And he stole my bike. And he made fun of me. And now he’s drawing attention to me. All good reasons to dot his eye for him.

But none of them are as bad as what he did to Mr. Shackleford. Because of Arden, my only friend lost the last sliver of dignity he had left. The way the old man’s shoulders hunched in defeat, the way he stood pressed against his truck so no one could see the back of his pants. Who wouldn’t be embarrassed? But Mr. Shackleford? He is especially proud. And especially destroyed by what happened.

Because he’s a man who once stood for something, I can tell. I’m not sure what that something was, and I may not ever know. All I do know is that a man like him stands for things. Like my abuelo did before he died. I never met him, but Mama said he owned his own food cart in Mexico City where he sold lunch and dinner to construction workers. She said he kept his counter clean, his supplies organized, his money all faced the same way in the little tin box he made change out of. All he had was that cart, but he stood for what it gave him: freedom. Freedom to feed his family, to care for their needs. Freedom to work for himself, to earn a respectable living instead of turning to the local cartel.

Mr. Shackleford comes from a different country sure, but the same generation as my grandfather. The generation who stood for what they believed in. I mean, why else would he drink so much? He must have had something good, something valuable, and somehow he lost it. His wife, maybe. Or his child. Those would be the obvious answers. But there had to be something else, something even deeper than that. Mr. Shackleford is a thinker. He believes in things like wisdom and respect and decency. And then the times changed and left him and his ethics behind.

I think Mr. Shackleford lost his proverbial food cart, the way my grandfather did. And like my abuelo, it broke him.

I’m infuriated that an entitled ass like Arden Moss could snatch away his dignity.

“And you pointed a gun at me,” Arden is saying nonchalantly. He scoops up a glob of white stuff from his tray and waves it at me. “You don’t see me about to pop a blood vessel over it, do you? But let’s not dwell on the past—”

And I lose it. As if from a distance, I watch my hands as they tuck themselves under his tray and flip it over onto his lap. The unidentifiable contents splatter everywhere. A bit of it even makes its way into his left nostril. He stares up at me, still holding his spoon midair. His jaw is in danger of falling off.

An eruption of whispers sprinkles around us. Kids stand up on tables to get a better view. It seems like the whole world is waiting for Arden’s reaction. Even I hold my breath, and I hate myself for it. I shouldn’t care what he thinks. I shouldn’t care what our audience thinks. These kids should mean nothing to me. I don’t even know most of them, and I’ve been going to this high school since freshman year—I’m a junior now. I’ve had more important things to worry about, things these kids will never understand.

And maybe I don’t care what each individual thinks, but I do feel the pressure of the mob. I feel it in the warmth of my face, the way the heat of mortification seeps down my neck and into parts that are covered by my T-shirt. The attention closes in on me like a predator. And I care. I care very much.

Then I make myself remember Mr. Shackleford and the way he wouldn’t look me in the eye after Arden’s little visit and I get pissed off all over again. I regain my breath—my words. “How about now?” I say to Arden. “Popped any blood vessels yet?”

Suddenly, my hands are on my milk carton and splashing the remainder of it in Arden’s face. “And that’s for Mr. Shackleford!”

Oh. My. God. I can’t believe I just did that.

The spectators ease in, and I know that most of them heard what I just said. If they know Mr. Shackleford, they might investigate things further. He might fall prey to small-town gossip, and be even more embarrassed about what happened. I’ve made things about a thousand times worse. Anger creeps back in, dispensing any shame I might have felt about painting Arden Moss with his own lunch. Everyone’s faces start to disappear. All I see is Mr. Shackleford, disgrace sagging down his features. He is the real victim here.

Arden slowly sets the spoon on the picnic table. Milk trickles down from his eyebrows, to his cheeks, tracing his neck to the collar of his T-shirt. Then, incredibly, he nods, as if in acceptance of what just happened.

It almost gives me an eye twitch, his steady composure. Especially since I’m toeing the line that separates rational from cray-cray, in public, and at Mr. Shackleford’s expense. “Okay,” he says finally. “I think we’ve officially established that you’re impulsive. But don’t worry. That can be a good thing.” He seems to say this more to himself than to me. “Wait, where are you going?”

The lunch crowd is already parting a path for me leading to the cafeteria door and some of me wants to take them up on their walk of shame. To hold my head up as I pass, to show them that I’m not who they thought I was. But the truth is, I need to be who they thought I was. For Julio. For my parents. I need to be the girl who is nobody, who doesn’t warrant even the shadow of a second thought.

But I’m not that girl anymore, and I can never be her again. Thanks to Arden Moss.

I turn and leave the picnic area the back way and head toward the school auditorium where the band practices, leaving the crowd—and Arden—behind to watch me go.

Six

Arden stares at the back of Carly’s head in American Lit, wondering how he’s going to revisit the very important subject of her becoming his accomplice now that it’s evident she hates his guts.