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stalls, on the toilet. I feel scared for no reason. It’s strange, being back. Everything here is so normal, like no time has passed. Everything’s been different in the two weeks since Michael died, and now I’m back at school, with rows of eraser-pink lockers with bad words scratched in them, and speckled blue carpet that makes my eyes cross, and everything looks the same as it did when I left.
    I came to school the day after Michael died, but I didn’t stay. I tried. I really did. I wanted everything to be normal, and on a normal day, I’d be at school. But people already knew about my brother, and they kept giving me this look, like they were wondering when I might snap. When I caught the teacher looking, too, I got up and walked out in the middle of class, kept walking past the double doors and through the courtyard and into the street. It wasn’t one of those things that happened. I was calm. I remember it perfectly. I walked all the way across the four-lane and lost myself in the woods for a while. It was the social worker, Grace, who found me, driving up and downthe highway in her rickety old Jeep Cherokee. When she picked me up, she ran her fingers through my hair to clean out the pine needles I’d gotten from lying on the ground. She wrapped her sweater around my shoulders. She made me drink some hot coffee from a thermos. That was the day she drove me to Phyllis.
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    Two class periods and lunch have gone by when I come out of hiding, somewhat more collected now, and aim toward class. I’m still clutching my egg salad sandwiches in their paper sack. In the hall, Anthony Tucker approaches me. It always makes me nervous seeing him approach. There are two versions of Anthony Tucker in my head, the before Chris McKenzie version and the after. Before Chris McKenzie, Anthony could be counted on to snap my bra strap or to jostle me so I dropped my books or to say something rude about my outfit. Ever since he followed me out to the Dumpster that day, he doesn’t seem to know what he’s supposed to do with me. His solution for a while was to be nice to me, but then his friends noticed, and they started making kissy noises at us, and Anthony went back to proving his dislike for me. Now it’s like he’s only pretending to be a bully, which is somehow more upsetting than when he was really being mean. Every time he misses the chance to poke me with a pencil or scrape his muddy shoe against my jeans, I think of his face by the Dumpster and I feel like I’m back therefor a minute. Anthony tugs at my braid, which is more mess than braid at this point. It’s been up for three days. I don’t like taking it down. Someone might make me wash my hair.
    I can’t handle Anthony today. I can’t think about how he treats me differently now. I don’t speak. I keep walking. Behind me, I hear his buddies making rude noises in time with my steps. I’m afraid they might be following me. I feel like my insides are trembling. I cut half-moons into my palms with my nails. Boys like Anthony Tucker don’t understand. They don’t know about egg salad on porches, about fists full of dirt that taste like blood. They don’t know.
    Anthony keeps on and keeps on following, and when he taps me on the shoulder, I’m ready for him. I spin around and punch him in the shoulder as hard as I can.
    Except it isn’t him; it’s the small girl from the bus ride this morning. And instead of her shoulder, I hit her face. She screams. I see blood coming from her nose. I stand perfectly still and will myself backward in time five minutes, but it doesn’t work.
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    The principal calls Phyllis to come get me, even though it’s almost time for the buses. I breathe for a minute. Then I ask for the bathroom and find the door instead.
    I get on the wrong bus on purpose by writing myself a