Last night, when Regina put me on the spot, I didn't feel nervous or afraid that my cover would be blown because a part of me felt like all of this was like The Wizard of Oz; I hit my head, wishing for a better life, and went into a coma. Minus the little people and glitter, this feels like that.

But now I'm basically pinned to a wall. As I'm pulling my beaded braids into two low-space buns, she's leaning against my door frame with her arms crossed. She has those same narrowed eyes from before, but now it's like she knows something.

"So, are you gonna tell me the truth, or should I go tell on you," she asks, and I stop what I'm doing to stare at my reflection in my vanity. My mind begins to spin again, desperately searching for anything she'd know that would get me in trouble. When I can't think of anything, a smile grows across my face, and I continue tying my hair with elastics. "Okay." She nods her head with her lips pursed, then peeks over her shoulder as Michelle steps into the hall bathroom. I wrap one bun in a scrunchie. She waits for the shower water to run before she turns her head to me, then leans it forward to whisper, "I know you and Keenan killed the Williams' cow."

I fumble with my last scrunchie, my hands now shaking, and I eventually drop the lilac circle behind me. She looks at it without moving her head, then at me in the same motion, her thin eyebrow raised in a questioning way.

"Don't you wanna know how I know?" No. I honestly feel like knowing is worse than me struggling to piece together how she found out. Don't ask me why.

Beep, Beep!

We turn to my window behind me, and I see the tail end of the big yellow bus. I turn my head back to her as she shuts the door behind her, leaning against it and watching me pick up my scrunchie.

"Just ask me how I know, Squeak." Regina sets her hands in the back pockets of her high-waisted jeans as I tie the scrunchie around my other bun. She watches me take my bookbag off the foot of my bed, and as I place an arm through both loops, she says, "Fine, I'll just say it." I look at her, then at her gold hoop earrings that swing just above her shoulders. My heart starts to ram against my chest, and my stomach twists in knots. I only want her to move, but she clearly won't budge. "I heard you two days ago. You told Keenan that you both killed the woman's cow. You need to be more aware of your surroundings."

Beep, Beep!

"Leila, the bus is here," Mom yells from the kitchen. I don't say anything, and neither does Regina, and that smirk doesn't leave her face. When she steps aside, I rush to the door and open it, then sprint down the well-lit hall toward the front door.

I step on the porch, shutting the door behind me right when the driver pulls the stop sign in, but she draws it out again when she sees me run down the stone path to the curb.

I can see Keenan in the fourth seat on the right side of the bus, and as I wait for the driver to open the door, I look around the idyllic middle-class neighborhood of blue suburban houses.

I walk up the steps and immediately regret not letting the driver leave when I see a bunch of boys crowding the very back aisle while seated. The ones by the windows are banging beats against the glass, and the ones in the aisle are rapping back and forth. One is dark-skinned and chubby; the other is brown-skinned and lanky.

I find my way to Keenan's seat, and he stands in the aisle so I can sit against the wall. He sits beside me as the driver closes the door and drives off.

"What's going on?" I have to talk a notch above my regular volume for him to hear me, and he looks at me out of the corner of his eyes. I forgot we weren't on speaking terms since our argument yesterday, but I wanted to know who those guys are and why they're rowdy early in the morning. I lean against my bookbag that's still on my back, watching the scenery speed by.

Eventually, we pick up Troy, and as if the bus wasn't loud enough, seeing him in a Tommy Hilfiger jacket made the rappers yell out how fly and dope it was.

"'ey, where you get your shoes from," the skinny one asks him before he sits diagonally from me.

Troy glances at me, then looks at the guy and says, "My grandma bought it for me. I don't know." He sits down while staring at me, and a smile slowly forms on his face, like he's waiting for my reaction or for me to greet him. "Hey."

I glance at Keenan, who immediately stares ahead when he sees me look at him. His blank expression hasn't changed, but I know he's hoping I don't speak to Troy. "Hey," I say back, and sure enough, Keenan shuts his eyes and huffs in annoyance.

"You like my jacket," he asks, and I look him up and down from his backward-facing cap to his Jordans.

I didn't grow up wearing name-brand anything and I didn't care about that kind of thing, so honestly, no. I don't like his jacket or his outfit, but I don't hate it.

"It's a'ight," I say, imitating the other kids, and I see Keenan furrow his eyebrows. Troy playfully scoffs, a smile plastered on his face, and we rock in our seats when the bus stops.

"A'ight? What you mean it's a'ight?" I shrug, and he kisses his teeth, throwing a hand at me as he looks toward the front of the bus. I see his face light up even more when Y'Vonne walks up the steps. Her jet-black hair is now dirty blonde and up in a half-up, half-down ponytail. She's wearing high-waisted boyfriend jeans, Adidas, and a denim jacket.

He gives her the window seat, and I can see her braces when she smiles at whatever he's saying to her. I cut my eyes at Keenan, his eyes shut and his head bobbing left and right as we cross potholes.

***

Gym class wasn't as eventful as it was on Friday, but I didn't mind. We ran a few laps and practiced free throws, but it wasn't anything that should break a person out in a sweat.

Maybe it was because my sister was on my case about what she overheard, or it was the feeling of being smothered thanks to the fact that it's like twenty kids in a four-by-four room.

Whatever it is, when the bell rings, I'm visibly sweaty. When I lift my arms, there are two dark stains on the pits of my shirt, so I have to keep my arms close to my sides until I can change.

"You were better this time," Melissa tells me. I pull my new shirt over my head, straightening the hems around my waist. I won't say thank you because I know she's being sarcastic, and when her friends snicker at her comment, it confirms what I already know.

I carry my bookbag toward the door by the handle, and when I leave the locker room, I hear someone burst out in laughter, which I assume is from what she said to me.

I walk to Keenan when I spot him sitting on the bottom bleacher, talking to a girl. Her cornrows reach her upper back, and she has wooden beads on the ends that clack when she whips her hair.

"Hey, we gotta get to class." He looks at her, and she purses her lips. I sling my bookbag onto my back, my eyes darting from him to her.

"Well, I'll see you at lunch," she says, and I knit my brows and fold my arms under my chest. I notice a smile he struggles to suppress, and I drop my arms, my eyebrows relaxed but my mouth slightly open. He likes this girl. He berated me about Troy and how I shouldn't get attached to anyone here, and here he is flirting with what looks like a sixth grader.

"How old is she," I ask, but either way, it doesn't matter, because I'm gonna give him the same treatment he gave me.

"I don't know. I think she's our age." He's lying; I just know it. I have a baby face, but even I can tell she's at most twelve and a half. He stands up and walks alongside me out of the gym. The halls are crowded with other students—some are tall, most are short, most are skinny, and a few are chubby—and we have to squeeze through a few basketball players to get to room 104D.

Then it dawned on me: We have classes and families as if we already existed. Our parents didn't question why we looked nothing like them; the pictures here and there in our houses show everyone but us because our faces are blurred, but they don't seem to notice.

We have backstories and certain behaviors that they've grown used to, but we're oblivious. For example, Keenan is known for not knowing how to skate. I brushed it off when his parents mentioned it because it's actually true, but Regina said I'm usually mouthy, which is far from true.

I remember on the first night when they tucked me in, I had this sad feeling like I stole their child's life. What if that's what happened?

"Alright, everyone, get in your seats," the teacher says as we make our way to the two desks in the middle of the front row. She's writing her name in the top left corner of the green and brown chalkboard, with today's date below it. "If I turn around and see anyone standing when the bell rings, you'll be sent to the principal's office for being late to class."

Mrs. Henderson sounds like Roz from Monster's Inc., but when the bell rings and she faces us, I have to grit my teeth to avoid staring at her with my mouth wide. Her nose is as big as a bell pepper; beside her left nostril is a mole that looks just as big; and her slanted eyes stare at us over her thick-framed glasses.

"Jason, go to the principal's office." He kisses his teeth, and I glance at Keenan. His eyes are trained on the sickly-skinny woman in front of us.

"Come on, Mrs. H, I was just getting a pencil." His voice sounds familiar, so I look over my shoulder, and sure enough, it's the chubby kid from the bus.

He's sitting between a girl with jaw-length straight hair and a kid who looks around eleven because of his small face and body. She points to the door with the chalk in hand, her mean expression not softening.

He kisses his teeth again, hands the kid the yellow pencil, and then walks toward the front of the class with his hands in his pockets. Keenan and I watch him leave the room, matching the glare the teacher is giving him.

"Now, I'll be without nonsense this year," she says, eyeing all of us with her mouth scrunched. "I leave you all for one day, and your substitute tells me that all of you not only misbehaved but refused to turn in your classwork and homework." Me and Keenan furrow our brows and look at each other at the same time. We did do our assignments, and I remember because she whispered to us that we may be her best students. "So, since you all want to lie about me not assigning homework on Thursday, then I'll be sure to remember to give you extra on Friday." Everyone but us groans at her threat. He and I are too busy with our mouths open from shock to say anything. "And as for today," she raises her voice to gain control over the now rowdy class, then says, "You'll write a detailed essay about our president and what makes him good or bad."

"This isn't even history class," someone yells out, and I look back to see that it was the scrawny kid next to Jason.

"Melvin, I wouldn't risk getting written up again." She points at him with both brows raised, and I dart my gaze from her to him. "Matter of fact, I know your mother; I taught her when she was young, so don't show out for your classmates and make me call her."

Some kids say, Oooh, and he yells, "Shut up," before slinking down in his chair.