"Oh my God," said Madison. "Alana! You came back!"
Alana kept walking. Swing, step. Swing, step. The rubber tips of the crutches squeaking on the waxed floor.
"I was so worried about you," Madison went on, loudly, so that everyone in the hallway could hear. "We all were. Weren't we, guys? That was such a scary fall." She took a step out into the middle of the hallway, so that Alana would have to stop or go around her. "Is it broken? You poor thing. I literally couldn't sleep last night."
Alana stopped. She did not have a choice. Madison was standing directly in front of her.
"It's sprained," she said. "Not broken. Thanks for asking."
"Oh, thank God." Madison pressed a hand to her chest. Her nails today were pale lilac. "That's such a relief. Because honestly, I felt kind of responsible. You know? Being captain and everything. The mat should have been checked. I told Coach. Safety first." She tilted her head. "I hope it doesn't, like, stop you from trying out again. Next year. If you're still here."
There was a small titter from somewhere in the group.
And then Britney Walsh stepped forward, past Madison's shoulder, and looked down at Alana's crutches, and the brace, and the backpack, and said, in a flat, clear voice that carried down the whole hallway:
"I think it's really nice of the school, though. Letting people like her in. Like, mid-semester. Giving everybody a chance. It's like a whole charity program." She smiled. "Do they give you the crutches for free too? Or do you have to fill out a form?"
The titter became a laugh. Not everyone. But some. The two boys in letter jackets. One of the varsity girls. Kelsey Tran, behind her phone.
Alana felt it. She felt it land, the way it was meant to land, low and hard, somewhere under her ribs. She felt the heat rush up her neck and into her face. She felt her grip tighten on the handles of the crutches until her knuckles ached.
She thought about her father. Don't give her anything she can use.
She thought about her system. Number five. Say your name clearly. Do not apologize for it. Do not explain it.
She looked at Britney Walsh for a long moment. Then she looked past her, at Madison. And she smiled. Not a big smile. A small, polite, curious one. The smile of a visitor in a foreign country, trying to understand the customs.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm still new. I'm still learning how things work here." She glanced around at the half-circle of faces, the phone, the letter jackets. "Is this one of the traditions? The thing on the banner in the gym? I saw it yesterday. Tradition, excellence, pride." She nodded thoughtfully, as if filing it away. "I've been to six schools. Every one of them had traditions. I like learning them. It helps me fit in." She looked back at Britney. "So this is how Westfield welcomes people. Okay. I'll remember."
The laughter stopped.
It did not stop all at once. It sort of trailed off, the way laughter does when the people doing it realize that the joke has turned around somehow while they were not looking, and they are no longer quite sure who it is on. One of the boys in the letter jackets looked at the floor. The varsity girl who had laughed looked at Britney. Kelsey's phone dipped an inch.
Britney's face went blotchy. "That's not what I—"
"Where I come from," Alana went on, pleasantly, still smiling, "people don't really care how much money your family has. Because everybody's family moves around so much, nobody has time to find out. You just have to show what you can do." She shrugged one shoulder, the crutch shifting under her arm. "It's different here, I guess. That's okay. I'm still learning."
Madison laughed. It was a light, silvery, dismissive laugh, a little too high.
"Oh my God," she said. "Where you come from. Okay. And where is that, exactly? A Navy base?" She said Navy the way some people say welfare. "Let's be honest, Alana. My family earned everything we have. My dad started with one truck. He built this town. He built this school. We pay for things. We don't sit around waiting for the government to send us a check every two weeks."
It was very quiet in the hallway now.
Alana felt her father's voice in her head, low and steady. She felt something cold and clear settle into her chest, the way it settled when she stood at the end of a tumbling mat in front of judges, in the second before she ran.
"My father's in the Navy," she said. "He gets a salary. Like a teacher. Or a firefighter. Or a nurse, like my mom. It's not a check from the government. It's a paycheck. For a job." She paused. "He's been doing it for nineteen years. He's missed most of my birthdays doing it. I'm pretty sure he earned it."
Madison opened her mouth.