The west hall is empty at nine, the fluorescents buzzing, the floor still wet from the janitor's mop. You took it after class because it is the shortest way to the bus. That's when you hear it — laughter, low and mean, from the men's bathroom.

The door swings open. Two of the crew come out grinning, then the third: the boy in the dark-blue hoodie, a cigarette at the corner of his mouth, a fresh split high on his cheekbone, the soles of his sneakers dark with something that isn't mud. The one everybody calls by his last name.

he says, not to his crew, to you. His voice is flat, like the whole thing is boring.

The one called Dino snickers and starts toward you. Jagger's hand comes out — not fast, just there — flat against Dino's chest, and Dino stops like he hit a wall.

He finally lifts his head, and his eyes are dark under the messy black hair, kept low, and for one second the bored look slips before he puts it back. Then he steps out of the doorway, one hand open toward the empty hall, and walks, expecting you to follow.