But for Geneva Settle, Langston Hughes High was more than these stats. It was the hub of her salvation, an island of comfort. As she saw the dirty brick walls come into view now, the fear and anxiety that had swarmed around her since the terrible incident at the museum that morning diminished considerably.

Detective Bell parked his car and, after he’d looked around for threats, they climbed out. He nodded toward a street corner and said to that young officer, Mr. Pulaski, “You wait out here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Geneva added to the detective, “You can wait here too, you want.”

He chuckled. “I’ll just come hang out with you for a bit, you don’t mind. Well, okay, I can see you do mind. But I think I’ll come along anyway.” He buttoned his jacket to hide his guns. “Nobody’ll pay me any mind.” He held up the social studies book.

Not answering, Geneva grimaced and they proceeded to the school. At the metal detector the girl showed her ID and Detective Bell subtly flashed his wallet and was let around the side of the device. It was just before fifth period, which started at 11:37, and the halls were crowded, kids milling around, heading for the cafeteria or out to the school yard or onto the street for fast food. There was joking, dissing, flirting, making out. A fight or two. Chaos reigned.

“It’s my lunch period,” she called over the din. “I’ll go to the cafeteria and study. It’s this way.”

Three of her friends came up fast, Ramona, Challette, Janet. They fell into step beside her. They were smart girls, like her. Pleasant, never caused any trouble, on scholarship tracks. Yet – or maybe because of this – they weren’t particularly tight; none of them really just hung out. They’d go home after class, practice Suzuki violin or piano, volunteer for literacy groups or work on the spelling bee or Westinghouse science competitions, and, of course, study. Academics meant solitude. (Part of Geneva actually envied the school’s other cliques, like the gangsta girls, the blingstas, the jock-girls and the Angela Davis activist sistas.) But now these three were fluttering around her like best homegirls, huddling close, peppering her with questions. Did he touch you? You see his dick? Was he hard? D’you see the guy got capped? How close were you?

They’d all heard – from kids who came in late, or kids cutting class and watching TV. Even though the stories hadn’t mentioned Geneva by name, everybody knew she was at the center of the incident, thanks probably to Keesh.

Marella – a track star and fellow junior – walked by, saying, “What up, girlfriend? You down?”

“Yeah, I’m cool.”

The tall classmate squinted at Detective Bell and asked her, “Why’s a cop carrying yo’ book, Gen?”

“Ask him.”

The policeman laughed uneasily.

Fronting you’re a teacher. Hey, that’s def…

Keesha Scott, clustered with her sister and some of her blingsta homegirls, gave Geneva a theatrical double-take. “Girl, you wack bitch,” she shouted. “Somebody give you a pass, you take a pass. Coulda kicked back, watched the soaps.” Grinned, nodded at the lunchroom. “Catch you later.”

Some of the students weren’t as kind. Halfway to the lunchroom, she heard a boy’s voice, “Yo, yo, it the Fox News bitch with the cracker over there. She still alive?”

“Thought somebody clip that ’ho.”

“Fuck, that debbie be too skinny to hit with anything but a breakdown.”

Raucous laughter erupted.

Detective Bell whirled around but the young men who’d called out those words disappeared in a sea of sweats and sports jerseys, baggy jeans and cargo pants and bare heads – hats being forbidden in the halls of Langston Hughes.

“It’s okay,” Geneva said, her jaw set, looking down. “Some of them, they don’t like it when you take school seriously, you know. Raising the curve.” She’d been student of the month a number of times and had a perfect attendance award for both of her prior years here. She was regularly on the principal’s honor roll, with her 98 percent average, and had been inducted into the National Honor Society at the formal ceremony last spring. “Doesn’t matter.”

Even the vicious insult of “blondie” or “debbie” – a black girl aspiring to be white – didn’t get to her. Since to some extent it was true.

At the lunchroom door a large, attractive black woman in a purple dress, with a board of education ID around her neck, came up to Mr. Bell. She identified herself as Mrs. Barton, a counselor. She’d heard about the incident and wanted to know if Geneva was all right and if she wanted to talk with somebody in her department about it.

Oh, man, a counselor, the girl thought, her spirits dipping. Don’t need this shit now. “No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? We could do a session this afternoon.”

“Really. I’m down. It’s cool.”

“I should call your parents.”

“They’re away.”

“You’re not alone, are you?” The woman frowned.

“I’m staying with my uncle.”

“And we’re looking out for her,” the detective said. Geneva noticed the woman didn’t even ask to see his ID, it was so obvious he was a cop.

“When’ll they be back, your folks?”

“They’re on their way. They were overseas.”

“You didn’t really need to come to school today.”

“I’ve got two tests. I don’t want to miss them.”

The woman gave a faint laugh and said to Mr. Bell, “I never took school as seriously as this. Probably should have.” A glance at the girl. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home?”

“I spent a lot of time studying for those tests,” she muttered. “I really want to take them.”

“All right. But after that I think you should go home and stay there for a few days. We’ll get your assignments to you.” Mrs. Barton stormed off to break up a pushing match between two boys.

When she was gone, the officer asked, “You have a problem with her?”

“It’s just, counselors…They’re always in your business, you know?”

He looked like, no, he didn’t know, but why should he? This wasn’t his world.

They started up the hall toward the cafeteria. As they entered the noisy place, she nodded toward the short alcove leading to the girls’ restroom. “Is it okay if I go in there?”

“Sure. Just hold on a minute.”

He motioned to a woman teacher and whispered something to her, explaining the situation, Geneva assumed. The woman nodded and stepped inside the bathroom. Came out a moment later. “It’s empty.”

Mr. Bell stationed himself outside the door. “I’ll make sure only students get in.”

Geneva stepped inside, thankful for the moment or two of peace, to be away from the staring eyes. Away from the edginess of knowing that somebody wanted to hurt her. Earlier, she’d been angry. Earlier she’d been defiant. But now the reality was starting to lap at her heart and left her scared and confused.

She came out of the stall and washed her hands and face. Another girl had come in and was putting on her makeup. A senior, Geneva believed. Tall, fine-looking, with her eyebrows artistically plucked and bangs hot-combed to perfection. The girl gave her the up and down – not because of the news story, though. She was taking inventory. You saw it all the time here, every minute of the day, checking out the competition: What was a girl wearing, how many piercings, real gold or plate, too much glitter, were her braids phat or coming loose, was she draped or wearing a simple hoop or two, are those real extensions or fake? Was she covering up being pregnant?

Geneva, who spent her money on books, not clothes and makeup, always came in low in the ratings.

Not that what God had created helped much. She had to take a deep breath to fill her bra, which she usually didn’t even bother to wear. She was that “egg-yolk-titty bitch” to the Delano Project girls, and she’d been called “him” or “he” dozens of times in the last year. (It hurt the worst when somebody’d really mistake her for a boy, not when they were dissing.) Then there was her hair: dense and wiry as steel wool. She didn’t have the time to train locs or tie rows. Braids and extensions took forever and even though Keesh would do them for free they actually made her look younger, like she was a little kid dressed up by her moms.