At least I still have the notebooks. And I’m not taking any chances; they’re here in my knapsack with me

The thing is — really, really, despite what everyone is thinking — I’m okay.

Yes, you heard me. I’m okay, I’m fine. I haven’t grown horns or had a personality transplant, and believe it or not, I even still like to play ball.

Which is why it’s ridiculous that the bell rang for recess two minutes ago, Rebbi’s gone for his coffee, and my classmates are sitting around with miserable faces, as if they’re waiting for something terrible to happen.

And from the way a few of them keep sneaking sidelong glances in my direction, I come to the logical conclusion that the thing they’re waiting for has to do with me.

Permission?

Like, what did they do for the past week, when I wasn’t in school?

Maybe they didn’t play ball. Maybe they stood in hushed circles, discussing whose turn it would be to visit Yair today. Maybe they compared notes, I went and he wasn’t crying, he looked fine, it was just weird that he had a torn shirt, poor kid, he must be devastated. He probably just put on a brave face for us.

My mouth contorts into a grimace, which I quickly straighten, because, yes, Shimmy Gruber, who loves hanging around near my desk between classes even though we have nothing to say to each other, is watching me.

And then, because they’re still all waiting, awkwardly, some rummaging for snacks or s-l-o-w-l-y clearing their desks, I stand up and turn to Yoss, who I’d call my best friend if it wasn’t a ridiculously girly concept, and I say, “Hey, everyone forgotten about b-ball?”

Yoss is great; he catches on immediately.

“Nah, no one’s forgotten. The games weren’t the same without you,” he says easily.

And suddenly everyone’s unfrozen again, standing and talking and heading out to the cold playground, because it takes more than some icy wind to keep our class away from a basketball game.

More than icy wind, and more than a hole in my heart where Abba used to be.