand children in grades one to four. Girls squeal around the play structures. Boys chase each other down the pavement. Loners hang by the fence and wait for the bell. Ally surveys them hopefully, searching for her friend, then walks away alone.

"Melissa must be sick," Mom says.

"No." I point to the entrance doors. They won't open for another eight minutes, but hundreds of uniformed children wait there with id badges in hand. "Isn't that Melissa near the door? With the yellow pack?"

Mom nods. "Her whole cla.s.s is lined up. I wonder if Ally missed something important last week."

"Oh yeah. Xavier said she missed a math a.s.sessment and a vaccination."

"How would Xavier know what goes on in grade one?"

"He knows everything."

"Was it a flu vaccine?"

"I don't know. Ask him."

She rolls her eyes like I ought to be on top of my little sister's immunization record.

The high school is a five-minute drive down the road. It's larger and more stylish than the elementary and middle schools, with six black gla.s.s-and-concrete unitsa"ambitious architecture for this part of town and so s.p.a.cious it's unsettling. There's only one academic high school in each of New Middletown's quadrants. Three-quarters of the city's children go to trade schools. Academics cost more and they require a B average right from grade one. It's always compet.i.tive, but kindergarten is dog-eat-dog. Once you're recommended for trade school, there's no coming back.

I'm in Secondary Two, which means tenth grade. We're not allowed in the buildings reserved for grades eleven and twelve. The higher the grade, the fewer the students still maintaining a B standing, the more s.p.a.ce and attention each student receives. And they need it because once they graduate they'll have to compete with foreign students and private-studies graduates. There's no point paying hundreds of thousands of dollars for twelve years of academic school if you fall behind when you finally get out. You might as well educate yourself online for free.

Tuition is bleeding us dry, but Mom never mentions it. She pulls up to the school gates and smiles like there's nowhere else she'd rather see me. "First day of grade ten," she says proudly.

"And I'm already a week behind," I add.

My princ.i.p.al, Mr. Graham, rushes outside to greet us. He must have seen the car and a.s.sumed we were premium people. Confusion spreads across his face when I step out from the pa.s.senger seat. Sweat rolls down his temples into his shirt collar. He's another fat bald white man who can't take the heat. The army should enlist them all, stick them in their own division somewhere temperate. They wouldn't need uniforms because they already look identical. An armed battalion of fat bald white men would scare the c.r.a.p out of any enemy. Just one of them gives me the shivers.

I lean on the hood with my hands clasped, while my mother tells my princ.i.p.al what a good boy I am. "Max knows how fortunate he is to be in academic school. He a.s.sured me he won't skip cla.s.s or get into any fights."

"I'll try not to," I say. "But if someone starts a fight, I'm going to protect myself."

They stare at me like I'm a recall.

"My grades are premium," I remind them.

Mom sighs. "He'll do his best to stay out of trouble."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Connors," Mr. Graham says.

"Everything will be fine once our support system gets up and running. What I'm more concerned about is that we didn't see you on the parent board last Friday. Did you watch from home?"

She shakes her head. "I completely forgot about it."

"I hope you'll come out for the fundraiser at the end of the month," he says.

She shrugs. Mom never quite lies. She just avoids answering.

Mr. Graham frowns. "I'm sure you're doing your best under the circ.u.mstances." He looks down his nose at me and the car, memorizes the license plate so he'll never again mistake us for someone he cares about.

"Told you he was a beast," I say after he leaves. "He pretends to be nice so he can use you, then he feeds you to the sharks."

"There are no sharks anymore," Mom says.

"He has his own private shark pond. He dangles me over it when I skip detention."

She smiles and tells me she loves me. "Have a good day."

I search for Dallas among five hundred uniformed ninth and tenth graders milling the grounds. They clump near the fence, gab in groups, take photos, message madly. Once we're inside, all RIG use is prohibited except for Blackboard, the school network, so everyone stays out until the final bell. I see my football team huddled around the picnic tables, reviewing plays I missed in last week's game. Brennan Emery, the coach's son, shouts, "Nice to see you back, Max! Sorry about your aunt."

"Hey!" I reply. I can never think of anything fit to say to Brennan. He outcla.s.ses me in every way. He's tall, unselfish, a winning quarterback, an elected president of the Students of Color a.s.sociation. He has what people call natural leadership abilitya"but since he's an ultimate, it's not entirely natural.

Dallas jumps up from the picnic bench and slams my shoulder. His jacket strains at the armpits and his pants hover above his shoes. We ordered our uniforms in August and he's already outgrown his. Life is not fair. "Did you hear about that poor Chinese kid who was beaten to death with a fencepost?" he asks. "Disgusting."

"Yeah, I saw that. What a bunch of freaks."

"What would you rather be beaten with? Fencepost or barbed wire?"

"Fencepost," I say.

"Me too."

Xavier stands alone across the grounds, waving. The sun shines off his hair like a halo, rippling as he makes his way over to us. He's three sentences into his speech before he's within earshot.

Tyler Wilkins rushes in and trips Xavier, who crumples into the pavement. The crowd parts to ensure him a painful landing. Tyler laughs and shouts, "Walk much, unit?"

Tyler is a funhouse mirror image of Xavier. He's six foot and blond, but skeletal and homely. He reeks of deli meats and cigarettes. One day he'll slash Xavier's face out of jealousy. We all know it, every one of us, but we'll be sure to act surprised.

Tyler's goons leap over Xavier's legs, giggling. Tyler puts a foot on his back to stop him from getting up.

It's like watching the planets align.

I strut over to Tyler and throw a right hook that staggers him. The crowd steps back to form an arena. Xavier commando-crawls to the edge of it.

Tyler swears at me and rubs his jaw. "You're dead, Connors."

Somewhere in my brain I wonder if I should be nervous. Nah. I spent two hundred and twenty hours of summer preparing for this moment. I'm zesty.

I let Tyler take a shot. I block it easily with my left forearm and wallop him in the gut with my right fist. I knock the wind out of him and follow with an elbow to the cheek. A hoot of excitement escapes my lips. The crowd starts buzzing.

I bounce on my toes and laugh. Tyler is bleeding and shocked. He knows I'm going to win this fight. But he's a sc.r.a.pper, nerve-deadened and self-important. Backing down is not an option for a kid like him. He wipes his cheek on his sleeve and comes at me, spitting.

I pummel him in the facea"hook, jab, elbow strike. Pow, pow, pow. When he returns the blow, I grab his arm and twist it behind his back. I force him to his knees and kick him into the ground, much harder than I intend to. I hear groans from the watching girls and giggles from the gay boys.

Tyler drags himself up and tries to hit me, but he's angry and embarra.s.sed, and I can read his moves before he makes them. I dodge his blows, hopping away so he has to come at me; then I rush in and trip him. He slams into the pavement, just like Xavier did five minutes ago. The crowd gasps, laughs, narrates their recordings.

I'm ready to beat Tyler Wilkins to a pulp of sodden flesh, but Mr. Graham steps between us with his arms outstretched. Tyler shoves him aside to get at me. I laugha"shoving the princ.i.p.al won't go over wella"and take him down hard with a wrist lock.

Two security guards pull us apart. Bystanders start yelling. "Tyler started it!" "Max started it!"

The princ.i.p.al is shaking, he's so mad. It turns his stomach to be in a crowd of teenagers. "You are both suspended for the week," he says through gritted teeth. "Wait outside the front doors until your parents collect you." He walks away, probably to wash his hands.

So I'm stuck at the front of the school with two security guards and the kid I hate most in the world, waiting to tell my grieving mother about my latest wreckage. My heart thumps. My hands throb. Yet I feel absolutely premium.

They say violence is wrong and such and such, but I have never felt as happy in my life as I do now. I've shaken off a future of swallowing Tyler Wilkins's waste. I have cleared my road with my fists and feet. I can walk wherever I want to now.

True, Tyler and his friends might take out my eyeb.a.l.l.s with a spoon tomorrow, but right now he's bleeding and I can't get the smile off my face. It widens every time he glances at me, his nose swollen and his eyes miserable.

"When did you learn to fight?" he asks.

I snort and bare my teeth.

He shakes his head and wipes his b.l.o.o.d.y lip. "I must be out of practice."

I hope he'll practice up on me. I could squeeze a beating into my Monday schedule: pack lunch, walk Ally to school, beat the c.r.a.p out of Tyler Wilkins, get suspended.

My happiness plateaus when my mother trudges up the school driveway. "I just signed in the car when I got the call from your princ.i.p.al," she says.

I hang my head and hope it looks repentant.

"Is someone coming for you?" she asks Tyler. He shrugs.

The tallest guard steps up to Mom and says, "He has to leave with his own guardian."

She nods. She knows the guards will regret that rule after they pa.s.s the entire school day sitting on the front steps waiting for Tyler's parents to show. "Okay, Max, let's go. Goodbye, Tyler."

"Bye." It surprises me when he adds, "Bye, Max." Like we're friends, like we got into trouble for skipping cla.s.s together.

"I'll see you," I say. I don't mean it to be menacing, but after I say it, I like the way it sounds.

Mom doesn't speak on the walk home.