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asking such ridiculous questions.
    I dry off some in the men’s room. I begin with my watch, wiping it clean, including the face and inside the leather band. On my way out, I still find ice cubes in my chair.
    At our seats, Raven asks again, “Are you sure … you’re okay?” I tell her yes. Only I’m not. Everything bothers me. My chair is damp and sticky. My pants smell of buttered Coke. The regulars — able-bodied people — who saw me in the lobby walk past me, staring. Including the guy who couldn’t keep his hands off Autumn.

P eaches cracking her knuckles. “Quit that,” three of us say. She do it every time we got a test. I’m looking at her legs, smacking her hand. She know what I mean, so her legs quit moving back and forth like church fans. “It’ll be easy.” I snap my fingers. “Right?”
    People think Peaches and me is opposites. When it come to some things, we just the same. Math freaks us out. The reading part is the worst part for me. Tests is her problem. She know the work. But she freeze up, like ponds do ’round here every winter.
    Peaches always saying she got a C average in math. It’s really a low B. She want to take algebra II over the summer on the Internet. And honors geometry in tenth grade. “So I can’t get no Cs or Bs even,” she saying. I would die for one of those.
    Peaches taught herself to do calligraphy. The pink and purple letter A ’s she drawing on her notebook look pretty, swirly, curly. Visualize and you get more of what you want. That the kind of thing she say. It ain’t working so good for her in math. Or for me with Adonis. This morning at the bus stop, his wheel rolled over my toe.
    Mr. Epperson telling us to take out a pencil and eraser. “Sharpen now. Please. No distractions during the test.”
    He standing over me, loosening his beige tie. It matches his corduroy jacket. His red suspenders look like prison bars trying to keep his stomach from getting away. “You studied, right?” He look like he wants that to really be true.
    â€œI studied.” I stare at my desk when I say it.
    He clearing his throat.
    â€œI’m not stupid!” I don’t mean to yell it. “Most of my homework’s turned in and you said I got a C average.”
    He lowers his voice. “It’s more like a D now,” he says — bringing up the makeup quiz I forgot to take.
    He’ll grade my test first if I stick around after class and show me what’s not working. “Then I’ll see you at tutoring, right?”
    How can I come to after-school tutoring plus wrestling when I gotta take the bus home? “Mr. Epperson — I studied. I swear.”
    I think about Mom and Dad. I lied to them this morning, too. They asked me about that dumb book. I told ’em I would read it by myself. Write them a report, like they asked. The book is under my bed. Or in my locker. Somewhere. But I do got that word, firstly , and the definition in a jar in my room. Can’t tell nobody. Not even Peaches. You do stuff like that in elementary school — catching lightning bugs in jelly jars, saving rocks in your underwear drawer. But words? Who save those?
    Peaches chews on her nails, scratching black polish off. Spitting it out, like it’s corn stuck between her teeth. “You know you gonna pass,” I say, after he leave. I start to talk about Adonis. She say I better not mention his name.
    I ask if she coming over this weekend to cook. I already went to the store, got everything we need. I’m trying to make a wedding cake. Six tiers, my own recipe. I bought the bride and groom. They look like me and Adonis. Only he got legs.
    â€œYou make me so mad,” Peaches say under her breath. “Talking about boys. Him. Studying when youfeel like it.” Staring at her tattoo — plump peaches with vines twisting through ’em that she snuck and had put on