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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.

“I studied.” I stare at my desk when I say it.

He clearing his throat.

“I'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.

“You make me so mad,” Peaches say under her breath. “Talking about boys. Him. Studying when you
feel like it.” Staring at her tattoo — plump peaches with vines twisting through 'em that she snuck and had put on — she tell me she wanna do more than open a restaurant.

I know. Living in France, being a illustrator, marrying a musician is all part of her plan, too. But this weekend we cooking. “So. You coming or what?”

She trying not to smile. “Yeah. When we get our restaurant, I don't want you talking about secret ingredients. I need to know everything that go in everything.”

Mr. E. looking at his watch. “This ain't just a test, folks.” He walking the aisles. Patting Jaxxon's back. Telling him to sit up. “It's a competition. Remember.” He stop in front of me. “Like basketball. Wrestling.” He give a thumbs-up to A'Destiny. “That person next to you, don't let 'em beat you.”

December, at the sharpener, finishes his words. The ones he say all the time. “Outthink 'em. Outwork 'em. Outperform 'em.” She add her own spice to it. “Kill 'em if you need to.”

“Ignore that last part.” Belching, Mr. E. ask Jaxxon to take off his hat. “Gas.” He's on a new diet, he saying. “Lettuce and more lettuce.” Patting Jaxxon on the shoulder, he say for him to sleep at home sometimes.

We have to show all our work in Mr. E's class. If you only give the answer, you lose points, he reminds us.

The first two problems; easy. I write out the steps. Put down the answers. Pat myself on the back. The third problem is hard. Confusing. Just to figure out what it say, I gotta read it twice. It's a word problem. Hate those. I skip to the bottom of the page. Sometimes that's what you need to do. Skip around. But I end up back at the beginning. Scratching my head.

Looking around, all I see are heads down. Fingers moving. December smiling. Julie blowing bubble gum. They always get high marks.

Think. Remember.
Peaches and me went over this problem last night. I almost raise my hand for help. But nobody else is asking him for nothing. Putting down my pencil, turning off the calculator, I give up.

Thinking about wrestling. The reporter at my match saying how aggressive I am on the mat. I feel better.

“Three minutes, folks.”

Peaches kicks my chair leg, pointing for me to get busy.

I'm writing down anything now.
Don't leave blanks. Guess. You might be right.
That's what she told me yesterday.

Mr. E. pulling at his suspenders. “Pencils down.”

Peaches pushes buttons on her calculator faster than a cashier on the first day of the month.

Leaving class. Peaches pulls out her algebra book, checking her answers.

Walking behind her, my book half closed so she don't see, I write:

R
aven sashays into the library. Roberto pokes me. “She's the kind of girl I want.” Leaning over the second floor railing, he gawks and waves.

Her hand, like a fan, waves back. Her silver bangles jingle like tiny bells. I am surprised when she smiles my way.

“Let me see your assignment, Roberto.”

He never takes his eyes off her. “Please, can't I look for one more minute?”

Roberto is a seventh grader. He has potential, I've decided. I will give him all the help he needs to succeed. But he has to want this for himself. I've told him several times, “To accomplish your goals, you cannot be distracted by the people and things around you.”

Raven takes a seat on the purple couch. Chatting with friends, she looks up at me periodically.

I have avoided her, ever since our date two weeks ago. Last night she came to the wrestling room. I did my best to ignore her there as well. I am certain that she thinks I am rude. Or immature. But I sum up people very quickly. Why spend time with those who aren't right for you?

“Let's get started. Roberto. Take out your paper.”

The inside of his book bag resembles a Dumpster. Everything is loose. Balled up. Or empty. Like the Skittles and M&M's bags he sits on the table.

“Do you like her legs?” Roberto is in a wheelchair also. A car accident took his legs away in fifth grade.

I sneak a peek at her legs. Although the trees outside have frost on them, Raven's long legs are bare. Roberto licks his lips. “Her blouse … is … uh … tight, huh?” Her top is orange, which is his favorite color, he says. I do not mention that the Skittles on the bag match the color of her top precisely.

“Did you bring markers?” I ask him.

“Markers?”

I always carry a pack with me. A ruler, paper clips, extra pencils — things like that. Roberto takes paper
out of his book bag. Then he opens a warm can of cream soda. The signs overhead say we are not permitted to eat or drink in here. He digs his fingers in a bag of corn doodles, offering me a few.

Roberto is like a lot of students, rules do not mean much to him. That is why I like working with younger students. You can influence them in positive ways. I'm warning him, I won't be able to tutor him until he puts his snacks away. I've gotten special permission from Mrs. Carolyn: Instead of volunteering at the library this week, I will work with him on his research paper. But he must follow the rules.

Holding the can up high, soda streaming into his mouth, splashing over his cheeks, he drinks every drop. He stuffs snacks in his mouth. He goes to the trash can, whistling.

Raven walks upstairs, still smiling at me. I try to recall the exact words of the text I sent her the night we left the movies. I think I said, “You're pretty. I'm busy. I will call you if I ever want to go out again.”

It isn't easy keeping excellent grades. Besides, I do not like people thinking they need to help me. All during the movie, she asked if I was okay. I had told her. I was fine. On her way from the girls' room the second
time, she brought me more damp tissues and wiped down parts of my chair that I wasn't able to reach. I'd never want anyone to do that.

Walking toward the biographies, weighed down with books, she keeps her green eyes on me. Her two girlfriends do the same.

Roberto returns and hands me his assignment. He has only completed one page of a six-page report. It's written in cursive, not on the computer, which his teacher instructed him to use.

Some of his work is written in pencil, smeared. A few paragraphs are done in yellow ink. Words are crossed out. But his spelling is perfect. His grammar, excellent. “This is a draft, right?”

He pulls his paper from my hands, slowly. Blinking. He did not understand the assignment, he points out. He was too afraid to ask his teacher to explain. And he doesn't have a computer at home. I have an old laptop. Ruffling his hair, I say, “Maybe, if we keep working together, I'll pass it along.”

“For real, Adonis?”

I talk to him about proper study habits. “This can be an A paper, Roberto,” I point out. “Only you've got to promise me one thing.”

Jaxxon walks into the library. Girls on the first floor
start to giggle, while they stand up tall and push themselves out.

Roberto says he will promise me anything, if I'll give him the laptop.

I write myself a note, a reminder to bring it in. “Quit waiting until the last minute.” I pull out my index cards. “Only people like Autumn do that.” He smiles as if I said something positive about her.

“It's wrong,” he says.

I stare at his paper. “What's wrong?”

“Your watch. It stopped. It's not four o'clock.”

“Let's … we have to … I'm here to help you, Roberto.”

We work on his thesis statement. Raven and her friends take a seat on the floor between the stacks. Once Jaxxon walks up, they get as loud as the zoo during feedings. After a while, I go over, asking if they could please quiet down. Jaxxon gives me the finger. Raven follows me back to my desk, still smiling.

When she says, “Hello, Adonis,” the bangles dance on her arm.

Sitting on our desk, she thanks me. “By being rude to me, you did me a big favor. I always pick the wrong guys.” She pinches Roberto's cheek. “And because of what you did: not texting me back, not speaking to me
in class for two whole weeks”— she jumps to her feet — “I went out with Michael Jones Kellerman.” She came to tell me about that yesterday, she says. “But you were being you. Obnoxious.”

Roberto practically stands up. “Eighth-grade Michael?” Like a thirsty dog, he pants. “I, I like Autumn. That wrestling girl. Maybe she'll go out with me.” He pushes his hair behind one ear.

Raven turns on her heels, switching. “Jerk,” she says, walking over to her friends. “Double jerk,” she yells, looking right at me.

Her friends laugh. Jaxxon cackles louder than anyone — which is ridiculous. I am so far ahead of him — of any of them — I might as well be a comet.

Roberto whispers, “Do you think Autumn Knight would date a seventh grader?”

Packing my things, I inform him, “We will need to do this tomorrow, Roberto. When you are less distracted.”