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really stupid.

Chapter 04
    All morning in school I felt eyes looking at me. Whenever I turned to look at someone who I felt was staring, we’d make eye contact for a brief second before they turned away quickly.
    It reminded me of three years ago when my dad died and people looked at me like I was the one who had died. Except this time it was different. I didn’t really mind the attention. I didn’t think kids would mess around with me.
    â€œEverybody’s talking about it,” my friend Shawn said before taking a last bite out of his sandwich. We were sitting in the cafeteria at lunchtime.
    â€œEveryone has been looking at me weird in the hallways, like I’m an alien or something,” I said.
    â€œWell, not many kids get sent to jail around here.” One of his dreadlocks fell over his eye. He was opening a bag of potato chips. “So what happened?”
    â€œI don’t want to talk about it.” I felt bad not telling Shawn. We’d been friends ever since we were five years old and on the same peewee soccer team at the YMCA.
    I put my pizza down. Since I’d been arrested, I’d lost my appetite.
    â€œYou going to get to play with us in the State Cup?” Shawn asked.
    â€œI don’t know. I haven’t seen Coach Hill yet, but he’s gonna be really mad. He’s always talking about how soccer is all about character, and he’s not going to like my character right now.”
    I changed the subject. “You liking our chances this season, Shawn?”
    â€œI do, but we need to work as a team more. I mean, the other day during practice, Ricky was just dribbling through kids, doing all this fancy footwork and laughing. But when it gets to November, that’s not going to work against any good teams and nobody is gonna be laughing. Everyone is just trying to make themselves look good, but our team isn’t. You know what I’m saying?”
    I nodded, not really listening.
    It was good that Christy and I had different lunch periods. I didn’t want to see her. I’d deleted the text messages she’d sent me since my arrest. She said her dad didn’t want us to talk anymore.
    I was glad when it was finally ninth period, even though math class seemed to take forever. I was tired of polynomials and other stuff that would be useless in life. Math had the ability to slow time. The clock always slowed to a crawl in ninth period, the last period of the day.
    Mr. Allen, my math teacher, was thin, old, and bony. I could almost see right through him, like he was transparent. He had a ring of white hair that went around the side of his head and eyes that were constantly watching you. I heard he was the veteran of some war—probably World War I.
    Highland Middle School had been built back in 1922. It looked kind of like a castle on the outside, but new on the inside. It had heating but no air-conditioning, and teachers wouldn’t turn on the fans because they would just blow your papers around.
    â€œKevin, will you kindly share your thoughts on this problem?” Mr. Allen asked.
    Hearing my name, I panicked and turned to the kid next to me for help.
    â€œWe’re on num—”
    â€œThere is still a minute left in the period, Mr. Johnson. If you cut short every period by a minute, do you know how many minutes you’d waste in an entire school year?” he said, spewing out saliva while he spoke. I turned away to avoid it, which only made Mr. Allen madder.
    The bell rang, and I was saved from another one of his boring lectures about how in his day, things were so much tougher and how kids these days have no discipline.
    I wasn’t a troublemaker, but I wasn’t a suck-up, either. Ms. Grosnickle and I had had a few “conferences,” as she liked to call them. She told my mom I had to watch my temper. I wondered if I was going to get called into her office because of the arrest. I hoped not.
    I zigzagged around kids