At lunch time Stacy stood with the other students along the cafeteria wall, waiting to go through the serving line. Having deposited his books in his locker after math, he kept his now empty hands in his pockets, where his fingers toyed with the rumpled five his mom had slipped him the last time he came by Wal-Mart during her shift. At the time he hadn’t even pretended to refuse the money—this school bit was her idea, she could at least spot him a few bucks for lunch.
The line shuffled forward a bit. Stacy kept his head down, his gaze on his sneakers, so he wouldn’t look at anyone. He wasn’t here to make friends or chat or hang out. Two more hours, he told himself. No, two and a half. Lunch, then woodshop, then home. But woodshop first. With Darian. His stomach gave a little flip, as if h
