Into the Sun. Deni Ellis Bechard

did you tell her?

      The truth. I heard what you said in the locker room. Why don’t you own up?

      Clay’s words had the same low, gravelly restraint as when he’d spoken in class.

      The lunch monitor was calling other teachers, not wanting to get between them by herself. Dylan made a fist and moved his shoulder back. Clay hadn’t budged, hadn’t even lifted his hands.

      You’re a liar, Dylan said, his voice suddenly whiny.

      If I am, take me down. Prove it.

      The lunch monitor was shouting, moving her arms as if directing traffic. Dylan walked away.

      Over the next few days, everyone agreed that Dylan had bragged about what he’d done with Melody at the New Year’s party in an upstairs bedroom, and one afternoon, in the lockers, a group of boys led by Melody’s brother pushed him down, punching and kicking him.

      Kids began gravitating to Clay, walking next to him between classes and sitting with him at lunch. He shared little about himself, keeping his answers simple: he was from Maine; neither the economy nor the weather was much up there, so his family came south. People repeated this. Justin told it to his father one evening, and his father sighed.

      Son, Louisiana isn’t exactly Silicon Valley. I wouldn’t trust a word that boy says.

      But Clay’s reputation grew: his natural prowess in sports, his simultaneous competence and indifference in class, his modesty and adult disregard for most of what went on around him. Occasionally, he passed Justin in the hallway, and they nodded.

      One afternoon Justin left his rollerblades in his locker and timed his departure with Clay’s. Heading home? he asked.

      Yeah, Clay said, and extended a hand. Hey, man. I’m Clay.

      Justin.

      They shook hands. Clay’s irises were brown at the edges, green spreading raggedly from his pupils — small pale stars whose brightness eclipsed the rest.

      I’ll keep you company back. Most of the way at least.

      I just wanted to say that what you did with Dylan was badass.

      Clay shrugged, his stride loose and relaxed.

      Dylan’s soft, he said. You see the lunches his mother packs? Organic crackers and cookies. And his binders are all organized, with labels in a woman’s handwriting. He’s never kicked anyone’s ass.

      Justin said nothing. His mother helped him organize things and used to make his bed until his father called an end to it. His parents had fought for a week over her pampering — his father’s word. That was just the previous summer.

      Anyway, man, it was good to meet you, Clay said when they were a block from the house. He extended his hand. They shook, and he kept on past the driveway.

      For the rest of the week, Justin walked home with Clay. He asked him questions — How long have you been practicing pull-ups? Did you run track at your old school? — but didn’t mention team sports since it was clear Clay hadn’t played them much.

      Over dinner, Justin’s parents speculated about whether Clay’s father would return, whether that woman — Justin’s father didn’t seem to know what to call her — would get a job.

      She’ll have to put her trench coat back on, he said. And the boy doesn’t even live here. He comes at six in the morning, eats, I guess, and leaves.

      Monday, a few kids gossiped that Clay had shown up at a party and that when Melody got drunk, he took her home in her car.

      That afternoon, as he and Justin walked back from school, Clay said, Can I tell you something?