Lil’ Larry did not keep the promise to his mom on that first day. He kept his head down and barely found each of his classrooms through a sheen of panic amongst hallway swells of bodies. His goal was to simply make it through the day and get to the auctioneering club. Parachuting down into enemy territory he would finally arrive at the designated safe zone. There, behind closed doors he would shed his anxiety and be himself, a star on the stage. Lunchtime was where he felt most vulnerable to attack, and he could only fight down a few bites of a taste-free turkey sandwich on dense homemade bread that for some reason Darcy thought was his favorite. He kept his gaze on the off-white Formica table as big swashbuckling seniors held court, surveying the savannah in languid triumph. His late-year
