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family, the Gambinos. It’s like listening to a direct feed of the True Crime radio station. That or some waiter in an Italian restaurant with those tacky checkered tablecloths telling you the day’s special. Today we have Lucchese linguine with some garlic Gotti bread on the side.
    But nobody listens.
    And she still talks. And talks. Maybe to fill up the emptiness. I don’t know.
    Every day is the same: school; meetings with counselors and Beulah and the DA; eating tasteless food off heavy plastic trays; avoiding the Triad. I start to mark days off the calendar so I won’t lose track.
    Then he comes. I see Beulah and Rose bring him in. He’s young—ten at the most. And we can all smell his fear. I wonder if I looked that scared.
    He sits at a table across the room, not looking up from his food. Nobody at his table talks to him. Talking is a risk. Because if you can just hold it all in until lights-out, you’ll be okay. Nobody cares if you cry at night.
    I sigh and look over at the Triad. They whisper and stare at the boy. They’re planning something—something bad. Probably one of their typical pranks. Shelly’s told me all about them: feces on your bed or other even more disgusting bodily fluids, the icy shower, the Dumpster, all followed by getting everything you bring with you stolen.
    I hate the Triad. The more often I see them, the angrier I feel. My body turns to ice; my tongue feels like sandpaper; my stomach clenches. It’s like my amygdala goes into hyperdrive at dinnertime.
    I hate feeling helpless even more. Weak . Maybe I amweak. I feel like I play a part in keeping this whole messed-up place in order. I look back at the boy, his bangs flopping in his eyes. Nicole stands up from her table and walks by the Triad staring them all in the eyes.
    They laugh at her. The girl smirks and says, “Oh, real tough. Like you can do anything?”
    Nicole sits next to the boy, banging her tray on the table. He still doesn’t look up. He’s probably gotten the tour already—been assigned his locker with generic soap, sandpaper towels, and dollar-store shampoo.
    Everybody here at Kids Place has a locker for their bathroom stuff—toothpaste, toothbrushes, those kinds of things. We have shifts for showering and getting ready. We have shifts for cleaning. There’s a bathroom schedule, cleaning schedule, everything’s pasted in the hallway. Basically, we all know what everybody else is doing from sunup to sundown.
    Routine can be tedious. But it can also be advantageous. I watch as the Triad huddles together, eyeing their new prey.
    I finally feel like I might have a little control over something in life.
    And I have a purpose.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    P urpose: Keep the new boy safe. Regain self-dignity
    Hypothesis: If I can send a message strong enough to freak out the Triad, they’ll back off.
    Materials: Bhut jolokia pepper oil, a medicine dropper, plastic gloves, flathead screwdriver, safety pins or paper clips, flashlight, Triad’s toothbrushes
    Procedure:
    1) Get the pepper oil, medicine dropper, and gloves from Mr. Hunter’s supply room
    2) Borrow the screwdriver and flashlight from Mr. Hunter’s top right-hand desk corner
    3) Get paper clips from Beulah
    4) Find the Triad’s lockers
    5) Look up the bathroom schedule
    6) Pick the locks
    7) Drop oil on toothbrushes
    8) Sit back and enjoy the show
    Variables: Time: How quickly can I do this? What are the bathroom schedules this week? Locks: Will they all be pin-and-tumbler locks? They’re the only kind I know how to pick.
    Constant: Me 
    I decide I need to do it tomorrow night. I just hope the boy is safe until then.
    Another plus to this whole thing is my Pepto-Bismol supply might not dwindle so fast. If I stop hating the Triad, then my gastritis won’t be as bad. If my gastritis is better, I won’t need so much Pepto-Bismol. If I don’t need so much Pepto-Bismol, I