Whenever I turned to look at someone who I felt was staring, we’d make eye contact for a brief second before they turned away quickly. It reminded me of three years ago when my dad died and people looked at me like I was the one who had died. Except this time it was different. I didn’t really mind the attention. I didn’t think kids would mess around with me. “Everybody’s talking about it,” my friend Shawn said before taking a last bite out of his sandwich. We were sitting in the cafeteria at lunchtime. “Everyone has been looking at me weird in the hallways, like I’m an alien or something,” I said. “Well, not many kids get sent to jail around here.” One of his dreadlocks fell over his eye. He was opening a bag of potato chips. “So what happened?” “I don’t want to talk about it.” I felt bad not telling Shawn. We’d been friends ever since we were five years old and on the same peewee soccer team at the YMCA. I put my pizza down. Since I’d been arrested, I’d lost my appetite.
