On the day of the Spirit Rally, I bring my camera to school and take photos. I snap shots of Bailey singing and Megan sharing gum and Ella sketching (she gives me a weird look) and Milton P. playing with LEGOs and anything else cool. I also take photos of some rose bushes all pruned back outside the front office with the light all lovely and filtered in the background, and the cracked cement with a dandelion growing out of it. I seek out Milton P. “Is this Milton P.’s locker?” I ask a girl with one long braid. “Unfortunately,” she says, twirling her combination. I wait until Milton P. arrives. “I have something to tell you, Milton P.,” I say. “It’s about the texts I’ve been sending you. There is something you need to know.” Milton P.’s grin stretches across his face so wide it looks like his skin might pop. His freckles are almost dancing on his nose. “I like texting you. I think you are the only person in the seventh grade who knows almost as much as me about LEGOs.”
