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what a joke that is!” Ponytail swinging, Mandy troops past me to a desk at the back of the room. “Well, come on,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “We’ve got to sign in.”
    I follow Mandy inside and write my name beneath hers on a sign-in sheet. “Is she tough?” I nod toward the frizzy-haired woman, who by now has talked with all the teachers.
    â€œMrs. Bixby? She’s a real hard nose, but if you know how to work it, she’s okay.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œIt means if she thinks you’re cooperating with her, she eases up on you.”
    Mrs. Bixby beats a path to my side. “I’ve been expecting you.” She holds her pointer finger under my nose. “Now listen close, here are my rules.”
    I sigh. Everyone in this alien universe has rules.
    â€œFirst, you sign yourself in—but
never
sign yourself out. Only your parents or I can sign you out. . . .” Abouta hundred rules later, she says, “Sit there!” She points me to a kindergartener-size chair at a table marked FIFTH GRADE . “I’ll let you know the rest of the rules later. Now I must get the other students working on their assignments.”
    Rest of the rules? I try to repeat Mrs. Bixby’s list of rules, but all I can remember is that I’m supposed to sit down. One thing is clear: With all these rules, there is no escape from The Great Escape.
    I scrunch my taller-than-average twelve-year-old body into a dwarf-size chair, willing myself to disappear into the woodwork. Looking out the window, I see straight, neat rows of corn and soybeans growing in square- and rectangle-shape fields. I begin to daydream that I’m looking at the Chihuahua Desert and that Mr. O’Hare and I are hunting for space rocks. But Mrs. Bixby destroys that dream.
    â€œDoes everyone know Frankie Joe?” She scrunches into one of the miniature chairs at the fifth-grade table. “He’s the oldest Huckaby now, which makes him Huckaby Number One.” She turns to Matt. “That makes you Huckaby Number Two, Matthew.”
    Matt freezes in place—like he’s just been tasered—and I have an awakening.
    That’s it! The reason he glares at me is because I’ve knocked him off the top of the heap. I don’t get to enjoy the moment because Mrs. Bixby turns to me next.
    â€œFrankie Joe, did you know that I quilt with Mrs.Huckaby every Saturday afternoon? We’ve been best friends since first grade.”
    â€œNo ma’am.”
    I can forget about disappearing into the woodwork.
    â€œAnd don’t forget”—Mrs. Bixby says, looking around the table—“our Quilt Circle is making a quilt for a Christmas raffle again this year. Our profits help fund The Great Escape.” She smiles an extraordinarily wide smile at me. “Save your money so you can buy a ticket.”
    I put a fake smile on my face, wondering where she thinks I’m going to get money for a raffle ticket. In Laredo I work at Felipe’s Corner Market on weekends, cleaning the stockroom. The owner likes me because I’m a hard worker and show up on time. He pays me in cash because I’m underage—ten dollars a day. In Laredo a lot of people get paid under the table—illegal aliens slip across the border all the time. But that job is gone, and I won’t be getting tips from my neighbors at the Lone Star Trailer Park for running errands, either.
    Besides, I think. Even if I had money, the last thing in the world I would buy is a raffle ticket for a quilt.
    â€œEnough chitchat,” Mrs. Bixby says. “Now to your studies. We need to practice spelling the names of the states.” She glances my way. “Some of you didn’t do so well on your test today.” Paper and pencils and groans emerge around the table.
    Cooperate, I think, remembering the advice Mandygave me. I take out my notebook and one of the