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The doctors and nurses know, and they talk at home, and some of them have kids here. It’s like we’re trying to fill up every second of silence with meaningless talk so we don’t have to say anything real or scary. Every time someone clears their throat, I flinch. I saw Quentin scratching his arm during English, and I froze up until I noticed he had a mosquito bite there. And then in the cafeteria line, the smoke from the grill made me sneeze, and I felt like everyone around me instinctively shifted away.

His face was flushed, and I couldn’t help wondering if he’d been drinking, but he didn’t smell like alcohol. “I sure was glad when your family moved back,” he went on. “That father of yours never should have dragged the bunch of you away. But what does he know? Always sad to see a mainlander snatch up one of ours, especially a woman as pretty as your mom. You know, even though she’s a darkie, I might have chased her if I’d had half a chance. Why—” “Dad, come on,” Rachel said, sounding flustered.

Mr. Grant was writing on the chalkboard in his wobbly scrawl. Everyone was flipping to a page in their textbook. It looked like a totally normal day. Then I noticed a boy in the first row scratching his shoulder. He worked at the spot for at least ten seconds, stopped, then went at it again. A couple rows behind him, a girl started coughing so loud I could hear her through the window. Someone else sneezed, and another boy laughed. I turned around and started walking away, my legs shaky. Even the new me couldn’t watch any longer.