"No. This can't happen," I say. "I'll take the shot. I'll take the shot and Mom will take us somewhere safe until it wears off."

Mr. Graham snorts like I'm a babbling recall. "I want to see that list."

Dallas leans over, grabs the bottom of the bench with his left hand and tugs it out from the wall. He rises, points and waits.

Mr. Graham shoves my shoulder down. I realize I'm bouncing on the b.a.l.l.s of my feet, edgy with nerves and the fear that my best friend is about to kill our princ.i.p.al. "Keep an eye on him," he says to Dallas.

"Yes, sir." Dallas's eyes track Mr. Graham as he walks to the bench.

"No!" I shout.

Mr. Graham leans over, hands on the bench, looking for the writing on the wall. "I don't see anything." His belly grazes the wood, his head hangs there like an offering.

Dallas raises his fist, ready to slam the weight belt into Mr. Graham's skull.

I dive for him. I pitch forward and ram my head into Dallas's hollow belly as fast and hard as I can. He smashes into the wall and slams his weighted fist into my back. I jerk to my knees. We fall, knocking the princ.i.p.al off his feet. Mr. Graham collapses in the crowded corner. His arms give way beneath him, his cheek hits the bench. Oomph, crack, crash.

Dallas lifts me off him like a weight bar and hurls me aside with a strength that doesn't come from calories. I fall into a pile of ripped pads and cracked helmets, smashing my elbow and my a.s.s.

Dallas rises to his feet. He straddles Mr. Graham's broad back, lifts him by the suit collar, and slams his head into the bench. Crunch.

"No!" I shriek. "Stop!"

Mr. Graham isn't moving. Dallas presses a hand on his back while he leans over to pick up the weight belt from the floor.

"Untie me!" I yell. "My arm's twisted. It's going to break!"

I grimace and moan.

He doesn't even look. "In a second."

I kick at his feet. "Now, man! There's something wrong with my elbow. I think it's going to break."

He rolls his eyes and swears. He keeps his legs around Mr. Graham, holding him in place with his head on the bench, and gestures impatiently at me.

I rise and offer the wrists behind my back. "What are you doing, Dallas?" I whisper.

He shoves my shoulder down, yanks my arms up until I scream, and frees his necktie from my hands.

"Thanks, man." I grab his arm and fake a smile. "Let's go."

He doesn't smile back, doesn't even seem to recognize me.

He turns away and wraps the tie around Mr. Graham's throat.

"No!" I claw at him and pull him off the princ.i.p.al. He tumbles onto his shoulder and swears. He knees me in the gut and slams his palm into my temple. I roll away from him, my head ringing in pain. He kicks at me furiously, knocking the bench onto its side. Mr. Graham thumps to the floor. Thud.

Dallas whips his head toward the sound. He sees a job half finished.

I grab the necktie and throw it across the room. Dallas reaches for the weight belt. I throw myself on it and trap it beneath my knee. He tugs, sighs, looks at me like this silliness won't be tolerated.

"You can't do this," I say. I grab his lapels, lean into his face, speak softly, reasonably. "Dallas? Dallas, you can't do this, man. Look what you're doing."

He stares at me like he hates me.

"You can't walk away from something like this. You do this and that's it, man, you go to jail, you don't go anywhere else."

He runs his tongue over his teeth, waiting for my lecture to end.

I slap his face. "Do you hear me? Get control of yourself. Look what you're doing. Look where we are. Remember all the kids who used to be in this trailer? Remember our friends? We are all that's left, man. We have to get out of here, Dallas. You're not thinking straight."

He leans away from me, looks around the trailer, stares up at his coat wrapped over the security camera. He furrows his brow, scratches his elbow, lifts up the sleeve of his uniform and tugs down a roll of duct tape he had jammed around his forearm.

"Oh, Jesus, no. That's the princ.i.p.al, Dallas. This is a.s.sault. You stop now, you're fine. It was an accident. He got hurt when I tackled you. The bench fell on his head. Leave it like this. You're going to get us both executed!"

He pushes me away from him, sits on his a.s.s, sucks in his cheeks. He nods. His eyes soften. He glances at Mr. Graham and asks, "Is he alive?"

I get on my knees and feel for a pulse. "He's fine." The princ.i.p.al's mouth is bleeding. A huge bruise blooms across his torn cheek and a cartoon lump rises on his forehead. "He'll have some swelling. He should have his head checked." I lean back and try to think of a plan. "We should put him in recovery position," I say, not moving an inch, just staring at Mr. Graham p.r.o.ne at our feet.

Dallas starts to curse, an aimless barrage of swear words that seem to soothe him. "You shouldn't have hit me. I would have told on you if I'd really been treated."

"I didn't care."

He rubs his cheek. "What's with the slapping? Could you not hit me properly?"

"Are you okay now? You were far gone, man. You weren't really going to kill him, were you?"

He snorts, stretches his neck, stares at the ceiling. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"We have to get out of here. We have to leave tonight."

He smiles sadly. "I'm not coming with you, Max. I don't want to get caught. Your mom will go to jail for kidnapping. You'll be treated and so will I. I'm not taking that chance." He waves a hand toward Mr. Graham. "Now they'll be after you for this too."

"This was an accident. Sort of."

"I can stay here and tell them that."

"I can't leave you here."

He laughs as he grabs my hand, which I realize I've wrapped around his lapel again. "Honestly, I'm not that way, Max. Give it up."

I'm not smiling this time. "You're coming with us or we're not going."

"They won't let you take me out of the country."

"My cousin said other families are leaving with no problem. Lots of them."

"Families, Max. We are not a family. I can't pa.s.s for your brother." He puts his hand on my shoulder, all mature now.

"We're cinnamon and garlic, remember?"

I do remember, and the solution to our problem hits me so hard, it's a flash in my brain that actually hurts. I grab his hand with both of mine and laugh.

He pushes me away. "Stop it! Enough with the touching."

I jump to my feet, smiling. "You got it, Dallas! What you just said. That's exactly right."

"About what?"

"Salt and pepper."

"We're going to wear our Halloween costumes to Canada? Is that your distraction strategy? *We're not runaways, officera" we're shakers?'"

"No! But they'll let us cross. They will." Energy pulses through me. I could run a five-minute mile. "We have to get out of here." I run my hands over the princ.i.p.al, check his airways and circulation. "We have to find a teacher to take him to the hospital. Can you go out there and be a zombie again?"

Dallas shakes his head. "I'm never going out there again." He picks up everything he can reach from where he sitsa" weight belts, jump ropes, helmetsa"and piles them on his legs. "Can you pa.s.s me that shield? Thanks." He leans back and props a long red pad over his torso and head. "I'm going to melt into the walls now. Someone will sc.r.a.pe me off in the spring." He starts to giggle.

"You need to eat, man. Come on. We have to get help."

There's a knock at the trailer door.

I scream. Dallas snickers. He peeks out from behind his shield. "Maybe we can hide him." He points at Mr. Grahama" face down on the trailer floor, huge and immobile, his legs and arms splayed, covering half the open ground between us and the doora"and he starts to laugh, big and goofy, from the gut. He swats at the air, hunches over the debris around him, gasps for breath.

I get up and walk to the door.

"Who is it?" Dallas calls out in a girlish voice; then he laughs hysterically, listing to one side and kicking his feet. His face pulls into a grimace as he runs out of breath. His mouth gapes, but he's silent except for his heels banging the floor and his laughter clicking quietly in the back of his throat.

"It's Coach Emery! Open up!"

I obey. The coach glares from the trailer steps. "Why is this door closed?"

"Mr. Graham closed it."

"Mr. Graham? What on earth wasa"?" He walks inside and falls silent. He stares at the princ.i.p.al, sprawled on the floor, and Dallas, curled up and quivering.

"Hey, Coach," Dallas squeaks and heads into hysterics again, slapping his knee.

The coach rushes to Mr. Graham's side, checks his pulse, turns him over and gasps at his b.l.o.o.d.y face.

"He hit his head," I say. "Dallas and I were fighting and we pushed him into the wall accidentally and he fell into the bench. He's been unconscious for a few minutes. He needs a doctor."

Coach Emery looks up at the security camera.

"We panicked," I say.

"What's wrong with Richmond?"

"He's exhausted."

"Not treated?"

"No, sir."

"And Mr. Graham knows that?"

"I don't think so, sir. He knows I'm not but I don't think he suspects Dallas isn't." I tell the coach what happened and how it's conceivable that the princ.i.p.al's injuries are accidental.

"You need to leave now," he says.

I nod. "We have a plan."

"I don't want to know it." The coach looks at Mr. Graham and shakes his head. "You can't leave the country if there are charges against you."

"It was an accident, sir."

Dallas sighs and wipes his eyes. "I did it."

"It was an accident," I repeat.

The coach looks from one of us to the other. "I should never have sent you out here."

"It's nota""

He silences me with a hand, rea.s.sesses the situationa" me, Dallas, the disabled camera, our disabled princ.i.p.ala"and comes up with a game plan. "Can you pull yourself together?" he asks Dallas.

Dallas shakes himself like a dog and stands up, tall and vacant.

"All right," the coach says. "You and I will go into the school and get security."

"No. We have to get out of here," I say. "We have a plan."

"Shut up, Connors," Coach Emery says. "This is the plan. You're leaving tonight."

"I'm not going without Dallas."

"He'll meet up with you."

"He won't. I'm taking him now or he'll chicken out."

Coach Emery swears. "All right. Both of you go then. I'll get Mr. Graham to a hospital. I'll say I walked in and saw you two fighting and you accidentally knocked him into the bench." He looks at Dallas. "I'll tell your father you went somewhere. Where would you go if you were treated?"

He shrugs. "The library, maybe. Or Christmas shopping."

"That'll do for an hour or two. But where would you go for the next few years? Do you have any friends in other cities? Anything you ever wanted to do, like join the military?"

Dallas shrugs.

"If you disappear tonight, your father will go straight to the Connors," the coach says. "He'll go wherever they go and take you back unless he has another trail to follow."