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collects his books and backpack, and slouches up the aisle. “So much for freedom of speech.” He stops at the door and pulls out his cell. By the time he hits the office, he’ll have called his father with a story.
    Mr. Bernstein doesn’t care. “Where were we? Ah yes, rights. Spend the rest of the period organizing an essay on the civil right you value most, and the reasons you value it.”
    I try to work, but I can’t. Eddy’s steamed. He’ll be after me. What’ll I do?
    I don’t have to wonder long. Within minutes, he strolls back into the room with a smirk on his face. He hands Mr. Bernstein a readmit note.
    Mr. Bernstein drops it in the wastebasket. “Your assignment’s on the board.” He watches Eddy like a hawk.
    Eddy acts like he couldn’t care less. He saunters down the aisle with a wave to his buddies, “accidentally”bumping into my desk before sitting down. Mr. Bernstein clears his throat.
    â€œSorry,” Eddy says, all sarcastic.
    Eight minutes to go. How will I escape?
    The head secretary’s voice comes over the PA: “Mr. Bernstein?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œCould you please send Sabiri to the office? Mr. McGregor would like a word with him.”
    Mr. Bernstein frowns. “Certainly.”
    Eddy leans in to my ear. “Thanks for getting me in shit. I’ll be here, when you come for your books. You, me, and my boys, we’ll have a little ‘talk’ in back of the field house.”
    Mr. Bernstein’s eyes flicker, like he’s heard. “You can take your things with you, Sabiri,” he says casually.
    Thank you, thank you. I get my knapsack from under my chair. I try not to sweat as I walk up the aisle, Eddy giving me the Evil Eye the whole way. I exit into the corridor. The office is to the left. I turn to the right. No way am I getting killed. Not now, before the weekend.
    I run upstairs to my locker. Grab my duffel bag. Race down the hall to the far end, trip down the stairs, charge through the side door.
    I loop around the building, turn at the statue, and cross the circular driveway onto Roosevelt Trail.
    â€œSabiri!”
    It’s Vice Principal McGregor. He’s on the front steps. He must have seen me through the office window.
    â€œSabiri! Stop!”
    I keep running.
    â€œSabiri! I said, ‘Stop!’”
    But I can’t. I’m in too much trouble already.
    I see the Johnsons’ Camry speeding up Roosevelt Trail. Andy’s at the wheel, Marty beside him. We pass each other. Andy squeals the brakes, pulls a one eighty, and catches up to me in a flash.
    I jump into the back seat.
    â€œWhat the hell?” Andy says.
    â€œDrive!”

Seven
    W e’re a mile down Valley Park Road before I catch my breath enough to tell Andy and Marty what happened.
    Andy whistles. “What’s your dad gonna do when he finds out you blew off a trip to the V.P.?”
    â€œDon’t ask. Between Eddy, McGregor, and Dad, I am dead, deader, deadest. So could we please not talk about it? I want a weekend to breathe before I die, okay?”
    I pull jeans and a Sabres hoodie from my duffel bag, and change out of my Academy uniform as we cruise toward Inner Loop East and the New York State Thruway. Then it hits me. Somebody’s missing.
    â€œUh, Andy,” I say, “where’s your dad?”
    â€œCan’t hear you.” He laughs. “Music’s too loud.” Marty finds this majorly funny.
    â€œNo, really. Is he already at the cottage? Will he boat over to pick us up?”
    Marty turns around in his seat and mouths, “What?” like we’re in front of speakers at a rock concert.
    I reach between the front seats and yank Andy’s iPod out of its dock. “Cut it out. Why isn’t your dad here?”
    Andy squinches his nose. “Why should he be?”
    â€œOn the webcam, you said he hates camping, but he’d let us take the