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right about that, ma’am.”
    I was dimly aware of the sound of a printer. With a smack, the bespectacled woman in front of me slammed a paper to the counter.
    “That’s your schedule, Joey Crouch,” she said. She pointed a chubby finger at the first line. “That’s English with Pratt. Mr. Pratt. He’s in room two fourteen. That’s up the stairs and to the right. After that, you have calculus and biology and then lunch. That’s on this floor, but around back. You’ll figure it out as you go.” She pointed to where she had written in inka few numbers on the paper. “This is your locker number and your combination. You have four minutes between classes, so after Pratt, go make sure it works. Some of those things are a million years old, and goofy. Half of them open without a combination if you just pull hard enough, but you didn’t hear that from me. Now,” she said, looking at me again. “You said you didn’t have books?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “They could be at home. My dad didn’t tell me.”
    At the mention of my father, her tongue again retreated to her cheek. She was clearly weighing her words. “Everything going okay out there?”
    Without hesitation I lied. “Yeah. It’s just that we didn’t get to talk before he left for work. He must’ve forgotten to give me my books.”
    She took off her glasses. They dangled around her neck on a pearled chain. “It does say here he picked them up on Friday.” She sighed again and rubbed her forehead. “Talk to him tonight, find those books. For the time being I’m going to give you a replacement folder. It’s got some information about the school, dress code, instructions about your computer access, all that stuff. There’s a salmon-colored packet in there about extracurricular activities, too. You like sports?”
    I just stared at the folder she had in her hands.
    “I like band,” I said.
    She flapped a hand. “Well, hon, it’s all in your salmon packet. I’m going to give you this pen, too, because it looks like you need one.” She opened the folder, tucked the pen inside the pocket, and slid it across the counter. She gave me another lingering look, then briskly lodged her glasses on herface. “You should be able to survive today. You have any problems, you come see me. My name’s Laverne, like the TV show.”
    I picked up my class schedule. With my other hand I took the folder. It was red, white, and black, and had an icon of a plummeting bird with its claws splayed for attack. BLOUGHTON SCREAMING EAGLES was printed in a collegiate font.
    “Thank you,” I said. I turned away from Laverne, my face buried in my schedule. Room 214. Up the stairs. English. Mr. Pratt. I stepped into the reverberating dimness of the hallway. My forehead struck something hard—someone’s chest.
    “Sorry,” I said. Moving aside, I saw that it was Woody Trask. The sly smile had not left his face.
    “The Garbageman is your dad?” he asked.
    Sixteen years I had gone without knowing my father’s name, and here suddenly was a town where everyone seemed to have an opinion on him. I blinked a few times. I could not fathom why this person was speaking to me. He was big, blandly handsome, and obviously into sports—a profile that did not at all match my own. But I needed a friend, and badly.
    I attempted an easygoing smile. “I’m Joey Crouch.” I held out my hand. It was a risk, but also a necessary reach from the precipice.
    Woody Trask regarded my hand as if it were a fly pestering his vision. His lip curled. “Must be shitty having such a shithole for a dad,” he said, stepping away and heading for the stairs in giant animal lopes, two textbooks dangling from a single monster hand. Before disappearing, he cringed. “By the way, dude, you fucking stink.”

7.
     
    I DIDN’T SEE HER in English class; Mr. Pratt accepted my late entry wordlessly and gestured to a seat directly in front, so I never had a chance to look behind me, and her name on the