Quirk moved the class around. In math we even crawled on our hands and knees, measuring the classroom, the hall, and the front steps of the school. Mason and I were partners. He did the ruler work; I did the writing down. I began to notice things about him. No matter how neat he started out in the morning, he was a mess before the day was half over. He attracted dirt and spills like magnets attract metal. I didn’t mind. It wasn’t important. He was lucky. He lived in a house with a whole family: a mother, a father, a brother. Another thing: he talked. Not just one word, not one sentence. He talked every other minute. And when he wasn’t talking, he was whistling. “Shhh.” Sophie looked up from measuring with a yardstick. “I can’t think straight, Mason.” I liked the sound of his talking, his whistling, his singing, the songs he made up. I looked in Sophie’s direction, but she blew her bangs off her forehead. I realized something. Mason and I were probably the most unpopular kids in the class.
