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one another but didn’t speak. Brody broke the silence with a drumroll. “Outweighed and outnumbered . . . delaying our slumber . . . gotta figure a way, to make them all pay, for making Chris swim like a flounder . . .” Someone belched. “Thanks,” Brody continued. “I call that one ‘Ode to a Flying Freshman Fish.’”
    â€œNo offense,” Alex said, “but we’ve strayed off topic. Our mission is to devise a plan, not mock the bard.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œThat’s me,” Brody said, bowing humbly. “Brody the bard, at your service. Bringing music to a deeply troubled world.”
    None of the talk made sense to Anthony. Just like in class, the way that he saw things seemed different from everyone else. No wonder he had never heard of hazing before. Back at home, it would get someone shot.

CHAPTER FIVE
    â€œWait for me,” Paul hollered from behind him. “You act like they’re gonna fire us.”
    â€œThey might,” Anthony said, not slowing down. “Either that, or they’re gon’ put us with maintenance. You feel like unclogging toilets on Saturdays?”
    â€œNot me, son.” Paul picked up the pace.
    Anthony and Paul had work-study as part of their financial-aid package. They washed dishes three mornings a week to help cover the cost of tuition. After gobbling breakfast, they walked through the swinging doors and into the kitchen, past the ovens, and into the dish room.
    â€œTurn that down,” Paul groaned, already reaching for an apron. “Don’t wanna hear all that Spanish junk this early in the morning.”
    Unperturbed, Hector turned up the music. “This is Dominican music, Papi. Not Spanish.”
    â€œI don’t care what it is. You making me feel like I’m in the Bronx.”
    There was laughter, and Hector returned to his station. Anthony wedged his way past George and grabbed an apron from a hook.
    George looked down at Anthony and then at Paul. “Made you late again?”
    Anthony nodded. “Dude be spending more time picking out clothes than my mother.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” George said, almost a little sadly. “He’ll change.”
    â€œChange how?”
    Just then one of the cooks came in and gave them all the sign. George raised the big sliding door above the counter until it locked into place, and sounds from the cafeteria rolled in. “Change how?” Anthony repeated.
    â€œFor the better,” George said, and then winked at him. “Don’t you know Belton makes everybody better?”
    There was a steady stream of dirty dishes and then the rush before morning assembly. The boys emptied bowls and scraped plates, stacked the dirty dining ware into special trays, and then ran them through the machine.
    â€œEver notice how there’s only black people in here?” Hector said, leaning against the counter. “Serious, look around. How come don’t no white boys work the kitchen?”
    â€œâ€™Cause we’re on financial aid,” Anthony said. “We need it and they don’t.”
    â€œAnd you ain’t even black, Ricky Martin,” Paul said. “So chill.”
    They laughed and started pulling off their aprons. George stood in the doorway in front of them and cleared his throat. “They have white kids at Belton on financial aid, too,” he said. “They just don’t work in here, with us.” He reminded them of the students in the bookstore and the library. Many of them didn’t even have dark hair. “That’s not the point, though,” he continued. “Look at the percentages. For every one of them that’s doing work-study, you have another three that can buy the whole damn school.”
    Anthony thought about his arrival on campus and all the expensive cars. He’d met kids who dined with diplomats and took family vacations in