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whoever saw that much got a good look at me? What if he can identify me?”
    â€œIf he could identify you,” JD says, “the cops would be here already and they wouldn’t have to put that description out to the media.”
    That makes sense. Then I remember something. “What about my clothes? Are they still in your dryer?”
    JD shakes his head again. “I took care of them.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThose CSI guys on TV , they can find all kinds of things you’d never even know were there. So I took our clothes and I burned them.”
    This surprises me and, to be honest, scares me a little. It makes me think that maybe JD isn’t as calm as he looks. Maybe he’s worried too.
    â€œWhen did you do that?” I say.
    â€œThis afternoon, after school.”
    â€œWhere?” I say.
    â€œYou don’t have to worry about that,” JD says. “Just some place out of the way.”
    â€œDid anyone see you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œYeah, I’m sure. And I made sure that the fire burned everything. Then I shoveled up all the ashes and buried them in another place away from where I made the fire. Nobody’s ever going to find those clothes, believe me.”
    I start to relax.
    â€œThey didn’t even mention the bikes,” JD says. “They’re looking for a guy whowas on foot. For all we know, whoever the police have as a witness didn’t even see you. Maybe they saw some other sandy-haired guy in jeans nearby. Seriously, Q, take a look around our school sometime. See how many people fit that general description.”
    I decide he’s right. We sit down on the couch and JD reaches for the remote. He turns on the TV and we watch a couple of shows together. Then we go into the bathroom and smoke up. By the time he leaves at midnight, I am one hundred percent relaxed. I shove the macaroni casserole into the microwave, nuke it and eat the whole thing. Right afterward, I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open. I stagger into bed with my clothes still on and fall asleep. The last thought I have is, It’s going to be okay.
    It isn’t.

Chapter Eight
    My mother is up early the next morning, which surprises me. Usually when she works late, she sleeps late.
    â€œI have a doctor’s appointment,” she says, looking through from the kitchen at the TV in the living room. She’s watching one of those breakfast television shows, the ones that give you news and weather, but also give you cooking tips, decorating tips and interviews with celebrities.
    â€œA doctor’s appointment?“ I say. I wonder if I should be worried.
    My mother tells me right away, “It’s nothing. Just a routine checkup.” She drinks down the last of her coffee and puts the mug in the sink. She is wiping her hands on a clean dishtowel when there’s a newsbreak. A reporter is standing outside a police station. There’s a plainclothes cop with him who turns out to be a homicide detective. He tells the reporter that the person they’re looking for in relation to the shooting in an alley was probably riding a bicycle.
    â€œIsn’t that terrible,” my mother says. She looks right at me. “I heard it was a kid who did it. Someone close to your age. Why do you suppose a kid would shoot someone like that?”
    I don’t answer, which is okay. She isn’t really expecting an answer. I keep looking at the TV . The reporter asks about violent crime in the city and talks about all the people who have been shot lately. He asks the homicide detective why there is somuch gun crime. My mother grabs her purse and kisses me on the cheek.
    â€œI’m off at nine tonight. I’ll leave supper for you,” she says.
    Someone knocks at the door and I hear my mother greet JD. She leaves and he comes in, backpack over one shoulder, just as the police show what they call a composite