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imparting some important, life-changing secrets and not just information about people who died a long time ago.
    We were doing a section on ancient Greece and Rome. And the more Mr. Stewart kept talking about those Romans, the more I thought it sounded like something I could learn from. It’s stupid, I guess, but the way I was thinking about it was Michael was a Roman general or something, and I was a Barbarian—a Germanic tribesman. And we were fighting, only the Romans all knew battle plans and formations and had better technology, while my side had nothing but pure strength. It, of course, was a pre-done deal. I was a goner and would never understand what had felled me. And once it was over, would I want to become Roman myself? Or would I die fighting?
    When the bell rang I stuffed my notes in my coat. There was only one class left—and since it was a study hall, I could get some sleep and avoid Michael’s gang.
    “Hey, Jason”—Michael walked with me out the door—“after school I have football practice. Meet me in the parking lot after. Cyndra wants to get you some clothes.”
    “As long as I get paid.”
    “Everyone has their price.”
    I shrugged and walked away.
    In study hall I put my head down and slept. After school sometimes I go to the building supply store and lug around product for contractors who come in. The library’s open for thirty minutes after school, so I sometimes go in there and get on a computer or look at magazines, sleep, or watch Ms. Knickerbocker shelve books. Everyone calls her Ms. Knickers, which helps explain why watching her shelving books is a spectator sport.
    But most days I end up in the old gym. Like most schools, Mercer has busted out all over the place as more students come in. A while back they built a new gym. It’s been here as long as I have, but still everyone calls it the new gym. Like it’s the jewel in the crown of the campus.
    So the old gym is pretty much neglected. The special ed students go there for PE mostly, and sometimes if the weather is bad or there’s testing in the new gym, PE will meet there. They set up random events in there like the science fair and health screenings, but usually it’s completely empty.
    Just the way I like it.
    Most days Clay will hang out, too, waiting while I work out. I used to try to get him to spar or to let me show him a few things about fighting. But he won’t. Says that violence is never the answer, that you can’t solve anything with fists.
    Usually, if someone said that, I’d think they were a coward. But Clay, he won’t ever back down. To him, the just cause is the one that doesn’t need a fist behind it. He says that in a confrontation, a witness or voice is what’s needed. That it’s not the same thing as fighting. He says violence doesn’t change the world; resistance to violence does.
    He’s into Gandhi. And the Civil Rights Movement. And hippies and stuff. Obviously he’s completely naïve. But he’s a true believer in that crap. And since we’re friends, we leave it alone. I think he’s learning a few pointers just hanging out with me, though.
    I still felt like hitting something, so I headed straight for the corner farthest from the door.
    There used to be a boxing team at Mercer. That just totally sucks—the one sport I would try out for, and it doesn’t exist anymore. But there’s a couple heavy punching bags left, a speed bag, one of those bags on a bungee cord that you’re supposed to set swinging and dodge around and hit, and jump ropes, and free weights.
    When I got in the corner, I pulled a couple of ratty gymnastic mats off the floor and stacked them behind the heavy bag to help minimize the swaying. When I first found this place there was a decent pair of boxing gloves in one of the old lockers, and I got some tape off the PE teacher’s cart once when he wasn’t looking.
    I took off my shirt and started taping my hands. I like to punch the bag with the gloves; it feels more