Another problem with being suspended from school: Moping around the house all day makes me miss Rufus so badly that it’s almost a physical ache.

  It’s weird. I don’t even miss Dad that much—although my father isn’t dead, just divorced. Still, it’s been more than a year since Rufus tangled with that Roto-Rooter truck and came out second best. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. Yet I still half expect to see the sheepdog come bounding down the hall, his furry face wet from drinking out of the toilet.

  Now that I’m suspended, the long hours at home only serve to point out Rufus’s absence more than ever. Without him, the house seems empty—no barking, no clicking of canine toenails on tile, no grinding of the garbage disposal, which Rufus had figured out how to turn on with a nudge of his huge snout. First he’d hit the switch; then he’d start whining because the noise scared him. The big guy had style. He would lie under the living room coffee table, and every time he sneezed—which was a lot—he would smash his head first on the underside of the glass top and then on the floor. Achoo—bang—thump! I’d give a lot to hear that sound one more time, or to feel the jolt of ice-cold nose when Rufus used to greet me after a day at school.

  But there’s no point focusing on that. Rufus is dead and my status at school is on life support. Suspended until further notice—those were the principal’s exact words. The further notice is scheduled to come half an hour from now at a special disciplinary meeting with Dr. Lalonde. Mom is taking an extended lunch so she can meet me at the school. That’s when we’ll find out how long the suspension will last—how long I’ll be sentenced to puttering around this house, chasing the ghost of Rufus while I eat myself up with guilt over my poor injured teacher.

  I push the unfinished letter aside, grab my jacket, and head out to the Volkswagen. No point in putting it off any longer. The car’s starter whirs feebly a few times, and for a moment I toy with the awful thought that I’m going to be late to my own sentencing. I whack the dashboard in exactly the right spot—above the center heating vent. The engine catches in a blue cloud of burnt oil. I’m on my way.

  Turning into the parking lot, I’m actually glad to see the school. Nothing like taking something away to make you appreciate it. I make a promise to myself then and there: I’ll keep my head down for the rest of senior year. My total focus will be on studying and making this up to Mrs. Nekomis. Like, I can go over to her house and offer to rake leaves, because maybe her arms hurt too much for her to do it herself. I’ll definitely come up with something.

  At the office, the security guard scans my driver’s license and prints me a visitor’s badge even though I show the guy my student ID.

  Mom is already there, her forehead creased with worry.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “It was just an accident.”

  Nervously, she reaches out and tries to smooth down my tuft. “Let’s hope Dr. Lalonde sees it that way.”

  Dr. Lalonde is a tall bald man with a fringe of gray hair and a long straight nose. He offers us each a glass of water, and I take him up on it. Suddenly, my mouth has gone Sahara dry.

  Mom leaves her glass untouched on the principal’s desk. “All right, give it to us straight. How bad is this?”

  Dr. Lalonde’s expression becomes pale and grave. “I’m afraid it’s as bad as it gets, Mrs. Rolle. I’m sure that you know the district has adopted a zero-tolerance policy regarding any behavior resulting in injury to a teacher.”

  I swallow hard. “I’m so sorry about that. I’d never hurt Mrs. Nekomis—she’s been my favorite teacher since middle school! She must know I didn’t do it on purpose!”

  The principal’s brow furrows, but he forges on. “I realize you meant no harm. Yet harm was caused nonetheless. As much as I’d like to intervene, it’s out of my hands. This comes straight from the district office.”

  My mother slumps in her chair. “How long is Mason going to be suspended for?”

  Dr. Lalonde sighs heavily. “You misunderstand me. Mason isn’t suspended at all. He’s expelled.”

  I snap to attention. “Expelled? Like kicked out? Forever?”

  The principal nods unhappily. “Believe me, Mason. I tried to intervene on your behalf. I explained to the school board exactly what happened. Even Mrs. Nekomis spoke up for you. But the new guidelines are very specific. If any harm comes to a faculty member at the hands of a student, that student is gone. No exceptions.”

  It’s as if the whole world tilts and I’m suddenly struggling to stay in my chair, like I’m on a twisting carnival ride. Expelled? Me? I’m a straight-A student, a science star, a teacher’s pet, a goody-goody! I’m so good I sometimes make myself sick!

  “But Mickey Zelinsky threw an M-80 in the furnace, and she didn’t get expelled!” I protest. “The whole school could have gone up! That’s all the teachers, not just one!”

  “I understand this must be a terrible shock,” Dr. Lalonde says sympathetically. “And I regret it. Honestly.”

  “But where’s Mason going to go to school?” Mom almost wails. “How’s he going to graduate?”

  “You’ll be able to make a special application to the surrounding districts,” the principal assures her. “And, of course, there’s always the private-school option.”

  “That’s all there is to it?” I’m amazed. “You get booted out of one school, and you just pick another?”

  “No,” the principal admits. “I won’t lie to you. With an expulsion on your record because of violence toward a teacher, it will be difficult to find a new school. Perhaps somewhere that specializes in behavior problems—”

  My mother leaps to her feet. “Mason doesn’t have behavior problems!”

  Dr. Lalonde doesn’t even have the courage to meet her eyes. “Maybe it won’t come to that,” he almost mumbles.

  I stand up. “Come on, Mom. I think we’re finished here.”

  I walk out of the office without waiting to be dismissed. Why should I? Lalonde isn’t my principal anymore. I can still hear Mom pleading my case, almost in tears. Isn’t there anything that can be done? How can an honor-roll student be thrown under the bus like this?

  Eventually, the sound of her voice is drowned out by the roaring in my ears. Nobody gets expelled. Detentions, sure, by the week—by the month. Disciplinary actions up the wazoo. Suspensions. Never expulsion. Not for an M-80 in the furnace, or vandalizing the boys’ locker room, or even driving a pickup truck through the plate-glass window of the cafeteria. And not for Ty, who’s every bit as guilty as I am.

  It would be funny if it wasn’t so life-changingly awful. I’ll never get accepted into another school—not a decent one, anyway. And what does that leave? A school for “behavior problems,” Dr. Lalonde suggested. A place where every kid is like Dominic the Dominator, only twenty times worse. A guy like me—who lets Dominic and Miggy get under my skin with a nickname like Spaceman—wouldn’t last ten minutes.

  And that’s the best-case scenario. What if I can’t find a new school in time to graduate this spring? That means no college next year. And what college would have me anyway, with an expulsion on my record? I think of my applications sitting in the admissions offices of some of the most elite universities. The trips across the country to visit campuses and take the tours. A student with my grades and my accomplishments should have his pick of anywhere he wants to go. Yeah, right.

  I’m doomed.

  All at once, I need out of this place. I burst through the heavy doors that open into the parking lot, but I don’t get more than a few steps before the weight of what’s happening causes my legs to fold under me and I sink to the pavement. The sheer unfairness of it presses down on me, and I can’t get up again. What’s the point of being a good kid—of trying hard and doing homework and following rules and being respectful to teachers—if one lousy accident can ruin your life for keeps?

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting there when someone grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet. Mom. Her face is tear-streaked, but her eyes are dry, and her expression is sheer determination.

  “I know how upset you are, but don’t panic. I’ll see if your father can come over tonight so we can discuss this. I have to get back to work.”

  “You’re leaving me?” The one thing I haven’t anticipated is having to bear this alone, even for just a few hours. The mere fact that Mom considers this serious enough to include Dad proves that we’re in Code Red.

  “They need me at the office,” she explains. “I’ll call your father from there. Maybe we can get a lawyer and fight this.”

  “You heard Lalonde!” I protest. “He said it’s zero tolerance.”

  She wraps her arms around me, and just for a second, I’m tempted to collapse into them and cry the way I did when I was little. “Try to relax,” she advises in a tone that sounds about as unrelaxed as it’s possible to be. “We’ll deal with this as a family tonight.” She rushes to her car and drives away.

  I’m rooted to the spot long after she’s disappeared from view. The only thing that starts me walking toward the Volkswagen is what I can see out of the corner of my eye—the security guard watching through the front window. For all I know, I’m about to be forcibly removed from school property. That’s what I get for thirteen years of straight As. Well, I won’t give them the satisfaction!

  The car starts on the first try—at least I can spare myself the humiliation of being asked to leave. As I screech out of the parking lot, my mind is still in the narrow stairwell that fateful morning—Ty and me, our matching science-fair projects at a standoff on the steps, neither of us willing to give way as mobs of kids build up behind us both.

  Even now, knowing what the consequences are, I can’t imagine what I could have done differently to avoid this terrible fate. Moved aside on the stairs, probably. But even then the two bulky projects wouldn’t have been able to pass in such a confined space. I would have had to back all the way down—or Ty all the way up. And how could we with crowds of students above and below?

  I make a left turn onto the main road, the Volkswagen spewing blue smoke as it accelerates up to speed. I have to admit that it didn’t help that the other person involved in the science project impasse on the stairs was Ty. There’s just been so much bad blood between us over the years.

  All that was put in motion half a decade ago, when two best friends became two mortal enemies. That was the moment that really set up this disaster. The old Mason and Ty wouldn’t have gotten into such a scrap over our science projects. The old Mason and Ty wouldn’t have done two separate projects in the first place. We would have been partners, like we’d always been in the past.

  If I’m honest with myself—brutally honest—the seeds of getting expelled were sown when I was twelve years old, on the night of Harvest Festival when the big storm blew through. When I violated the treaty by kissing Ava Petrakis by the wreckage of the Tilt-A-Whirl sign.

  That night—that wild night! I barely remember that kiss, and I still don’t know who took that picture of us that ended up on the seventh-grade chat. But it cost me the greatest friendship I’ll ever have. And now, five years later, it’s ruining my life. Here I am, racking my brain over what I could have done differently three days ago, when the moment that really could have made a difference took place at that Harvest Festival.

  If I had it to do over again, I’d change everything! I’d honor the treaty, I wouldn’t kiss anybody, and there’d be no picture on the seventh-grade chat for Ty to see!

  By now, I’m slamming my fists against the steering wheel, blinded by frustration and rage. Which probably explains why I don’t see the furniture van turning out in front of me until it’s too late.

  I slam on the brakes, kicking my heel into the pedal so hard I’m afraid my foot will blast clear through the floor. The rear of the VW swings around as the car goes into a spin. My last thought is: I’m not going to be able to stop in time.

  I hear screeching tires and smell burning rubber in the split second before the crushing jolt of impact.

  Everything goes dark.

  10

  Twelve Years Old

  SEPTEMBER 12

  I lurch awake, choking on thick liquid trickling down my throat.

  With a shudder of horror, I remember the accident. Blood!

  But no—the taste is salty. Almost foamy—

  I sit up with a start. Now that liquid is splashing down on my head. I look around, disoriented. How come I’m not sitting in the middle of the road? Where’s the car? The street? The daylight?

  I’m in a darkened room, wrapped in heavy fabric—a sleeping bag. And the liquid is being poured on me by a shadowy figure in a ski mask.

  “Hey—cut it out!” My voice is higher-pitched than it’s supposed to be.

  A plastic bottle hits the floor beside me, splashing the sleeping bag.

  There’s a click, and the room is flooded with light, momentarily blinding me. When I’m finally able to blink myself back into focus, I recognize the science lab. Only—it’s the middle school science lab! What am I doing there? I haven’t been in the middle school in years!

  Several other sleeping bags dot the floor, with middle school kids in them. This is some kind of sleepover! And there are two masked invaders, laughing diabolically and running for the exit. At last, their handiwork begins to appear amid the group—hands placed in bowls of water, magic-marker mustaches drawn on upper lips. Words like NERD, DWEEB, and LOSER decorate foreheads. Random pieces of lab equipment have been knocked everywhere. A cracked beaker oozes bubbling chemicals onto the tiles. I spot the plastic bottle beside me, still spewing liquid. Hydrogen peroxide.

  That’s when I see Mrs. Nekomis at the light switch, trying in vain to intercept the intruders as they blast out the door. I’m overcome with regret at the sight of her—until I suddenly realize that she’s totally unmarked by her tumble down the stairs. What happened to the scrapes and bruises? Three days ago, the science teacher looked like she lost a fight with a Bengal tiger! Now she’s totally fine! Nobody heals that fast! She even seems younger. And her hair is longer—

  “Mrs. Nekomis?” My voice is still higher, wrong.

  She stares at me. “Who’s Mrs. Nekomis?”

  “You are!”

  Her attention shifts from the two disappearing intruders to me. “Mason, are you all right? You’re spitting foam!”

  “They poured hydrogen peroxide in my mouth!” I complain in that voice—almost a little-kid voice.

  The teacher drags me over to the sink so I can rinse my mouth out with water. When I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall, it practically stops my heart.

  It’s not me!

  No, it is me—Mason Rolle. But it’s not me now.

  It’s me from middle school!

  I gawk at myself—the twelve-year-old face; the bristly stick-up hair, the way I used to wear it before I figured out how to grow it long and slick it down. Across my brow has been written the word SPACEMAN.

  I wheel and take in the sight of the middle schoolers crawling out of their sleeping bags. That kid—the one with DWEEB scrawled across his forehead—that’s Ty! Not Ty now, twelve-year-old Ty! And there’s Clarisse—still wearing her braces! I examine the faces, trying to add five years to each one. I know them all—at least I knew them all! This is the astronomy club Ty and I formed in seventh grade—the lab sleepover Mrs. Nekomis chaperoned so we could watch the Orionid meteor shower. Only she wasn’t Mrs. Nekomis back then, she was—

  “Ms. Alexander?” I breathe.

  The teacher leans forward in concern. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’re not foaming anymore, but you’re very pale.”

  Well, why wouldn’t I be pale? I have every reason to be! Just a few minutes ago, I was in a car accident, and now I’m here. And where is here? The middle school! But the real question is: When is here?

  The calendar on the wall provides all the information I need.

  That’s five years ago! What am I doing here?

  I rack my brain, but the only explanation that makes sense is terrifying in the extreme. I’m not actually in this lab half a decade in the past. I’m in the wreckage of my car, hallucinating and dying. And all this is my short life flashing before my eyes. Which means I could wink out and be gone forever any second now.

  Even though I know the moment isn’t real, I cling to it. It’s the last piece of my life I’m ever going to get to experience.

  Ty—seventh-grade version—puts a hand on my shoulder. “Dude, are you okay? You don’t look so hot.”

  In spite of everything, I feel a surge of happiness. If this is my final moment, at least I’m getting one from before Ty and I had that terrible fight. We’re friends again. I’m grateful I get to experience that one last time.

  “I’m good, man,” I assure him, “now that you’re here.”

  Ty gives me the nose-wrinkle frown. “What are you talking about? I was always here.”

  Clarisse puts her two cents in. “You guys are weird.”

  Ms. Alexander checks her watch. “Maybe we should call your parents, Mason, and have them pick you up. I think you’ve had enough of this sleepover.”

  “I don’t think they can get here in time,” I muse.

  “In time for what?” Ty demands.

  How can you tell your best friend that you could be dead at any second?

  Ms. Alexander is already dialing her phone. “That settles it. I’m calling.”

  “You’re a great teacher, Ms. Alexander,” I inform her emotionally. “I’d never push you down the stairs on purpose.”

  Clarisse is wide-eyed. “What was in that hydrogen peroxide?”

  “Ask Dominic and Miggy,” I reply. “They’re the ones who pranked us.”

  “Hold your horses,” Ms. Alexander warns. “I agree it was a rotten thing to do, but we have no proof of who it was.”

  “I do,” I assure her.

  “How can you be so certain?” the teacher demands. “None of us saw their faces.”