After school that day, when Sam, Eleanor, and Li got to the shuttle stop, Wilson Cartier was there, leaning against a dirty orange support pole that sported an abstract pattern of random red and brown circles. Sam raised his eyebrows.

“What? Never seen anybody who can afford to have his clothes washed every time he wears them before?” Wilson said.

Sam shrugged. He wouldn’t lean against that particular pole, no matter how often he could wash his clothes. Its circles made it an excellent target for spitting contests.

“What are you smiling at?” Wilson asked.

Sam wiped the smile of his face. “Just a memory.” Of the time he’d seen a trio of guys from the year below theirs nail a spot that was now behind Wilson’s shoulder blades. They&rsqu...

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