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job?”
    â€œWell, he was sick, I think. He lost his parents when he was young, and never recovered.”
    â€œCome on, Liza. Isn’t that lame?” Niall said. “I mean, if my parents died, I’d be freaked, but I’d recover. Why are we supposed to feel sorry for these people? They don’t do anything to help themselves.”
    For a second, I want to agree with Niall. If it was Richard’s fault that he was the way he was, I wouldn’t have to feel bad about the way he died.
    But I surprise myself. I say something I’d never thought through before: “Maybe that was the best Richard could do.”
    Niall considers this. “Okay. Maybe,” he says. “But, come on. How could he live like that?”
    â€œI wonder about that too,” I say. “But I don’t know what went on in his head. Maybe he was thinking about cool things, having beautiful daydreams. He was serene.”
    â€œPassive.”
    â€œSo what? Do we always have to be doing, making, taking, shopping?” I ask. “Look at my friend, Olive. Her family decided not to buy anything for a whole year.”
    â€œThat’s crazy!”
    â€œIt’s good for the environment. And they say it’s kind of spiritual. There was a lot of stuff they thought they needed, but really, they only wanted it.”
    â€œBut that’s not as humiliating as living on the street,” Niall says. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with wanting something, Liza. Needs are basic: food, shelter. But what’s life without friendship”— he looks at me—“or, say, art?”
    â€œRichard walked with a really light footprint,” I point out.
    â€œThat wasn’t what he was trying to do. He suffered too much,” Niall says. “He was bent over, wrinkled up and worn out. He was not thriving. And what did he give anyone else? Nothing!”
    â€œWell, he wasn’t hurting anyone,” I sputter. “People say that he made them slow down and count their blessings.”
    â€œHe didn’t mean to. Those were accidental benefits,” Niall says. “He was lazy.”
    â€œHe was supremely gentle,” I say.
    â€œStupefied.”
    â€œHe wasn’t totally healthy,” I say.“Or he was shut out. There was nothing for him to do.”
    â€œI guess,” Niall considers.
    â€œRichard may not have intended to make a difference by living the way he did, but the fact is, he did make a difference,” I say. “He certainly never meant harm. Which is a lot more than you can say for others—like oil companies.”
    Niall smiles. “I never thought it through before. You’re smart, Liza.”
    I feel warm. Then I feel too warm. My heart pounds and my face burns, and possibly my hair stands on end.
    â€œYou too,” I mumble.
    Luckily, Niall shifts gears. “Let’s print these off.” We argue over the best font and then send the petition to the printer.
    A couple of days later, Niall and I meet in the library to tally up our signatures. Between the two of us, we have collected 246 names. Some of the kindergartners signed in crayon.
    â€œThat’s ninety-two percent of the student body,” Niall gloats as we staple the pages together.
    â€œI’d photocopy those if I were you,” says Mme. Falette, our school librarian. She gives us a knowing look and says something about despots and destruction of records.
    Ten minutes later, we slide the thick petition into Mrs. Reynolds’s mailbox.
    â€œShe can’t possibly say no,” Niall says, turning to me. “What do you think?”
    I’d been thinking that I had to get a little braver on the girl-likes-boy-who-maybe-likes-girl-back front. “I think we make a good team,” I say, putting out my fist. He taps it with his.
    â€œI’m down with that,” he says and grins.
    I feel my hair rise again. When Niall looks back as he