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second-floor boys’ room so my dad has to mop it before he can go home?”
    That sounded crazy. “Sometimes people … miss.”
    â€œEvery day, same time, under the sink.”
    I shook my head.
    â€œAnd someone else leaves dead rats by the cafeteria door, mornings, for my mom to find. And someone else breaks windows here, usually in the rain. And his friend, who tears my uniform shirts in half during P.E. class. Or the other guy who…” David stopped, brushed hair from his eyes. “… who kills my dog … and leaves his head on my doorstep.” He glanced down, red-faced, as if expecting to see it again.
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œDon’t be sorry!” A shriek. He started to slam the door, slowed, and said, “You take world history?”
    â€œSure.” Actually, I’d read it at home with Mom.
    â€œIn Nazi Germany, people who reported their neighbors to the Gestapo—were they innocent?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œHow about the ones who helped Hitler gain power?”
    â€œUm, I guess not. No. They weren’t innocent.” He sounded crazy. But I’d probably be the same if they’d done that to me.
    â€œAnd how about the other ones, the ones who stood by, watched it? The ones who said, ‘I’m not Jewish, thank God, so I don’t have to worry.’ Were they?”
    I stared at my feet. “No. No, I guess not.”
    â€œWell, by that assessment, you’re the only person here who’s innocent. Everyone else—they spend their days thanking God they aren’t me. If they even think about me at all.”
    â€œHow do you know I don’t?”
    â€œBecause you’ll be next.”
    I didn’t want to think about that. “Well,” I said. “I’m sorry anyway.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it. It was just another mess for my father to clean.”
    That week in chapel, the choir sang “By the River” and Reverend Phelps sermonized about “Whatsoever Ye Do Unto the Least of My Brothers, Ye Do Unto Me.” David wasn’t there. I thought about him, though. All the time. Even as I left my usual messages for my father. Maybe especially then.
    When I came in from P.E. the day after I talked to him, I found my uniform shirt outside my locker on the bench. Someone had cut it in half, neatly down the middle.
    I remembered what David had said: You’ll be next .
    I knew it was true.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Friday. Another pep rally after school. We were playing John the Baptist High, so all over school, cheerleaders posted signs proclaiming, BEHEAD JOHN THE BAPTIST or BAPTISM BY FIRE until Principal Meeks made Old Carlos take them down.
    I didn’t go. Didn’t walk around campus, either. It seemed wrong, with no prospect of running into David and Trouble, so it was back to the computer lab. I didn’t care what Mom said.
    The trailer they used for a computer lab was the only place I felt comfortable at Gate anymore. Its hollow floors thumped and echoed when you walked. That day, it was empty, as usual. The stink of someone’s lunch filled the air. Bologna. I signed in, turned on the light, chose a station away from the window. I still heard the shrieks and cheers through the walls. I logged onto AOL and scrolled through the member-created rooms. I barely heard the door open. Whoever it was didn’t stop to sign in. He walked, silent as a soldier, across the loud floors and took the station ahead of mine. I chose the Teen Truth or Dare room. I didn’t look up. I didn’t know anyone. I didn’t want to know anyone.
    Beep . From the other computer.
    I kept typing.
    Beeeeeep!
    BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! The aggravated sound of someone repeatedly pressing keys when the computer refuses to obey.
    A voice. “Shit!”
    I looked up, surprised. It was Charlie Good.
    â€œLittle help here?” he said.
    He’d abandoned his efforts. The room was