Chapter Text
They handed the flyers out right before last bell, bright yellow things that made his eyes hurt.
“Family Reading Night,” Mrs Carter said, weaving between the desks. “This Thursday. You bring a parent or guardian, you get pizza, book coupons, extra credit.”
Kyle wanted to know if cousins counted. Pope asked if she could bring both parents. Somebody in the back groaned like reading was a jail sentence. It kind of was. JJ smoothed his flyer flat on the desk. Big block letters. Clip-art books with stupid smiles. At the bottom, an empty line for a grown-up’s name that looked wrong. Blank. Just sitting there.
“Make sure you get those signed and bring them back by Wednesday,” Mrs Carter said. “We need a head count for the pizza.”
Her eyes slid over the room. They skipped past his desk slower, same way they did before she sent him to the little room by the library for ‘reading help’.
He raised his hand.
“What if they can’t sign it till later?” he asked.
“Later when?” she said.
He shrugged, thumb digging into the corner of the page. “Just… later.”
“If they forget today, you can bring it tomorrow,” she said. “Or Wednesday. But they do need to sign if they're coming, okay?”
“Okay.”
Silent reading meant nobody was supposed to talk. Mrs Carter stopped anyway. “You’ve worked hard this term, JJ,” she said, low enough that it was just for him. “You should feel good about your reading.”
He kept his eyes on the line his finger sat under. The letters still liked to swim if he didn’t pin them. “Mm.”
“I mean that,” she added. “You’ve come a long way since we started with Ms Lane.”
He didn’t answer and she moved on.
Ms Lane was the woman in the side room with three plastic chairs and a poster about “chunking syllables”. That poster sucked. He also hated how the chair legs squeaked and how the other kids watched him leave, snickering like he had a sign on his back that said STUPID. First few weeks, he tried to get kicked out ‒ talked over her, slammed the book shut, told her she was wasting her time. One day he kicked the chair so hard it skidded and banged the wall. She jumped, looked at the door like she was thinking about calling someone… then just pressed her palm flat on the table.
“Here’s the deal,” she’d said. “You give me three lines clean, we don’t talk about the chair. And I got chocolate in that drawer too.”
Turned out she actually did. Fun-size bars, not the cheap kind. After that, if they were gonna drag him in there anyway, he went for the chocolate.
At recess, he and John B ended up by the fence on the curb, backs to the chain-link. The flyers were still in their hands, yellow corners going soft where their fingers bent them.
John B held his up, squinting at the little cartoon books. “Family Reading Night,” he read. “They really know how to make stuff sound boring.”
“Free pizza,” JJ said. “That part’s not boring.”
“Yeah. Cause you’re always hungry.” Pope dropped next to them, knees knocking JJ’s.
“Yeah, well.” JJ flicked the bottom edge of his flyer. “We don't all got a fancy-ass chef like your momma at home. Bet she won't care for the pizza.“
Pope rolled his eyes. “She'd probably put this on the fridge,” he said. “Circle. Underline. I think she'll be more excited than Mrs Carter.”
JJ chuckled then looked at John B: “You think your dad’s gonna come?”
John B kept staring at the page like it might change. “Depends how busy he is when I ask,” he said. “If he’s tired he’ll just say ‘we’ll see’ and forget.”
“‘We’ll see’ is just ‘no’ pretending to be nice,” JJ said.
John B scratched at a rip in his knee. “He likes school stuff when it’s history crap. If I say ‘reading’ he’ll think homework.”
“There’s a book fair,” Pope suggested. “Tell him it’s a tiny store. Grown-ups love stores.”
“He only likes stores with rusty junk and maps.”
JJ watched a bunch of fifth-graders fight over the ball under the hoop. “You’ll ask him though, right?”
“I guess. After dinner. If he’s home.”
He didn’t say anything to that. None of them did.
“What about your dad?” John B asked. “You gonna show him?”
JJ’s fingers tightened on the flyer before he made them relax again.
In his head he was back at Larry’s two nights ago. Table loaded with plates because aunt Darlene always cooked like the whole Cut was invited, his cousin Boone jammed in next to him, kicking his chair and running his mouth.
“Heard you cry like a baby at the yard,” he'd said. “Bet you sounded real cute.” Then the slow, dragged-out “caaat… saaat…” voice when he started in on the reading stuff, eyes bright with it.
Dad had already told JJ twice to sit still and quit the stupid shit. He went to kick Boone’s shin under the table anyway. But his leg yanked back and JJ’s foot caught the tablecloth instead. One tug and everything jumped. Plates slid. A bowl hit the tile. Potatoes everywhere.
Before he could say sorry, he was yanked up by the arm so fast his thigh smashed into the underside of the table.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” came the hiss in his ear, breath hot with beer, then Dad marched him out the back door onto the porch.
“Larry feeds you and you pull this shit?” he snapped, giving his arm another jerk. He could feel the smack coming when the back door creaked. “Luke,” Larry’s voice came from behind them. “Cool it, man.”
The grip on his arm tightened. “Kid just dumped half your dinner on the floor.”
“Boone’s been pokin’ at him all night,” Larry sighed, dish towel over his shoulder, eyes on both of them. “Saw it. You keep goin’ at him out here, neighbors start askin’ questions
Dads jaw worked. He let go with a shove. “He’s cleanin’ it up.”
“They are,” Larry said. “Both of ’em. Get back in there.”
When the door swung behind him. Dad's hand closed around JJ’s arm again, right on the sore spot.
“We’re talkin’ later,” he muttered into his ear, and pushed him toward the kitchen.
Back inside, everybody suddenly had plenty to look at on their plates. Boone had sunk down in his chair. His ears were pink now. Chairs scraped once then went quiet, the sound stuck in his ears. Dad dragged him to Uncle Larry and Aunt Darlene’s plates instead of letting him sit.
“Go on.”
JJ stared at the potatoes and gravy on the floor. His eyes had the swimmy feel that meant if he blinked wrong it was over.
“I’m sorry.”
“Look up,” Dad said, fingers squeezing down now, hard enough that JJ’s toes curled in his shoes. His chin jerked up. Faces, blurred at the edges, everybody pretending not to stare and staring anyway.
“Sorry, sir,” he said, words tripping over each other. “Sorry for dumpin’ your dinner all over the floor. I wasn’t tryin’ to screw it up, I swear.” Dad still wasn’t letting up, so he kept going. “And… and thank you for cookin’ for us and havin’ us here, ma’am.”
“It’s alright, baby,” Darlene said, quick.
Larry stood up and tossed two rags under the table.
“Congratulations. Y’all opened the buffet for the floor. Get under there and fix it.”
Dad’s hand stayed on his arm a beat longer, then dropped. JJ ended up on his knees beside Boone, jeans damp where gravy had soaked in. He dabbed at glass and potato, trying not to slice his fingers and hiding his tears the best he could.
“Nice work, dumbass,” Boone whispered. “Crybaby can’t even kick right.”
“Shut up.”
“Yeah? Make me.”
JJ kept his eyes on the mess. If he swung, they’d be back out and Larry might not come to save him this time. Boone knew it too. So he kept his head down and scrubbed until Larry said it was fine.
Later, while the game blared in the living room and the men were working through the case on the counter, yelling at bad calls and laughing too loud, he slipped into Boone’s room, grabbed two of his notebooks, walked them out the back door and dropped them in the puddle by the cinder blocks. Felt good for a second.
By the time Dad finally told him they're leaving, he was already swaying. “We’re talkin’ later” stuck in JJs head all the way home. He went straight to his room, quiet as he could, hoping if stayed low maybe he’d get off. He did. Dad dropped onto the couch and snored through the late show.
Sitting by the fence now, flyer crinkling in his hand, JJ’s stomach twisted the same way.
“Gotta pick the right time,” he muttered.
“When’s that?” John B asked.
“When he’s not mad about work,” JJ said. “Or anything.”
Pope bumped his shoulder into JJ’s. “If your dads bail, just come with us. I can ask my dad.”
“We’ll say we're your long-lost cousins or some shit,” JJ said with a grin. “I was switched at birth.”
“Cool. And John B’s the lab experiment they kept by accident.” Pope added, dead serious. John B ruffled his hair in the way he hated, then got an ear flick in return. They both laughed, and JJ did too, even while he didn't feel like it. He pictured the gym: Heyward and his wife on one side, Pope on the other, empty space where his dad should be.
“He’s coming. Once he signs it, it’s like a job. He never misses jobs. That’s how it works.”
“Whatever,” Pope said, but there wasn’t any bite to it. “Offer still stands.”
The whistle blew. They stuffed the flyers away and got up, sand and dead grass stuck to their shorts.
On the bus home, the flyer sat in JJ’s pocket. He kept his hand over it most of the ride, thumb rubbing the crease through the fabric like it might wear the words off, then put it in his backpack before he got off.
There was a whole plan in his head about how not to be seen, the way he’d been doing since Larry’s. Give “we’re talkin’ later” time to… run out. Or something. Dad's truck was in the yard, there was smoke coming from the shed so his feet switched to the longer way without him thinking, skirting the side of the house instead of cutting across. Inside was quiet. He dropped his backpack by the couch. It tipped over and half unzipped. A couple of papers slid out near the table. He shoved them back in with his foot, and went to the fridge – one old mayo jar with just a smear left, pickle juice, nothing else. He dug out what he could with a spoon and ate it standing there. Then straight down the hall.
In his room, he kicked his shoes off and lay on the bed. The radio outside, then the front door, then the stove and TV came in through the wall in pieces. Same house noise as always. Normal. His shoulders stayed up by his ears anyway.
Later it started to smell like noodles. His stomach growled. He pictured walking back out, lifting the lid, seeing how much was in the pot. Then: the porch. “We’re talkin’ later.” So he stayed put. Did his homework badly on the bed, pen stabbing little dents in the paper.
The TV went loud, then quiet, then loud again. Maybe he could slip out, hit the gas station, maybe nick some chips. If Dad checked and he was gone, though, that felt worse. He rolled onto his side and pulled the blanket up over his head. Let the TV smear into one long sound until his eyes closed.
The next time he opened them, the room was light and his jeans were twisted around his legs. His stomach hurt now, sharp and mean in the empty way. He lay there a second, listening. No TV. No boots. Morning was usually better than night. Usually. If Dad was still home, he’d be half asleep, not hunting for “later.” JJ told himself that once, twice, hand on the doorknob.
He stepped into the hall, thinking cereal, toast, anything. Dad was at the table, a cup of coffee in his hands. The yellow flyer lay dead center like it had crawled there to snitch.
“Look who’s alive,” he said without looking up. “Somethin’ fall out your bag?” The voice wasn’t loud, but it still made JJ’s back try to straighten. His hand twitch toward his pocket even though it was empty now.
“Teacher gave it to everyone,” His voice came out squeaky. “Reading thing.”
Dad dragged the page closer with two fingers. “Family Reading Night,” he read. “Pizza, prizes, book fair.” He snorted. “They really hustlin’ y’all.”
“You don’t have to come,” JJ said, too fast. “They said it’s optional.” Dad lifted his eyes. “That what you want?”
It felt like a trap. Say yes and it sounded like he didn’t care if Dad came. Say no and it sounded like he was bossing him around.
“I just…”His tongue felt dry. “They said if your parent comes you get extra credit. And there’s pizza. You don’t gotta read or anything. Just sit there.”
“You think I can’t read?”
JJ shook his head. “No. Didn’t say that.”
Dad looked back at the flyer, jaw ticking. “Y’all still doin’ that little readin’ program deal?” he asked, eyes still on the paper. “That Ms Lane lady.”
He felt his cheeks heating. “Sometimes.”
“You know it’s bullshit. You ain’t dumb.”
It made him want to ask him to say it again. Just to check he’d heard right. “I know,” he said instead, eyes on the salt shaker. The silence kept going until his skin started prickling.
“Get me a pen.”
It felt like stopping to think might make him change his mind, so JJ moved fast, digging in his backpack till he found a pen that still worked. Dad read the date twice, lips moving a little. His eyes lingered on the line about “sharing stories with the people who matter to you.” His mouth went flat , then he scrawled his name across the bottom. Big L, the rest slumping downhill.
“There,” he said. “Happy?”
JJ’s chest kicked. “So you’re comin’?” slipped out before he could shut it down.
“You deaf? I just signed it. Remind me that mornin’, would ya. I ain’t gettin’ looks from your teacher ’cause you forgot.”
“They said once you sign, you have to be there. Need the headcount. “
“Well, tell’em my head will be there.“ Dad snorted, then patted the chair next to him “There's toast if you're hungry.“
All day, he tracked that flyer. Corner of Mrs Carter’s desk after he handed it in. Then stapled to the stack with everyone else’s. Later, when she checked her list and said, “Kyle plus two, Maria plus two… JJ Maybank plus one. Good,” like she hadn’t expected those words to go together.
Thursday dragged. He chewed his pencil down in math. The volcano video in science looked like the same lava on repeat. At recess, Kyle bragged his dad was going to “totally win the book quiz thing.”
“Mine’s gonna eat more than your dad,” JJ said.
He got a few laughs. The buzzing under his skin stayed.
At three, the bell rang. The school emptied in a rush. JJ walked home faster than usual. He changed his shirt, hated it, changed back. Splashed water on his hair until it mostly stayed where he shoved it.
The microwave clock clicked to five-ten. Then five-fifteen. The lot outside stayed quiet. Dad was late because of some job. Dad was late because he bailed. JJ ran both versions until his head hurt.
The truck finally rattled in and JJ’s shoulders dropped so fast he felt lightheaded. Dad stepped out with a smile, looking sober. “Hey, J,” he called, already heading for the hall. “I gotta rinse off. Smell like crap.”
“We’re gonna be late,” JJ blurted, halfway off the couch.
“Yeah, no shit.” came back through the bathroom door, then the fan kicked on and water started up. JJ watched the red numbers creep to five-twenty. If he sat down after, if a beer opened, that’d be it. Five-twenty five, and Dad came out in a clean shirt, hair damp around the edges. He picked his keys back up. They drove to the school. The yard was full, other families ahead of them, big shapes leaning over smaller ones, hands resting on backs. At the doors, Dad patted his pockets for his lighter.
“They got a no-smoking sign.” JJ pointed at the wall.
“They always got a no-smoking sign,” Luke scoffed. “I’ll live.”
“You’re coming inside, though,” he added, heart jumping at his own mouth.
Dad gave him a look. “Relax, J. I said I’d go. I’m goin’.”
The hand was warm at the back of his neck and JJ matched his steps to his dad’s. It felt… good, walking in like that. Inside, the hallway smelled like pizza. Construction-paper stars with names in fat marker letters covered the walls. Pope stood under one of them, talking to his mom. Heyward still had his work shirt on, sleeves rolled, nodding along to something a teacher said. Kie was further down, hovering near a table while Mr Carrera checked his watch and Mrs Carrera smoothed the hem of a dress Kie already looked sick of. She spotted JJ and grinned hard. “JJ!”
He smiled and waved, then Dad gave him a nudge between the shoulders toward the sign-in table.
“Sign in over here,” Mrs Carter called. “Parents on the left, students on the right.”
They joined the line. Dad moved toward the parent sheet, next to Heyward, who gave him a short nod. “Evenin’, Luke. ”
“Heyward,” he answered without looking. His pen scraped over the paper. Mrs Carter handed him a little voucher strip and the kind of smile adults got when something went how they’d planned it on the board.
They took a table near the back and heaped pizza in their plates. “This is the good stuff,” Dad muttered, biting in. “You can feel your heart complainin’ already.”
JJ snorted, mostly from relief that he was actually there in a real chair and not just a name on some list. Kie and Pope passed by with their own plates, balancing too many slices. When she got near, Kie leaned down between them. “You got the good pizza table,” she said to JJ, then to Luke, “Hi, Mr Maybank.”
“Y’all eat before they run out,” Dad said.
Pope gave JJ a quick smile, then followed his parents to another table. Up front, Mrs Carter grabbed the microphone. It squealed.
“Thank you all for coming. Tonight is about sharing stories with the people who matter to you. Find your grown-up and read them a page from your favourite book.”
Reading out loud. Of course. JJ pulled the lighthouse book from his bag, the one Ms Lane let him borrow from the little room. One corner of the cover was split, tape hanging off it. He pushed it onto the table.
“You gotta listen,” he said. “That’s the deal.”
Dad wiped his fingers on a napkin and grinned “Go on then.”
JJ opened to the storm chapter on purpose because Ms Lane had made him run this page until he could get through “lighthouse” and “horizon” without tripping. The letters shimmered for a second, then settled when he pressed his nail down. He started to read, voice squeaky. Third word in, one of the long ones tried to slide apart, but he forced the sounds together the way Ms Lane had made him practice and kept going. Dad watched his face at first. After a few lines, his eyes dropped to where JJ’s finger moved, tracking along under the words.
He hit the end of the paragraph and snapped the book shut. A little too hard.
“See? You can read just fine. That’s my boy,” Dad said and squeezed his shoulder.
The smile showed up before JJ could stop it. He looked down fast and crammed the book into his bag.
By the time they moved, the book-fair line was already snaking past the tables. Each kid held their voucher like real money. Dad moved beside him, eyes running over the racks.
“Five bucks for that thin crap,” he muttered, picking up a paperback and bending it. “They robbin’ y’all.”
“Dad,” JJ hissed. “Inside voice.” Dad ignored him completely and went on loudly.
“There’s a whole buildin’ full of free books. It’s called a library. You ever heard of that, lady?” he added in Mrs Carter’s direction.
She hovered by the register with a too-tight smile. “We get a portion of the proceeds,” she said. “It helps us buy class sets.”
“Uh-huh. Long as you ain’t chargin’ five bucks a sheet of paper.”
The woman in front of them shifted just enough that he knew she was listening. Up ahead, Mrs Heyward was talking to Mrs Miller, her hand resting on Pope’s shoulder. She glanced back when she heard Luke and gave JJ a small, quick smile before looking away again. JJ’s ears burned.
“Can I just pick and go?” he muttered. “I know what I want.”
“Grab two.” Dad jerked his chin at the shelves. “I’ll cover the rest. If they gonna squeeze me anyway, you ain’t leavin’ with just one.”
JJ grabbed a cleaner copy of the lighthouse book and a shark book with big pictures and short chunks of text. He hugged them to his chest until the corners dug into his arms. At the front, Mrs Carter looked at the books and smiled at him.
“Those are good picks. You’ve become a really strong reader this year, JJ.”
That little room for dumb kids flashed in his head: stupid posters, squeaky chairs. Everyone looking when the aide stuck her head in and called his name.
His ears went hot. “Okay,” he muttered, and looked up at his dad. His jaw was doing that thing again, all bunched at the side, and JJ’s stomach dipped.
“‘Become,’ huh? You keep yanking him outta class for that library room crap like hes slow. Like everybody can’t see it. And now you wanna pat yourself on the back?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” she said, quick. “He –”
“Yeah, he worked.” Dad’s hand landed on his shoulder but it didn't feel nice this time. “That’d be him. Not your charts and stickers. My boy ain’t stupid.”
JJ’s fingers were biting into the cardboard edges. The line behind them rustled. Someone cleared their throat.
“You’re holdin’ people up, Luke,” a voice called from the coffee table.
Oh no. This was bad bad bad. JJ turned fast. Big John. Foam cup in his hand, shoulders slumped like he’d been standing too long. “Let the kid get his books.”
Dad turned his head. “You runnin’ this thing now?”
“I’m sayin’ maybe don’t do this right in front of everybody at the book table,” Big John said. “There’s a gym full of kids in here.”
People were looking now. He felt it on his back. John B stood a few spots behind him, shoulders up, staring at a stain on the tile like he could disappear into it.
Dad shifted a step forward. “You got a problem with me, Routledge?”
A little kid laughed at the wrong time. JJ felt Dad tighten beside him, same way he did right before something broke at home. His ribs pulled in. The gym noise turned into one long buzz. Norma’s voice tried to cut through it: you see grown men squarin’ up, you move.
He stepped forward instead, like his body was stupid. Books pressed to his stomach, chin tipped up.
“Dad. We got the books. Can we go home now?”
Luke’s eyes dropped to him, blinking like he’d forgotten who he was looking at. “Yeah.” He swallowed. “We’re done.” He shoved the voucher and a 10 dollar bill at the register. Mrs Carter punched it and dropped change into JJ’s hand without really looking. The coins felt too cold in his palm.
“Thanks for coming,” she said.
Kie stood with her parents near the book table. When JJ passed, she reached out and caught his sleeve.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “We’re leavin’.”
She nodded and stepped back when Mr Carrera called her name again. By the coffee, Pope stared into a foam cup like it mattered, but his eyes flicked up and away, checking without making it a thing. On the way out, the room sound snapped back up too fast – chair legs scraping, someone laughing, Big John moving over to another table. John B stayed focused on the floor.
Outside, the air felt cooler. Crickets started in the ditch. They walked toward the truck, JJ holding onto his books like they might float away while Dad lit a cigarette with quick clicks. “You hear him?” he said, smoke slipping out. “Talkin’ like I’m about to swing on a teacher.”
JJ hitched his books up higher. “He started on you first. Like you were gonna fight or somethin’.”
“There was no fight,” Dad snapped. “Jesus. I say three words and everybody freaks out.”
JJ picked at the corner of the shark book. “If you hit anybody, they’d probably kick us out,” he said. “And take the books.”
“Yeah? Ain’t nobody takin’ your books. I paid for those damn things.”
Back home, Dad slammed the fridge, grabbed a beer and turned the TV up. Some show with the same fake laugh over and over. JJ was headed to his room with the lighthouse book on top of the shark one.
“You gonna read one of those or just gawk at ’em?” came from the couch. “Go on. Out loud.”
JJ sat on a chair, opened the new lighthouse copy and started from the beginning, finger under the first line, lips moving a little as he read over the TV noise. Dad’s phone buzzed halfway down page two. He checked it, swore, grabbed his beer and the phone, and went outside. The door banged. His voice drifted back in chopped pieces through the thin wall – laughter, a couple of loud curses. JJ kept going anyway. Page. Next page. His voice sounded extra loud in the empty kitchen.
He finished the chapter and shut the book. Left his hand on the cover for a second. Didn’t know why. Then he shoved it into the junk drawer with dead pens, menus, a couple batteries that never worked when he tried them, and a screwdriver with no handle.
The other book went under the matress. When he lay down, there was this harder spot under his back where the book was. Through the wall, the TV kept going. A can hissed and Dad laughed at something that probably wasn’t funny. JJ rolled onto his side and pictured the gym lights, the way Dad's eyes had followed his finger when he read, Mrs Carter saying “strong reader” like it surprised her, John B staring a hole in the floor so he didn’t have to look up, the way the whole room had gone tight for a second when Dad and Big John faced each other. All of it rattling in his head.
He kept hearing ‘That’s my boy’ anyway.
In the morning, Mrs Carter stuck a book-shaped sticker next to his name on the chart.
“Thanks for coming last night, JJ,” she said. “You did really well.”
He shrugged. “Yeah. It was alright.”
He didn’t look over at John B when he walked back to his seat, but later John B came to him, tossing a dumb joke and offering to hang out in his yard after school.
Later never came. All weekend, every time Dad said his name or walked past too close, something in JJ’s shoulders pulled tight, waiting for it, but nothing happened. They even went fishing.
Twice the next week, the lighthouse book somehow ended up on the table instead of buried in the drawer. Dad would tap the cover with two fingers, eyes on the TV. “Pick up where you were,” he’d say. So JJ read. Storm chapter, then the one after, finger running under the lines. Over canned laughter and dad sipping his beer.
“See?” he would snort. “Told you. Fuck ‘em for actin like you're slow.” Quick, like it was no big deal. JJ kept his eyes on the page and let the words sit in his chest.
Boone tried the “caaat… saaat…” voice again by the lockers on Monday, and JJ took a step before he even thought about it. Pope caught his arm and yanked him back in close, muttering about detentions and getting written up. Kie did the rest, lit into Boone right there in the hallway until he backed off, face all red.
The next afternoon, JJ and John B went around the back of the cafeteria and hauled the trash can lid up just enough to get their hands in. The stink hit first. John B grabbed a milk carton that felt warm in the wrong way, and JJ scooped up a clump of cafeteria noodles, scraped in whatever goo was stuck to the side then dumped it all into a Styrofoam cup. He unzipped his backpack, tore the corner off a knotted plastic bag from B dock, and squeezed a lump of fish guts in on top. John B made a face. “Dude.”
“Shut up and watch,” JJ said. Ketchup packets between his teeth, ripping and squeezing until it turned into this slimy red soup.
Last recess, John B posted up at the end of the hall, bending down over his shoe like he’d forgotten how laces worked while JJ pressed the rim of the cup to Boone’s locker vents and poured, using the straw to jab noodles and guts through the slits. The mess disappeared inside. The smell didn’t. His eyes burned, but he kept going anyway.
By last bell the whole row stank. When Boone yanked his locker open, the top book came out dripping.
“Ghosts,” John B muttered over the swearing and JJ snorted into his sleeve so the teachers wouldn’t see.
They never told anyone it had been them, not even Pope and Kie, but Boone left him alone for a long time after that.