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Celsius.”
    â€œRight! Now for a test of your science
and
math skills. What would the Fahrenheit to Celsius ratio be?”
    Ratio?
    Only one hand goes up this time. Matt’s. Even though it’s not my hand, Mr. Burke looks at me again.
    â€œUm,” I say, and leave it at that. Mr. Burke frowns again, then gives Matt a nod.
    â€œWell, there’s a hundred-and-eighty degrees difference with Fahrenheit and one hundred for Celsius, so the ratio would be 1.8 to 1.”
    Huh?
    â€œWhat would that look like?” Mr. Burke looks around the room. Matt’s hand is the only one in the air again, so Mr. Burke points him to the white board.
    Matt writes 1.8:1 on the board. “It’s just comparing one thing to another,” he says, “only in shorthand.”
    FJ probably taught him that, I think. His job is to analyze things.
    Matt gives me the cocky grin again when he sits down.
    Yeah, I get it. You’re smart.
    I’m relieved when the bell rings.
2:35 P.M.
    In Math class, I mechanically take a front-row seat. The teacher, Mrs. Beard, nods her approval and hands me another huge book. She talks about estimating sums and how to check subtraction problems. Because we have a few minutes to kill just before class is over, she decides to do a quick review of multiplication tables, starting with the sevens.
    I remember that Luke, the second-grader, knows how to count by sevens. I look at the clock. Five minutes to go.
    â€œVolunteers?” she repeats, looking around the room.
    Of course, Matt’s hand shoots into the air. I cross my fingers and stare at my desk.
    â€œFrankie
J-o-o-o-e
.” Mrs. Beard lets the “o” in my name hang in the air like a balloon. “You start off. Do your sevens, please. One through fifteen.”
3:30 P.M.
    When the final bell rings, a rush of kids flies past me on their way home—but I stand outside the kindergarten room where the after-school program is held.
    Lizzie explained this morning at breakfast that the program is for kids from kindergarten through fifth grade whose parents work. They don’t want their kidsstaying alone until they get home, so they pay for them to stay at the school.
    That doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t need a babysitter. I’ve stayed home alone for as long as I can remember, except when I was really little or nights when I stayed with Mrs. Jones.
    A sign over the door says THE GREAT ESCAPE .
    I wish! I hope there’s a desk in a back corner.
    I peek inside and see a woman with frizzy black hair and fidgety eyes in the middle of the room. She’s telling other kids what to do and where to sit. Her arms never stop moving, reminding me of policemen in Mexico. They stand in the middle of intersections that have no stop signs, blowing their whistles and waving cars across the road.
    Teachers begin entering the room. They hand the woman with waving arms and jumpy eyes homework assignments and spelling lists. My English, Math, History, and Science teachers are all there.
    Someone bumps me from behind. “Boy, you’re tall! How old are you?”
    A short girl with a blonde ponytail is trying to get past me. I remember her from Science class. Her name is Mandy.
    â€œTwelve,” I mumble. “And I’m five foot nine.”
    â€œWow, you’re tall for twelve. What’re you doing here? Oh, I know. You’re that new kid. Boy, I’m glad you showed up. Used to be, I got kidded all the time ’causeI’m so short. Now they can pick on you ’cause you’re so tall.”
    Swell
. Being a couple of inches taller than average is a reason to be picked on? Like I need another one. I miss my friends in Laredo. They like me the way I am.
    â€œWhat’s that mean?” I point to the sign over the door.
    â€œThe Great Escape?” She looks thoughtful. “Um, I think it means that we’ve been set free from school.” She laughs. “I just realized