Embarrassed, Zeke took off the worn-out, too-small sash from his shoulders. He handed it back to the Principal.

  “You’re going to have to earn my trust again,” she said, caressing the sash with one furry paw. “I’m very disappointed.”

  “Yes, Principal Wombat,” Zeke said, ashamed of himself.

  “And you’re going to apologize to Pelicarnassus.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. And the two Normans.”

  “But he’ll probably try to destroy me with, like, a laser or something!”

  “No, he won’t. He knows lasers aren’t allowed on school grounds.” She came around the desk and put a hand on Zeke’s shoulder to guide him out the door. “In fact, I bet you two will end up close friends after this!”

  “What?”

  She smiled at him. “That’s what happens in all the best stories for kids!”

  Still smiling, she shut the office door in his face.

  “I have to apologize to him,” Zeke told the other two monitor lizards on the bus ride home.

  “No way,” Daniel said sympathetically.

  “And the Normans.”

  “Oh, they don’t count,” Alicia said. “But apologizing to Pelicarnassus is hard stuff.”

  “At least I didn’t get expelled.”

  Alicia frowned. “Everyone acts like that’s the end of the world. As if there’s no way back from it and your life is over. There are ways back from everything. It doesn’t matter what mistake you make or what consequences you have to face from that mistake, it’s what you do afterward that’s important.”

  Zeke and Daniel stared at her after this little speech. She still didn’t make eye contact.

  The bus was a loud, squawky place, filled with all the poorer students whose parents couldn’t pick them up. The bus driver was a small shrew who didn’t bother much with discipline, as he was too busy trying to see far enough over the steering wheel to drive without killing anything.

  “And I’m no longer a Hall Monitor,” Zeke added.

  “Well, that’s no surprise,” Daniel said. “You clearly can’t be trusted with that sort of responsibility.”

  “Hey!” Zeke said.

  Daniel shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.”

  “Who’s the hawk?” Alicia said, still staring ahead.

  Zeke and Daniel looked toward the front of the bus (all lizards sat in the back, near the engine, where it was warmest). There they saw an enormous—and enormously upright—hawk sitting immobile on the back of the front-row bus seat, his claws digging terrifyingly into the plastic not-leather cushion. Even when the bus swerved, which it did constantly, the hawk didn’t sway with it, just gripped a little tighter, his tiny, ferocious hawk face glaring straight ahead.

  But that wasn’t what made him stand out. There were three things that did. One, he didn’t wear a hat like all the other birds. But two, he did wear sunglasses. Sunglasses weren’t allowed at school. Principal Wombat didn’t like them, said they contributed to unruly behavior, but that hardly mattered as what kid ever wore sunglasses? Yet here was the hawk with very expensive-looking sunglasses across his beak like he had been born with them.

  The third thing that made him stand out was that he was a bird on the bus. Most birds just flew home. Why wouldn’t they? Or, if they were Pelicarnassus, they rode in limousines with a private driver employed by their mother.

  “He was in class today,” Alicia said, “but he didn’t say anything.”

  “Is he new?” Daniel asked.

  Zeke shrugged “How would we know? What birds ever talk to us?”

  “Yeah, I never got that,” Daniel said. “I mean dinosaurs were giant bird-lizards. We’re practically family.”

  “Some people find their families difficult,” Zeke said. Even Daniel, distracted as he always was, would have noticed the heavy feeling behind this, but that was the exact moment Alicia rose from her seat and walked up the aisle to the hawk.

  “Where’s she going?” Daniel asked, following her.

  “Don’t follow—” Zeke started, but what was the point? He got up and followed as well.

  Alicia was already talking to the hawk. She turned to Daniel and Zeke as they arrived. “This is Miel,” she said.

  “IT MEANS HONEY!” said Miel in the angry, shouty voice all hawks were stuck with.

  “He’s a red-tailed hawk,” Alicia said.

  “I AM A RED-TAILED HAWK!” said the hawk.

  “Why does he wear sunglasses?” Daniel asked.

  “I AM SITTING RIGHT HERE!” Miel said. “IT IS RUDE NOT TO ADDRESS ME DIRECTLY!”

  “Sorry,” Daniel said meekly. Hawks were natural predators of lizards, but no one ate anyone anymore. Right?

  “THAT IS PERFECTLY OKAY!” Miel replied. “IT IS A COMMON ERROR WITH THE BLIND!”

  “You’re blind?” Daniel said.

  “He’s blind,” Alicia said. “I was going to tell you.”

  “That’s why you’re on the bus,” Daniel said.

  “THAT IS WHY I AM ON THE BUS!”

  There was a small silence. No one was sure where the conversation was supposed to go from here. The lizards had satisfied their curiosity, but there was still a big gulf in social status between them and a hawk.

  “TELL ME!” Miel said, in a way that was probably meant to be friendly but came out as a command. “ARE YOU LIZARDS?”

  “How did you know that?” Zeke asked, surprised.

  “I AM BLIND! I AM NOT AN IDIOT!”

  Zeke hurried to apologize. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “NO, I AM JUST MESSING WITH YOU! IT IS FUN! HA HA! I COULD TELL YOU WERE LIZARDS IN MANY WAYS! SCENT, SIZE, BODY HEAT, TIMBRE OF YOUR VOICES!”

  “The what of our voices?” Daniel asked.

  “TIMBRE! HOW YOU SOUND! DEPENDS ON THE SIZE AND SHAPE OF THE AIRWAYS IN YOUR HEAD! EVERYONE IS DIFFERENT! THIS IS MY STOP!”

  And it was his stop. The lizards hadn’t even noticed the shrew hitting the brakes, nor was there any signal as to how Miel had known. But there they were. Miel hopped off the back of the seat. “IT WAS MY FIRST DAY! THANK YOU, LIZARDS, FOR BEING FRIENDLY! EVERYONE ELSE WAS TOO AFRAID TO APPROACH!”

  And with that, he hopped out the door, where his even more terrifying-looking hawk dad was waiting for him and threw his wings open to hug his son. As the bus pulled away, the lizards watched the pair hop happily up the driveway to their house.

  The school needed a hero, Zeke thought.

  He wondered if it had maybe found one.

  “He might be French, you know,” Alicia said as they walked up the cul-de-sac where all three lived in different houses. Nice houses, if small, more glass and windows than other people’s, yes, but that’s because lizards needed the sun. They were the only houses Zeke and Daniel and Alicia had ever known. They hadn’t even been aware they were a bit shabby until they saw the homes of their classmates.

  It didn’t matter (did it?). Daniel’s and Alicia’s moms were good friends, and both of them had looked after Zeke many times when Zeke’s mom . . . wasn’t able to.

  “Why?” Daniel asked.

  “His name,” Zeke answered, because he’d been thinking about it, too. “It’s Miel.”

  “He said it means honey,” Alicia said.

  “In French,” Zeke said.

  “Think he’s been to your knee?” Alicia asked.

  Zeke had also wondered that. “I didn’t want to ask.”

  “Why not?”

  Zeke shrugged, unable to quite explain his shyness. Having a whole country on your knee was weird enough in theory, but it was all kinds of awkward in practice. He had to keep it out of the bath when he washed or he flooded all their farmlands. Twice a day, he had to let planes fly in and out, landing on his kneecap. He had to wear shorts, even in the coldest weather, which wasn’t that great when you were a cold-blooded creature.

  He shouldn’t have had to have France on his knee at his age. But his father died early, and it passed down as an inheritance through the boys of the family, despite that being an “archaic legacy of patriarchy,” according to nearly every woman in Zeke’s life, including Alicia, her mom, and both of Daniel’s moms. Yet there it was.

  The French would have preferred to be off his knee as well, but no one knew how, so everyone tried to make the best of it. They gave him cheese. It was really good cheese.

  “I’m not, like, king of France, or anything,” Zeke said. “They just live on my knee.”

  “Poor Zeke and his family burden,” Alicia said.

  Zeke shrugged. “They gotta live somewhere.” Which is what his father had said, and his grandfather before that. Though neither of them had a country on their knee until a very long time after having to go to PE and play volleyball. The French were never happy about volleyball day.

  Then again, who was? Volleyball was the worst thing in the entire world.

  “Do you want to come over?” Daniel asked as they stopped in front of his house. He and Alicia looked at Zeke in a kind way, one Zeke knew was well meant but didn’t much care for, if he was honest.

  “No, I need to go home,” he said. They watched him as he walked to the end of the cul-de-sac toward his house. They were still watching him as he paused before his front door and sighed. They were probably too far away to hear him say “Zut alors” under his breath.

  The day his father died, Zeke’s mom came home with a black dog. It didn’t speak, it didn’t look at Zeke, it just hung around his mom like a cloud. Some days it let her get up, make him breakfast, go to work, letting her come close to acting like the mom she was before.

  But you never knew. Because there were other days when it wouldn’t even let her out of bed. When it growled if Zeke tried to come near, when it sometimes even bared its teeth at him and barked and chased him out of her room. The door would shut, the black dog would guard it on the other side, and who knew how long it would be before it opened again?

  “Mom?” he called when he came in the front door. The lights were all off, the TV was off, and her bedroom door was closed. He tiptoed up to it silently—lizards are very, very good at this—and put his ear to the wood. It was quiet on the other side, but a thick sort of quiet. He could almost sense the black dog waiting for him to knock, and if he did, there was no telling what the dog would do.

  So Zeke didn’t knock. He put his school stuff in his bedroom, then went into the kitchen, made himself a snack, and watched TV. When it got dark, he made himself some dinner. Alicia’s mom called about then, and he told her, “No, everything’s okay. We’re just about to eat.” Then he hung up and ate by himself. He did some homework at the kitchen table underneath a single lamp, and when it was time, he brushed his teeth, got into his pajamas, and went back to his mom’s bedroom door.

  “Mom?” he whispered.

  He heard a low growl from under the door.

  “Good night, mom,” he whispered.

  Then he went to bed.

  Daniel and Zeke had been given toy walkie-talkies when they were just hatched. No one knew they still used them to talk to each other at night. Zeke’s scratched into life. “Zeke? You there?”

  Zeke took his walkie-talkie from its hiding place under his bed. “Yeah,” he said.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  “Daniel—” Zeke warned.

  “Because you could tell me.”

  Zeke just breathed for a second before finally saying, “I know I could, buddy.”

  “Apology day tomorrow.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Too late. See you at the bus stop.”

  “Yes.”

  And Daniel was gone. They had been friends Zeke’s whole life. Maybe they didn’t have all that much in common, aside from being lizards who were born in the same nursery.

  But maybe sometimes that was enough.

  It was a while before Zeke fell asleep. France was celebrating something, and even though they tried to be quiet about it, it was hard not to stay up and watch the little fireworks display.

  The apology to Pelicarnassus and the Normans was scheduled for first recess. Zeke had to do it alone, though he did glimpse Daniel and Alicia looking through the windows of the hall doors, Hall Monitor sashes on their shoulders.

  Everyone else was watching, too. All the springboks playing baseball, the pandas who controlled the big wooden slides, even the nerdy pangolins who played D&D in the shade of the library. All stopped to watch as Principal Wombat walked Zeke out to the middle of the blacktop basketball court that had weeds growing up through the cracks.

  Pelicarnassus and the Normans were waiting for him. Pelicarnassus had his left wing in a sling.

  “You trying to tell me I hurt your wing?” Zeke said before Principal Wombat could even start.

  Pelicarnassus smirked. “I’m afraid of your strength and brutality.”

  “That’s enough, both of you,” Principal Wombat said. “Now, Zeke, have you got something to say to Pelicarnassus, here in front of all your classmates, setting a good example of conflict resolution and friendship between animals of very different species?”

  “Well,” said Zeke, who felt like this was an awful lot of pressure on one measly apology to a lying, bullying, wannabe supervillain, “I guess so.”

  There was an expectant silence as everyone waited for Zeke. Principal Wombat motioned with a paw that he should get on with it. Zeke swallowed, which was a surprise. He wondered what it meant. Was he actually swallowing his pride? Did he have any pride to begin with?

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “For . . .?” prompted Principal Wombat.

  “For punching you in the beak.”

  “And . . .?”

  “And making you fall over.”

  “And hurting my wing,” added Pelicarnassus.

  “I don’t believe that,” Zeke said. “I’m only apologizing for the punch.”

  “Zeke!” said Principal Wombat.

  Zeke rapidly rushed out the rest of the apology he’d been forced to agree to after Principal Wombat couldn’t get hold of his mom. “And I’m sorry I didn’t choose to solve our conflict in a peaceful and constructive way that would result in . . .” He paused, forgetting the rest.

  “’Mutual understanding,’” whispered Principal Wombat.

  “Mutual understanding, leading to amity and good relations.”

  The expectant silence turned into a puzzled one as no one knew what this meant.

  “What does amity mean?” asked one of the Normans.

  “Friendship,” Principal Wombat said, clearly ready for this all to be done. “Now, shake hands and be friends.”

  “I don’t technically have hands,” Zeke said. “I’ve got four feet.”

  “And I’ve got a wing,” Pelicarnassus said, “that’s obviously broken.”

  “I saw you fly in to school this morning, Pelicarnassus,” the Principal said. “Don’t milk it. Shake foot and wing.”

  Zeke held out his left hand (technically forefoot, but he was just being grumpy with Principal Wombat and never called it that himself), purposely doing it so Pelicarnassus would have to shake with the wing in the sling. The pelican just looked at Zeke’s hand, then back up to Zeke, not moving.

  “Just shake it, Pelicarnassus,” Principal Wombat said, rolling her eyes.

  “I don’t believe the apology was sincere, Principal Wombat,” he said.

  “And he didn’t apologize to us!” said the other one of the Normans.

  “Oh, yeah,” Principal Wombat said to Zeke. “I guess you didn’t.”

  “And I apologize to the Normans,” Zeke said hurriedly. “Are we done?”

  The Principal looked out over all the students, still watching closely in case Zeke was going to throw more punches. “As long as we’ve all learned our lesson?”

  There was a low, embarrassed rumbling of “Yes, Principal Wombat” through the students, which was good enough for her. She humphed a smile and walked back toward the school building, leaving Zeke and Pelicarnassus still facing each other.

  “You made an enemy today,” Pelicarnassus said, an infuriating smile on his beak.

  “I didn’t make an enemy when I punched you?” Zeke asked, genuinely surprised.

  Pelicarnassus’s smile faded. “I’ve always been your enemy.”

  “You didn’t even really know me before the punch,” Zeke said, but before he even got to the end of the sentence, Pelicarnassus had taken flight, flinging off the sling like the lie it was, his huge wings beating air down on Zeke.

  “You’re going to regret the day I was ever born,” the pelican warned, flying over Zeke and delivering a healthy kick across the face as he went. The Normans, surprised by Pelicarnassus taking off—as they seemed to be surprised by nearly everything that had ever happened to them in their entire lives—quickly followed, one of them pooping on Zeke’s shoulder as he went.

  “Ew,” said Alicia from behind him. Daniel was with her.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be monitoring a hall?” Zeke asked, watching as Pelicarnassus flew across the playground to the jungle gym, alighting on its highest level.

  “You kind of looked all alone standing out here,” Daniel said.

  “I was all alone,” Zeke said. “I think that was the point.”

  Zeke was surprised to see Miel up on the jungle gym, too, by himself on one end, headphones in his ears. Zeke had learned that Miel listened to audio versions of the textbooks they were all using. He didn’t seem to fit in anywhere, Zeke thought, and he maybe, slightly, a little bit hoped that meant Miel might be their friend. Or at least Zeke’s.

  The lizards watched as Pelicarnassus approached Miel five levels up the jungle gym. They couldn’t hear the conversation, but they did hear Miel shout, “IT MEANS HONEY!”

  Why did that feel so much more disappointing than having to make the apology in the first place?