My yo-yos have been imprisoned for the last hour in Mr. Davis’s oversize desk. My hands ache to finish my last trick. Why did Sasha do this to me? Am I really that much of a threat? I squirm in a hardback chair as Mr. Davis smoothes his tie against his shirt and sits in his cushioned leather chair. His chest muscles are barely contained by his shirt. He looks like a pro wrestler, or maybe a giant troll with hairy knuckles. As he rolls the chair closer to his desk, he runs a hand over his balding head and then frowns across at Gran and me. “Thanks for coming in, Mrs. Layne. I prefer to have serious conversations with a parent or guardian present. As for you, Calvin”—his eyebrows knot—“what do you have to say for yourself?” “It’s not my fault,” I say. “Sasha stepped into my trick.” Gran purses her lips disapprovingly. She’s pale, and there are dark circles under her eyes. It’s my fault she’s here when she should be home in bed. Mr. Davis’s endless forehead wrinkles.
