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by John David Anderson

  I had my doubts.

  I tiptoed upstairs and stood for a moment outside Wolf’s room with its colorful musical notes painted on the door. Any other time I probably would have just barged right in. This time I fished a Post-it note out of my pocket that I’d brought for just this purpose and slipped it underneath.

  It said, Knock. Knock.

  After a few seconds I heard him laugh. It was the first time I’d heard Wolf laugh in days, and it made me smile. He opened the door.

  “Hey, Frost,” he said, motioning me inside, but I stopped in the doorway. His room looked strange without the planes dangling from their strings, the cars lined up at an angle on his shelves. It wasn’t just empty. It felt hollow. It was as if a part of Wolf had been carved out of him and scattered all over the backyard.

  “Didn’t see you at school today,” I said. By the looks of him, I guessed that he probably hadn’t even left his room all weekend long. He sat on his bed with his back pressed to the wall, knees together, arms wrapped around them, as if he was determined to take up as little space as possible. “Wish you would have been there.”

  “I already know about the notes, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “It’s not as if I don’t hear things.” He didn’t sound angry, not exactly, but I still couldn’t help but feel like there was accusation hidden in there somewhere.

  “Rose?” I guessed.

  Wolf nodded. “She also told me that you went to Mr. Wittingham’s office.” He paused, then added, “Thanks for that.”

  I shrugged. “To be honest, Bench kind of beat me to it.”

  Wolf seemed surprised. Obviously Rose hadn’t told him everything. “That’s Bench for you. Always has to be first at everything,” he said.

  I wanted to tell Wolf the rest. About our shouting match and the things Bench had said, how it had nothing, really, to do with Wolf and everything to do with him. It isn’t about you. But it was. It was about all of us. Maybe Wolf could sympathize with Bench feeling out of place, not quite knowing where he belonged. “He wants you to know he’s sorry,” I said.

  “Bench told you that?”

  “Well. Not in so many words.”

  “It doesn’t take that many,” Wolf remarked. And for a second I saw that flash of anger, that same one I saw when he slammed the note on Jason’s desk, when he drove his brother’s bat into his model bomber. Wolf shook his head. “He doesn’t need to apologize. He didn’t write that on my locker. I knew who it was all along. I mean, it’s not like this was the first time.”

  Wolf sat on his bed with me still leaning against the doorway and told me about all the other things Jason Baker had been saying to him all year long. Most of them were names not worth repeating, whipered among his friends just loud enough for Wolf to hear. The Roman thing was the latest in a long string, but apparently Jason thought it was clever and kept at it, needling Wolf whenever he got the chance. Calling him Gayus Thompson. Coughing out the word Romosexual. Giving him that same legionnaire salute that he’d given the three of us at the football game whenever they passed each other in the hall.

  And he wasn’t the only one. Wolf had heard others whispering the same thing behind his back, a few kids who thought it was just as funny as Jason did. It caught on. Just like the notes.

  “Jason Baker’s a total class-A butt-munch,” I concluded. I may not have gotten the chance to fatten his lip, but he sure deserved whatever Mr. Wittingham was going to dish out. I sort of hoped he’d be expelled. And maybe the Big Ham could dunk his head in the toilet a few times on the way out. But writing “Total Roman” on somebody’s locker probably didn’t warrant physical torture, whether you knew what it meant or not.

  “That doesn’t really help,” Wolf said, “calling him names.”

  I flinched, suddenly feeling worse for thinking that would make him feel better. There’d been enough of that sort of thing the past two weeks. I was about to take it back—even though I didn’t want to—when Wolf smiled.

  “But you’re right. He is. Class A for sure.” He scrunched up my Knock. Knock. sticky note and threw it at me, hitting me square in the chest.

  You got me, I thought, suddenly hearing Rose’s voice in my head, wheedling herself into the conversation even when she wasn’t around. I stood in the doorway and watched the last two weeks flash by in reverse, from the notes on Wolf’s locker all the way back to that first moment when Rose Holland sat at our table. Jason and Wolf. Deedee. Bench. The Gauntlet. All the nasty messages. The ones that stuck and the ones that didn’t. It seemed like somewhere along the line we could have stopped it. Kept it from coming to this, to me standing in Wolf’s bedroom, feeling like I let him down.

  “You still thinking you might not come back?” I asked.

  Wolf nodded.

  “Because of Jason Baker?”

  “Screw Jason,” Wolf said, scowling. “It’s none of his business who I like and don’t like. Though I sure as heck don’t like him.”

  “Then why leave?” I asked. After all, he hadn’t seen the notes yet. The new ones. His locker was covered in them. Maybe when he saw them, he’d change his mind. He’d realize we weren’t all like Jason Baker. Most of us weren’t anywhere close. But even as I thought it, I realized that wasn’t true either. We were all guilty of saying something we probably shouldn’t have. Rose’s voice echoed in my head again. I could start over, be myself, and there would be somebody who would appreciate it. I just had to find them. But Wolf still had us. He had me and Deedee and Rose. And I told him that. Maybe not in so many words. Or any words, for that matter. But I gave him a look that I hoped meant that the tribe was still here. That this was no reason to quit. Or not enough reason.

  “Sometimes you need a change of venue,” Wolf said. “I’m not leaving you guys behind. It’s just this whole year so far . . .” He stopped, tapping his fingers on his knees for a moment, maybe playing a familiar tune or maybe just making one up in his head. “I just need to get away from the noise. Maybe a new school is the best thing for me.”

  I nodded. I understood. Maybe. A little. I didn’t know how it felt to be Wolf, of course, but I knew about needing space. It was hard enough trying to figure out who you were, who you liked, what you believed in, what you were good at. Even harder with everyone else telling you what you should or shouldn’t be. And even if you did figure it out, you still had to summon the courage to actually be that person, regardless of what other people thought. Maybe a new school would be different. It couldn’t be too much worse.

  Except it wouldn’t have us.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Sorry if I let you down. If I wasn’t there all the time.”

  “You’re here now,” Wolf said matter-of-factly. Ever the voice of reason. We counted on him for that. Maybe this was what he counted on me for—for just being there. I could do that. At least I could try.

  We stared across the room at each other for an eternity while I worked up the guts to say something emotional and blubbery and totally against the rules. Something cheese-ball like I’m with you every step of the way, or one of the fortune-cookie nuggets pulled directly from the Post-its still hanging from his locker. But Wolf saved me by standing up all of a sudden with a sly grin on his face, a look that I’m pretty certain he picked up from Rose.

  “I haven’t had dinner yet,” he said. “My parents have been so worried about my emotional well-being that they kind of forgot to feed me. You hungry?”

  My stomach rumbled. Power of suggestion. “If you’re asking if I want you to try heating something in the microwave again, I’m going to have to go with no.” Burning the house down seemed like it might just push the whole Thompson family right over the edge.

  “I was thinking ice cream, actually. Give Rose and Deedee a call. Make my mom take us out. Mr. Twisty’s?”

  I grinned and nodded.

  I couldn’t have said it better myself.

  The next day Wolf came to empty out his locker, well after dismissal so as not to attract too much atte
ntion. We were with him—me, Deedee, and Rose. His mother was in the principal’s office filling out the necessary paperwork required for his withdrawal from BMS.

  It was official. He really wasn’t coming back.

  I’m sure the Big Ham was serving her apologies and promises on a platter, anything to get Wolf to stay and not to turn this into an even bigger deal than it already was, but for once Wolf’s parents agreed on something. Branton Middle School wasn’t the best place for their son.

  When Wolf saw his locker he froze. It was completely covered now, every inch, the messages climbing up onto the wall above it. The day it happened, kids kept coming, adding to the ever-growing pile, making a mountain of notes, some stacked on top of each other so that by the last bell it looked like a paper blanket skirting the ground, a waterfall of words. So many notes. More, it seemed, than there were even students in the school. Even now, the locker still smelled vaguely of new paint, though that was probably just my imagination.

  Rose and I stood on either side of Wolf, propping him up. We were getting good at that.

  “It’s pretty incredible,” Deedee said. “Don’t you think?”

  Wolf didn’t respond. Maybe he couldn’t find the words. Didn’t matter. He had plenty to choose from. He quietly ran his fingers over the notes, tapping them gently, as if he found some kind of melody there, a secret song that only he could hear. I wasn’t sure he was even reading them, but then I saw him smile. He must have gotten to I THINK YOU’RE HOT.

  “You can take them,” I said. “Pretty sure they were all meant for you.”

  Wolf shook his head. “Nah. I think the longer they stay up, the better.” He dropped his hands and stepped back. His voice cracked a little. “It’s crazy. I don’t even know this many people. I bet half of them barely even knew I existed.” He leaned over and settled his head on Rose’s shoulder, and we stood like that for a minute or two. I realized this was the last time I would ever meet Wolf at his locker and my heart started to ache.

  “C’mon,” Rose said. “Let’s get your stuff, get out of this place, and go do something fun.”

  Wolf nodded solemnly and carefully opened his locker so as not to knock any of the notes free. It was practically empty inside already. His math textbook. A magneted mirror. An empty bottle of Coke and a BMS sweatshirt that he might never wear again.

  And at the bottom, one last note that had been folded into an origami fish and shoved through the slats.

  “I wonder who that could be from,” I said.

  Rose smiled knowingly. “I didn’t write it, if that’s what you’re implying,” she said. “I actually found it stuck to my locker the day of the Gauntlet. I don’t know who wrote it, actually, but it seemed like good advice, so I stuffed it in here for you.”

  Wolf crouched down and unfolded the note. He held it out for us to see. It was written in black marker, all caps.

  KEEP YOUR HEAD UP. KEEP YOUR EYES FORWARD. AND DON’T LET GO.

  “I thought maybe you could use it more than I could,” Rose said. “Besides. Everyone knows origami wombats are good luck.”

  “Wombat, huh?” I said.

  Rose nodded. “Derr,” she said to me. “What else would it be?” As usual I didn’t have an answer. But I didn’t mind being derred by Rose anymore. Some things just take time to get used to. I caught a glimpse of Wolf in the mirror stuck to his locker, maybe a little misty-eyed, the three of us standing behind him.

  “You don’t have to go,” Deedee said, saying out loud what we’d all been thinking.

  “No. I don’t have to,” Wolf answered. Then he stuffed the wombat in his pocket and softly closed the door.

  THE INVITATION

  WARS SHOULD TEACH YOU THINGS. THOUGH JUDGING BY HOW many humans have had, we must be terrible students.

  Not me, though. I learned more in the two weeks following that first posted note than I did in the two years of middle school leading up to it.

  Like you should maybe put your dirty laundry in a basket, because you never know when a girl’s going to come along and see your underwear lying in the middle of your floor. And that there are better ways to let your emperor know he’s being a jerk than stabbing him twenty-three times. And that people who get embarrassed by other people who laugh or sing too loud just don’t have the guts to laugh and sing out loud themselves.

  And you can’t have it both ways. The road forks sometimes and you have to choose. Just pick the path that looks the least perilous and watch out for the trees on your way down.

  And you can’t be friends with everyone, and even the friends you do make won’t always last forever, which royally sucks, but as my mom would say, that’s life.

  And finally, if you can’t say anything nice, like, not a single freaking thing, then maybe you should keep your big trap shut.

  But if you do have something nice to say, and you feel a little awkward saying it, you can always write a note.

  There were a lot of changes after Wolf left.

  For starters there was the new policy on phones. Too many complaints flooding in from parents and students both, so the administration decided it was a fight that just wasn’t worth winning anymore. The new policy stated that students could bring their phones into school but had to keep them in their lockers—they still weren’t allowed in class. That didn’t always work, of course, but for the most part the students followed along, happy for a compromise, and the teachers looked the other way, provided you weren’t sucked into the screen when you were supposed to be turned on to linear equations.

  I still didn’t have a phone, so it didn’t make a bit of difference to me one way or another.

  The phone policy wasn’t the only schoolwide change, though. As soon as Wolf transferred, the Big Ham promised to start a new program to help combat bullying and discrimination in school. I figured that just meant adding more brochures to the rack in the counselor’s office, but Mr. Sword volunteered to be the program adviser, so maybe not. I told him I’d help however I could. He told me that twenty other students had already said the same thing.

  Post-it notes remained banned on school grounds. You could still find them sometimes, attached to someone’s binder or stuck to the side of the toilet in the boys’ room. I’m sure a few were still traded under the table, passed in secret exchanges in the halls, but for the most part you could tell they were done, especially since students could go back to texting each other between classes. The Sticky Note War, as it came to be called, ended the day we all used them to cover Wolf’s locker.

  It’s not covered anymore. Now it’s just the newest-looking locker in the school, sticking out from all the rest.

  Don’t get me wrong; the fighting wasn’t over. The nudging and needling, the dirty looks and side-slung insults and behind-the-back tittering, that still happened, though I’d like to think there was less of it than before. You couldn’t go a day without hearing someone say, “Not cool, man,” in response to an idiotic remark. Jason Baker got an especially cold shoulder from most of the student body—that is, once he returned from his three-day suspension. He and Cameron Cole started skipping school a lot. I didn’t miss them.

  Ask most of the students about it and they’ll tell you that the whole Post-it note thing was just a fad. They won’t remember half the things they wrote, though they probably remember everything that was written about them. They certainly couldn’t tell you who started it. Ashley R. probably. Or somebody on the basketball team.

  Just don’t ask Deedee.

  He’ll tell you he personally instigated World War Three.

  We were a triangle now. At least at lunch.

  The week after he emptied his locker, Wolf transferred to St. Simon’s, the private K–12 school that was probably more than his parents could afford but was “worth it in the long run.” It was Wolf’s call—his parents ultimately left the decision up to him, and he didn’t ask to borrow Deedee’s dice to make it. I think he’d been wanting to go for a while. He just needed a nudge.
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  On paper, at least, it looked like an easy decision. St. Simon’s had a 97 percent college admittance rate, but that wasn’t why he wanted to go. They also had an excellent music program, with a jazz band and orchestra and everything. They were just as eager to have Wolf join them as he was to go there, apparently. Probably more so. After all, there were a few good things Wolf was leaving behind.

  I started sitting with Sean Forsett on the bus, the kid with the crazy curly hair. His stop was before mine in the mornings, so he saved me a seat. In all honesty it was more like a third of a seat, but that was all right. Turns out Sean was a writer too, short stories, mostly in the fantasy genre. He let me read a few and I had to admit they were pretty good. I mean, Sean was no George R. R. Martin, but I could see the potential. (Deedee had lent me Game of Thrones. I kept it hidden under my bed next to my poems. He was right. It was thoroughly educational.) After I read his first story I asked Sean if he ever played Dungeons & Dragons. He looked at me like I was nuts.

  “To each their own,” I told him.

  We still played. Wolf, Deedee, Rose, and me. Just about every weekend. And even after everything that happened, Deedee still kept his ten-sided die in his pocket and used it to calculate the odds that somebody would trip in the cafeteria and bury their face into their spaghetti. But he also insisted I go with him to the restroom every time. And that Rose guard the door. We always went right before lunch, which was still the best period of the day, even though there were only three of us now. Bench still sat with his football buddies. Occasionally he’d look over at our table and wave. If I noticed I made sure to wave back.

  The third day without Wolf I got my food and sat between Deedee and Rose. We had plenty of room to stretch out, but we tended to scrunch together anyway, taking up only half the table.