A List of Cages(44)

The very next day after Miss West and I’d talked about her son and missions, she was the same as she’d always been: volatile and unhappy with a hatred that spewed out of her like missiles. I thought I understood why. She must have hated us for being alive when her son was dead.

Lately the class has been turning against her. They’re openly hostile, and they whisper plots for revenge. It seems unfair, the way unhappiness flows out of a person, just to ricochet.

“Adam…do you think we have missions?”

He looks at me with a confused expression. “What kind of missions?”

“Things we’re meant to do.”

“I don’t know. Do you think you have a mission?”

I shrug, disappointed. If Adam doesn’t know, then I guess no one does.

A girl turns onto our hall, eyes red and sad, and as she passes, Adam sends her a smile. Her whole face brightens and she sends him a smile back.

Hate ricochets, but kindness does too.





KIDS ARE CIRCLING beneath the black iron ladder that leads to my hidden room. I’m afraid that any moment one of them will get the idea to climb it, then someone will shove around the furniture and discover the crooked boards. Someone will pull them back, and then a hundred more kids will jump inside and my room won’t be mine anymore.

It’s Monday, less than a week until the play. Everyone with a speaking part has to stay after school to rehearse in the auditorium. At this point even the kids with substantial parts know their lines. But not me. I’m still struggling just to read them.

“Speak up,” Miss Cross and the other English teachers keep telling me, but then it’s just louder stuttering. I want to disappear or teleport, but instead I’m on a stage, more visible than I’ve ever been.

Finally, at six o’clock, the teachers tell us we can leave. Instead of following the crowd, I look both ways and dart up the ladder into my room.

I wait here long enough for everyone below to be gone before I climb back down. I’m alone backstage with all the props and the piano, and I’m tempted to sit down and play it. Only I never really learned, even though Mom tried to teach me, because reading music was too hard and I gave up.

I’m stepping toward the curtain when I’m startled by a voice. “He’s going to ruin the entire production!”

I peek around the large wooden castle and see a flash of orange hair. Kristin is standing across from Alex, who’s playing Hamlet. “I mean, really, in three weeks you can’t memorize thirteen lines?” She whispers something, then leans in close to him, touching his arm. He pulls back a little, then her fish eyes dart over to find me watching them. “Yes, Julian,” she says, “we’re talking about you.”


It’s raining cold, wet bullets and my hair is plastered to my head when a black Jeep squeals to a stop right beside me.

“Need a ride?” Charlie calls through the window.

I hesitate before opening the passenger door.

“You’re getting water all over my new seats,” he says as soon as I sit down. Charlie’s never friendly, but tonight his expression is different, scarier.

“I’m sorry. I can get out.”

“It’s fine,” he snaps, pulling into the street. “So? You didn’t ride with Adam today?”

“No, I had rehearsal. You didn’t either?”

“Adam’s an asshole.”

“No he’s not.”

Charlie clenches the steering wheel like he might tear it off, then he takes a sudden angry turn. For a second we’re airborne, then we skid though a deep puddle in the shoulder. My heart is tripping in my ears, and I’m afraid I’m going to be sick. “Um…it’s all right, Charlie. You can let me off here.”

“I said I’d give you a ride, so shut up and let me give you a ride.”

He slaps a lever, turning the windshield wipers to a higher speed, and swerves back onto the road. I grip my stomach, willing the nausea to pass.

“I’m sorry,” I say after a few blocks in silence. “I know I annoy people.” I’m not sure why I’m talking. I can tell he doesn’t want me to speak. “That’s why I don’t ride the bus.”

He gives me a sharp look. “Some people are bothering you?”

“Just one boy. Since I started school.”

“He’s been bothering you all year?”

“No, since I started school. In kindergarten.”

“What’s he been doing?” For some reason Charlie sounds even angrier now than he did before, and he folds his lips into his mouth.

“He hits me sometimes. But it’s okay. I know—”

“How’s it okay for someone to hit you?”

“He’s just unhappy.”

“Unhappy?” Charlie is so scornful that I start to stutter.

“N-no one wants to hurt anyone. They d-do it because they’re unhappy.”

“Or maybe they’re just dicks.”

I watch the steady clip-swipe of the windshield wipers. They can’t move fast enough to keep up with the rain.

“Charlie…are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Happy?”

He looks stunned for a minute, like I’ve voiced the most personal question he’s ever been asked. It’s raining so hard I can barely hear him when he answers, “No.”