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always used to race a couple of lengths after practice. I’m not about to do it alone, but old habits die hard.
    I’m aware of a shifting of weight on the bench and I see that Mrs. Delaney has sat down beside me. “This must be hard for you,” she says sympathetically.
    I nod. “Malik’s really good. Strong.”
    â€œAnd when he can’t score on you, he just aims the ball at your face.” I guess I look surprised, because she grins. “You think I miss that? I played in college, you know. Division One.”
    Two things about Mrs. Delaney: she’s a lot younger than most of the parents in town, so she remembers what it’s like to be a kid. And she’s new, so the way things aredone in Serenity isn’t the whole world to her.
    â€œBut that’s not what I meant,” she goes on. “You must be missing Randy.”
    â€œDoes it show?”
    â€œNot really,” she says. It’s a lie, but she’s doing it to be nice. “You know, in most places, people pick up and move constantly. It’s the normal thing to do. I lost friends that way half a dozen times—either their families moved or mine did. You get used to it.”
    â€œNot here you don’t.”
    â€œTrue,” she admits. “Of course, Serenity’s not so easy to get used to either. I’m from Philadelphia, so I never dreamed I’d live in such an isolated place. But then I married Bryan, so I found a way.”
    Bryan. It amazes me every time I hear it. There’s a Purple People Eater named Bryan. Just like they’re human or something. For the millionth time I think of Randy.
    It’s hard enough to imagine your teacher having a life outside of school. Throw one of the Surety into the mix, and it’s really through the looking glass. Mrs. Delaney once told the class that she met her husband on vacation in Cancún. I’ll never shake the picture of this beautiful beach with people swimming and sunbathing, and in themiddle of everything there’s this Purple People Eater in full-dress uniform, complete with boots and beret. Maybe he double-parked his helicopter by the tiki bar.
    I have to ask. “What are the Surety guys like when they’re not on duty?”
    She gives me a mischievous grin, which makes her appear even younger. “That’s classified, mister.”
    â€œClassified?”
    â€œYou know,” she explains, “like government secrets.” She stares at me, puzzled that I don’t understand.
    â€œIt’s not honest to keep secrets,” I say.
    â€œSometimes things have to be kept from us for our own good. Like national security. If the president told everybody his plan for that, he’d also be telling the enemy.”
    I’m even more confused. “Who’s the enemy?”
    She looks flustered. “Well, there isn’t one now. I’m just explaining why certain information has to be classified.” She manages to regain her composure a little. “Like your teacher’s private life, for example. Your need for honesty stops at my front door.”
    I can feel my face burning red. “Sorry.” But I’m more confused than embarrassed. Dad says the need for honesty never stops. I stand up. “I should go change.” I start for the locker room.
    â€œI can tell you one thing about the Surety,” she calls after me.
    I turn around.
    â€œThey know you kids call them Purple People Eaters. I think they kind of like it.”

5
HECTOR AMANI
    I know what everybody says: Malik’s not really my friend. He’s using me so I’ll help him with his homework.
    I don’t care. They don’t know the real Malik. They don’t see how he treats me when nobody’s looking. Like the time I skateboarded into the truck from the Plastics Works. I said I was fine, but Malik dragged me to the doctor’s office so his dad could check out my nose. Malik cares about