“Retard,” Drake said. “Say, ‘My brother is a retard.’”

Astrid didn’t trust herself to speak. She was choking back tears. She wanted to believe she was brave, but now, with the thug inches away from her, she knew that she was not.

“My. Brother. Come on, say it with me. My. Say it.”

The slap was so quick, she barely registered his hand moving. Her face burned.

“Say it. My . . .”

“My,” she whispered.

“Louder, I want the little retard to hear it. My brother is a retard.”

The second slap was so hard, she almost fell from the chair.

“You can say it while your face is still pretty, or you can say it after I’ve smashed it in—your choice. My brother is a retard.”

“My brother is a retard,” Astrid said, her voice shaking.

Drake laughed delightedly and crossed to Little Pete, who had looked up from his video game and seemed almost to register what was happening. Drake put his face into Little Pete’s space and with one hand yanked Astrid by the hair so that her mouth was close to Little Pete’s ear and said, “One more time, nice and loud.” He pushed Astrid’s face against the side of Little Pete’s head and yelled, “My brother is—”

And Astrid fell back on her bed.

Her bed. Her bedroom.

Little Pete was in the window seat, cross-legged on the bench, video game in his hand.

Astrid knew immediately what had happened. But it was still impossibly

disorienting. One second in the school, the next in her room.

She couldn’t look at him. Her face burned from the slaps, but even more from shame.

“Thanks, Petey,” she whispered.

Gone, Chapter 22