“What was who thinking?” Fisher asks back, trying hard to appear innocent. Then a smirk creeps across his face and his eyes twinkle like I’ve seen when he’s pulled a stunt before.

“Come on, Fish,” I whisper, glancing from Fisher to Bruce, who’s suddenly really interested in his notebook doodles and won’t meet my eyes. “If I can figure it out, they’re gonna figure it out.”

“Figure what out, Danny?” Fisher asks, but he starts laughing and puts a fist over his mouth like he’s coughing but that only gets him going more. I glance around, seeing who else in the library is watching us. It’s study hall for some students, but I’m up here for lunch period, hiding out from football captains on the warpath since the water-balloon drive-by earlier that morning at the homecoming pep rally. Surprise, surprise I find Fisher and Bruce up here as well.

“I’ve seen your dirt bike before, dumbass,” I say. I know Fisher doesn’t care, but I expect Bruce to be more responsible. “Bruce, do you think they’re going to just let the whole thing slide?”

Bruce, ignoring my question, keeps doodling until Fisher elbows him. That’s when I see Bruce’s shoulders start jerking with silent laughter.

“God!” I shake my head. “When they come to kick my ass, I’m snitching you guys out so fast . . .” I start to threaten, but drift off, knowing I won’t. “Doofuses!”

“Relax, Danny.” Bruce gets hold of himself. “You didn’t do anything. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

With our school’s rotating schedule, algebra is my last class that day, and when the bell rings, I sit and wait for everyone to leave first. My plan is to give it ten minutes and let the halls clear before heading to my locker and then go down to the team room. I’ve successfully avoided Miller, Studblatz, and Jankowski all day since the pep rally.

Then Kurt Brodsky squeezes himself down into the empty desk next to mine.

The last of the students files out of the doorway. I close my launching pad and pile Algebra for Life on top of my blank work sheet and notebook. Mr. Klech is busy erasing the chalkboard, his back turned to us.

“Yuh-yuh-you and your friends were pretty fuh-fuh-funny today,” Kurt Brodsky stutters at me without any introduction. By “fuh-fuh-funny,” I take him to mean Fisher and Bruce’s water-ballooning, and maybe even Ronnie accidentally landing on Studblatz. Since Kurt is neither smiling nor laughing, I also take “fuh-fuh-funny” to mean this giant’s been paid in raw beef liver to mutilate all gymnasts and I’m first.

“It wasn’t planned,” I snivel, glancing toward the front of the classroom. Mr. Klech is still erasing, whistling now as he rubs away the day, totally oblivious to the murder about to occur in his classroom. Kurt Brodsky will punch me once with that huge fist of his and obliterate me, then walk out of class without Mr. Klech ever noticing. I grab the Algebra for Life book and slowly move it against my rib cage like body armor.

“Are fuh-fuh-flips hard to luh-luh-learn?” Kurt asks, leaning toward me as he stutters, like he wants to disguise what we’re discussing from Mr. Klech—if Mr. Klech ever bothers turning around.

“The back handsprings? Hmmm. Not really,” I say while my inner voice urges me to keep talking and hold off the attack until Mr. Klech finally notices us. “I mean, you need to know some basics first but then, once you know how, they’re pretty simple.”

“You think ... I could luh-luh-luh-learn how? Or do you have to be suh-suh-suh-small? Luh-luh-like you?”

“Being small doesn’t matter,” I snap, feeling my lip curl at the lame question. “You have to be strong,” I say. “And limber.” I frown at the big body hunched over the too-tiny desk. “You might be able to learn it. I don’t know. Maybe.” I grip my pencil in case I needed to use it as a wooden stake. “Why do you want to learn it?” I ask.

“I wuh-wuh-want to do one in the end zone. After I suh-suh-score a tuh-tuh-tuh-touchdown.” Kurt thumps a fist against his desktop like an exclamation point. “Muh-muh-maybe you could tuh-tuh-teach me.”

Once I get over my relief, I have to admit that seeing someone as big as Kurt Brodsky scoring a touchdown and spiking the ball, then doing a back handspring—especially wearing all his football gear—would look pretty cool. And if I could teach him that and if others knew I taught him . . .

“Yeah, maybe I could.” I nod. “It would be pretty sweet seeing someone big as you toss a handspring in the game.” Kurt dips his chin along with me like we just figured out Mr. Klech’s extra-credit question together. “You’ll have to come into the gym,” I say. “ ’ Cause we’ll need the mats, especially with you. And I’ll need one of the other guys to help me spot you.”

“I got puh-puh-practice same time you duh-duh-do,” Kurt says, pinching his brows together. While he thinks, he props his chin on a granite fist. He barely fits behind the desk but he’s all muscle, not fat. His jeans stretch tight over massive thighs, telling me he has plenty of horsepower to motor his body through a handspring. Not counting Terrence Mathers, the Knights’ compact running back, or Deon Sweeney, their speedy wide receiver, Kurt has the best chance of learning a backflip out of all the football goons.

“How about tomorrow?” I ask. “We practice on Saturdays. It’s an optional workout. Coach usually leaves early, so it’ll just be me, Bruce, and a few of the guys. Me and Bruce can probably get you around safely if we team up.”

“Ruh-really?” he asks, and the serious expression policing his face loosens a little. He turns his head farther toward me as we talk and I see the long scar peeking out from behind his hair.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s worth a shot. We usually practice from ten to one. Come in around twelve thirty. Coach’ll be gone by then. He’s not supposed to, but he lets us lock up. I’ll tell Bruce you’re coming. The other guys’ll be gone.”

“Okay.”

I glance toward the front of the room to see if Mr. Klech is paying any attention to us yet. Nope. He finishes wiping down the board and starts filling it up with more math crap for Monday’s lessons. The nub of his chalk goes tick, tick, tick against the slate like a warning transmission. Warning ...

Wait! My brains wakes up. What if this is all a trap?!

“If you’re trying to set me or my friends up,” I say through clenched teeth, remembering who Kurt’s teammates are, “then . . . well ... that’s bullshit.”

Mr. Klech’s chalk stops tick, tick, ticking.

“Mr. Meehan, I don’t know where you think you are right now but that language is not tolerated in this classroom. And don’t the both of you have practice to attend? I’d appreciate it if you and Mr. Brodsky would leave now and allow me a few moments to myself.”

“Sorry, Mr. Klech,” I say, and mean it. My irritation with Kurt lingers, though, for no other reason than I know his team captains are a bunch of ass-licks. Kurt unwinds himself from the cramped desk and exits class without a word to Mr. Klech. I follow behind him.

“Danny,” Kurt says as we walk down the hall, my head only coming up to his shoulder, “I ain’t suh-suh-setting you up.”

The school is clearing out fast. In the hallway, eyes from every grade, guy and girl, ping Kurt as they pass. Most dash away quickly but, as he and I talk, a few land lower, noticing me for the first time.

“All right,” I say. “If you’re serious about learning, I’ll teach you.”