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can’t make it out. If I could, and I met the guy, even if he was a ninth grader, I’d shake his hand.
    My homeroom is on the third floor, room 301. It’sreserved for seventh graders in the Fast Track Program, so the rest of the kids call it the Spaz Track (which is the
nicest
thing they call it). Really, though, it’s just an average classroom. You’ve got your blackboard up front, your American flag off to the side, your teacher’s desk, and then five rows of student desks with five desks in each row. Nothing special. But I
do
like the posters of famous authors, with quotes underneath: “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit.” That’s by Aristotle, an ancient Greek author. I mean, how could you
not
stop and think about it?
    Room 301 also comes with Mrs. Griff, the oldest teacher I’ve ever had. She’s hunched over at the waist and has white hair the color and shape of a dandelion. But she also has a sense of humor about it—about being old, I mean. She told us the first day of school to think of her as a “sweet little old granny … who’s not afraid to kick your butts if they need kicking.” There are a few guys who take advantage of her, tossing paper airplanes and shooting rubber bands when she turns her back to write on the board. She’ll hear them sometimes, then wheel around and say, “Now cut the shenanigans!” That cracks up the class even more. But what’s the point of doing stuff if the teacher’s too old to catch on? Where’s the challenge?
    We’re only with Mrs. Griff long enough for her to take morning attendance and write a few announcements andreminders. Then we split up and head to our first-period classes. We don’t see her again until the end of the day, when she takes afternoon attendance, writes a few more announcements and reminders, and lets us go home.
    This afternoon, though, Mrs. Griff pulled me aside after she dismissed the class. She didn’t make a big deal of it. She just kind of got in my way as I was heading out the door, and put her arm in front of me. Then she nodded toward my seat. So I went back and sat down. When we were the only two people left in the room, she walked over, leaned against the desk next to mine, and said, “Beverly mentioned that you and she have a sick friend.”
    “Yeah,” I said.
    “You’re probably expecting me to give you words of encouragement.”
    I looked up at her. “Isn’t that what you’re going to do?”
    “I’m going to tell you to persevere. Do you know what that means?”
    I shook my head.
    “It means to keep going,” she said. “That’s the last I’ll say on the topic.”
    She nodded at the door, and I got up and left.
    Say what you want about old Mrs. Griff. But she kept it short and sweet.

December 19, 1969
The Accusation
    You’d think one visit to the guidance counselor’s office would cover me for the month. But as second period was winding down and the teacher, Mr. Gerber, was talking about how inert gases can’t fit any more electrons in their outer shell, the intercom began to crackle that certain way, and then Principal Salvatore came on and said my name just like I knew he would. I had to report to Miss Medina’s office.
    The class hooted again, of course, and Beverly glanced up at me with a confused look. But I was kind of relieved. Since no one else got called, I knew it had nothing to do with Quentin. So I grabbed my books and coat, becauseI knew the period would be over before I got back, and headed out the door.
    Miss Medina was waiting for me, again, right outside her office on the first floor. She was rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. It was a nervous-looking thing to be doing. It made her look like a student, except for how tall she was.
    She led me into her office and sat down behind her desk. I didn’t sit, since I didn’t know how long I’d be there. Her expression was different from what it was like when she talked to us about Quentin. She was