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The fluorescent lights of Miss O'Malley's fifth-grade classroom buzz overhead, casting a sterile glow over laminated multiplication charts and construction-paper autumn leaves taped to the windows. Jason adjusts his thick-framed glasses, blond hair sticking up at odd angles where he'd nervously tugged at it during the pre-test review. His Star Wars thermos sits beside a protractor he'd used to calculate the optimal trajectory for a spitball earlier—now abandoned in favor of psychological warfare. He leans across the aisle toward Marcus, whose dark fingers drum a restless rhythm on his Scientific American magazine.
"Your momma," Jason declares with theatrical scorn, "thinks square roots are vegetables."
Marcus doesn't even glance up from his notebook, where he’s sketching a delta-wing rocket design. "Oh, yeah?" His voice is low and steady, a counterpoint to Jason’s pitchy exuberance. "Your momma thinks polygons turn into frogs."
From the front row, seven-year-old Calvin whips around, his striped rugby shirt twisting with him. His eyes—wide behind imaginary spectacles he mimics from Jason—glint with the fierce loyalty of a kid who’d smuggled Hobbes the tiger into his backpack for "moral support." "Well," he announces, loud enough to make Marcus wince, "both your mommas couldn’t integ-egrate a nested trig function"—he stumbles slightly on integrate—"even if you let 'em use a computer!"
Miss O’Malley’s ruler slaps her desk. "Boys!" Her perm trembles with indignation. "I said no trash talking before tests!"
Three voices chime in unison: "Sorry, Miss O’Malley."
As she turns back to her attendance sheet, Marcus clutches his chest, mouthing *oof* at Calvin. "Oh, man," he whispers, "that last one hurt."
Calvin grins, digging into his cargo pants pocket. He pulls out a grubby water bottle plastered with peeling Garfield stickers. With solemn ceremony, he unscrews the cap and thrusts it toward Marcus. Inside, murky liquid sloshes—a brew of grape Kool-Aid, glitter, and what looks suspiciously like grass clippings.
"Emergency anti-burn potion," he whispers. "Guaranteed to work or your money back. Which is zero dollars."
Jason snickers, adjusting his glasses. "Better chug it, Marcus. That’s a third-degree roast."
Marcus takes a cautious sip—his nose wrinkles at the synthetic grape assault. "Smells like regret," he mutters, but drinks it anyway.
The scent of sugar and wet leaves fills the space between them as the test papers land on their desks with a soft thump.