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  “Okay. Let’s worry about that another day. Today let’s focus on your classes, and then we can revisit your options in a couple of weeks. The second sheet I gave you is a map of the school.” Ms. Raven taps the page with a perfectly manicured fingertip. “You’ll notice the school is round, so it’s difficult to get lost. The classroom number corresponds to the closest door, and those numbers are also marked on the floor near the corresponding stairwells. So, for example, classroom 1-326 is on the first floor closest to Door Three. Does that make sense?”

  I nod. “I think so.”

  “Good. If you get lost, follow the circle of the building and you’ll end up back where you started.”

  “Thank you.” Though this school looks easy to navigate, I’m not quite ready to share her optimism.

  “You’re very welcome. Now, I’ll have one of our office aides show you around and take you to your first class. Just give me one minute.” She’s out the door in a flash, and I hope I’m not in for another long wait.

  Moments later Ms. Raven returns with the most attractive guy I’ve ever seen. He stands at well over six feet tall with eyes the color of melted dark chocolate. He pushes his pitch-black hair away from his forehead and offers me a smile that frames perfect white teeth.

  Wow!

  “Abby,” Ms. Raven interrupts my perusal. “Meet Zach Andrews. Zach is a senior, like you, and he’s one of our office aides this period. Zach will give you a quick tour of the building, and then walk you to your first class.”

  Beautiful and rich. Those are the perfect words to describe Zach Andrews. From his expensive shoes to the Tommy Hilfiger polo, he seems to have wealth, privilege, and “Future GQ Model” tattooed everywhere. He’s probably popular, too—anyone who looks like that has to be popular.

  I clamp my jaw shut. Get a grip, Abby! He’s out of your league!

  Zach’s face lights up in a blinding grin, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. He extends his hand for a handshake. “Nice to meet you, Abby.”

  “You, too,” I say, meeting his hand with my own.

  Zach’s smile is contagious and my lips tip upward.

  He takes my schedule and scans it briefly. “This isn’t too bad. You’ve got some great teachers. You sing?”

  “A little, why?” I ask, following him into the hallway.

  “You have Mrs. Miner for vocal music. You’ll love her.”

  “You have her?”

  “Not this year—it wouldn’t fit into my schedule, but I’ve had her before.”

  I smile at Zach, but remind myself not to get too keyed up about him. He’s attractive, true, and if things were different, we might make perfect sense. But things aren’t different, and my secrets would horrify him. I take a breath and focus on the major landmarks of the building as he points them out.

  I’m right about one thing: Zach is popular. So far, there isn’t anyone who doesn’t know him, and I lose count of how many people greet him as we pass. We stop outside a closed door on the third floor. The tour is over, and I stupidly wish for an excuse to extend it.

  “Okay, so first period is almost over so there’s no point going to that one,” Zach says. “This is your history class. Just hang out here until the bell rings, then go on in.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Hey—you have ‘A’ lunch. So do I. Look for me, okay?”

  Um…no! Bad idea.

  “Sure,” I say instead.

  “Okay. I’ll catch you later.” Zach smiles one last time and heads back down the hall. I watch him go, and my heart does a little flip-flop at the “what-ifs.”

  I lean against the wall next to the closed classroom door. The halls are quiet, but the peace is short-lived. Within moments the bell rings, and doors on three sides of me are thrown open as students stream out of classrooms like worker ants marching to orders. Dozens of eyes fall on me, all wondering the same things: Who is she? Where is she from? But not one person greets me or offers a smile of welcome. And I get it. I’m pretty sure I did the same thing…before.

  I busy myself by searching through my nearly empty backpack. When the last two students leave the classroom, I cautiously step inside. Leaning against his desk and glancing over a student’s homework is my history teacher, Mr. Hedrick. Dressed impeccably in a suit and tie, he’s the epitome of “old school.” I groan inwardly at what this means about his teaching style.

  He’s absorbed in his work, so I study him. His white hair is clipped military short, and his heavy plastic glasses are propped precariously at the tip of his long, straight nose. His thin lips are pressed together in displeasure, and a deep crease forms a crater-like indentation between his nearly transparent eyebrows. He tosses the papers onto his desk, then removes his glasses and massages the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. I clear my throat, but he doesn’t hear me.

  “Mr. Hedrick?” I say.

  He jerks to attention and replaces his glasses. “Yes?”

  “Hi. I’m Abby Lunde. I was assigned to your class.”

  “Oh yes!” Mr. Hedrick rifles through the mess of papers on his desk. “I just got your registration, Abby. Come in and choose a seat anywhere you’d like.”

  “Thank you.” I select a seat toward the middle-back of the class.

  Students trickle into the classroom—sometimes alone, but frequently in groups of twos and threes. Most of them look the same: name-brand clothing, perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect everything. I draw a breath and try not to hate them for representing what I no longer have—what I will probably never have again.

  As closely as I’m studying them, I know they’re doing the same to me. I pretend to ignore the way they look me over, wondering whether I’m worthy of their consideration then deciding not to put forth the effort to find out. The seats around me fill and I sit in the midst of them, invisible.

  I open my notebook and doodle in the margins of a clean sheet. If I learned anything at my old school, it’s the importance of confidence. In this caste system that is High-School Hell, confidence, or lack thereof, determines social placement, and I will never again allow myself to be a bottom dweller. Apparently, however, someone else has a different idea.

  “You can’t sit here.”

  The comment comes from a girl with beautiful long, straight, blond hair. She has the tiniest upturned nose, which matches her petite frame. Though barely five feet tall, she carries herself with the regal bearing of a queen. Confidence. This one will be at the top of the food chain. I give her a cursory glance then return my attention to my drawings.

  “I said you can’t sit here,” she repeats. “Are you deaf?”

  I finish filling in the three-dimensional box I’ve drawn, then lift an eyebrow and take her in from head to toe. “Says who?”

  “Says me. This is my seat, and I always sit here.”

  “Well,” I smile like I’m talking to a small child, “I was told to sit anywhere I liked. I like this seat.”

  A few students snigger but are cut off by a sharp glance from the girl in front of me.

  “I don’t think you understood me,” she says. “You need to move.”

  Instinctively I know the next few moments will define my experience at this school. If I back down today, she’ll think she can push me around forever. Been there, done that.

  “Oh, I understood you fine.” I draw another three-dimensional box. “Sit somewhere else, and you can have this one tomorrow.”

  “C’mon, Trish,” says a pretty girl with auburn hair. “It’s not worth it, and Hedrick will count us tardy if we’re not in our seats when the bell rings.”

  “Screw Hedrick. I want this chair.”

  “You really should take another seat,” I suggest. “I’m not moving, and I’d hate to see you counted tardy.”

  Behind her, Mr. Hedrick clears his throat. “I have to agree, Ms. Landry. Please have a seat. With your attitude, I’m thinking I might have a detention slip with your name on it.”

  Well played,
Mr. Hedrick! I bite my lip to staunch my laughter at Trish’s shocked expression.

  “Mr. Hedrick! I—” Her jaw flaps open and closed.

  “Yes, Ms. Landry?”

  “Never mind.” She storms off and sits three seats behind me. My first class and I’ve already made an enemy. What’s next?

  CHAPTER THREE

  HISTORY WITH MR. HEDRICK IS FAR BETTER THAN I EXPECTED. RATHER THAN A TEDIOUS LECTURE FILLED with dates and places, he regales us with stories of historical figures as though retelling humorous anecdotes about old friends. Characters come to life, and I forget to take notes. I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting to learn the ending of a particularly humorous tale he refers to as “The Misadventures of Guy Fawkes,” when the bell rings. The entire class groans.

  “Ah. Too bad,” he says, his gray eyes sparkling with humor. “Guess you’ll have to stay awake for another lecture tomorrow to see how it ends.”

  I smile for a brief second before Trish catches my attention. Her lips form a thin line, and the malice in her expression is unmistakable. She stares at me, daring me to look away first. When I refuse, she flips her long hair over her shoulder and graces me with an evil smile that says, “Game on.” If I wondered before, there can be no question now: I’m screwed.

  My next class is chemistry with Ms. Burke. Finding the class quickly, I scan the room and discover I’m the second to arrive. The only other student is a tall boy seated near the back. His curly dark hair is a little on the long side, but it suits his boyish features. Peeking out from behind his long lashes are eyes the color of cornflowers. He’s beautiful in a masculine way. Our eyes meet and he smiles, his expression open and approachable. I hesitate, hoping I haven’t misunderstood his silent welcome, but since there’s no one else to witness my humiliation if I’m wrong, I take the desk behind him.

  I’m barely seated when he spins around and faces me. “Welcome to chaos. I’m Josh.”

  “I’m Abby.” A smile teases my lips.

  “You new to town, or just new to Rochester South?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “Figured. I’ve never seen you before.” Josh shrugs. “But you could’ve transferred from one of the other high schools, I guess.”

  I’m saved from responding when Ms. Burke enters the room. The complete opposite of Mr. Hedrick, she’s young with long, platinum-blond hair tipped in black. She wears faded jeans and an even more faded sweatshirt reading Rochester South in big gold letters across the front. If I didn’t know better, I’d mistake her for a student, but she quickly takes command, erasing any doubt.

  I’m not sure why, but I’ve always sucked at science. You’d think having a mom whose strengths are in math and science, I’d excel, but my strong subject is English. Maybe I take after the sperm donor who is my real dad—who knows? I just don’t get science in the same way I do English. It’s too bad, though, because I really like science. And I love how, in chemistry, different elements combine to become something completely new without any obvious traits of their origins. But despite how much I like the subject, my nerves are shot after my run-in with Trish and I know I’ll never be able to concentrate. The truth is, it’s not just Trish I’m worried about, though that tops my list. I’m also worried about how long it’ll take us to find a place to live, and whether Mom will screw things up for us again before we do. And then there’s this school and Trish. If there’s one good thing about leaving Omaha, it’s that I get a clean slate where nobody knows anything about me. Here, I can be anyone I want…or at least I could’ve before my exchange with Trish. I can’t help wondering how much damage I’ve already done.

  I’m lost in my own worries and miss the direction to move our desks into small groups. As the room erupts around me, I remain in my same position, confused at the disruption. Luckily, Josh is one step ahead and rotates his desk toward mine so I don’t need to go anywhere, and maybe don’t look as stupid as I feel.

  “Wake up, Ariel.” Josh snaps his fingers. “We’re supposed to be in groups of twos and threes. Wanna be my partner?”

  “Abby,” I correct. “And I guess.”

  “You may be Abby, but you look like an Ariel with that red hair of yours.”

  My face flames. There’s no malice in Josh’s expression so I stutter out a thanks for what I hope is a compliment, and remind him again my name is Abby.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just call you Ariel,” he says.

  And just like that, I have a new identity. I’m no longer Abby—social pariah of Omaha East High School. I’m Ariel, renamed by the weird guy in front of me.

  “So what’s your story?” Josh asks, skimming through the textbook for our assigned questions.

  I think about making up a story, but I’ve never been a good liar, so I go with the truth. Or mostly the truth, anyway. “I don’t have one. You?”

  “Everybody has a story, Ariel. Where are you from?”

  “Abby,” I remind him again, but inside my stomach flutters at the nickname. “I’m from Omaha. We just moved here.”

  “Let me guess: your dad took a job with IBM or the Clinic.” Josh rolls his eyes, as though he’s heard this a thousand times.

  “The Clinic?”

  “Mayo Clinic. That’s what we call it here.” He makes air quotes with his fingers. “The Clinic.”

  “Oh. No. He just wanted a change.”

  “Just like that?”

  I snap my fingers. “Just like that.”

  “Huh. Go figure. So when’s your lunch block?”

  My stomach clenches. “Block A. I have lunch next. You?”

  “Same. I’ll walk you down there. You can eat with us.”

  Relief floods through me. I didn’t realize how worried I was about lunch, but now I won’t have to decide whether to eat alone or sit with Zach.

  “So what about your parents?” I ask. “Where do they work?”

  “IBM. They’re both computer geeks.”

  Great—computer geeks. Translated, that means money, and a lot of it.

  Our conversation stalls out as we complete our group assignment, then Josh staples the pages together and writes our names at the top of the first page. When he gets to mine, he writes, “Ariel.”

  I clear my throat. “It’s Abby. You wrote Ariel.”

  Josh smiles. Leaving “Ariel” written on the paper, he writes “Abby” beside it in brackets. “That should suffice.”

  I laugh. “Is this going to be a problem for you—remembering my name, that is?”

  “Nope—but you should probably get used to being called Ariel to avoid confusion.”

  Usually this kind of thing might irritate me, but Josh makes me laugh. Already I love that he’s funny and not the least bit pretentious.

  “C’mon,” Josh says as the bell rings. “Let’s head to the lunchroom and see what our esteemed nutrition specialists have created for us today.”

  “Should I be scared?”

  “Very.” Josh fakes a shiver of dread.

  We approach the cafeteria and my mind races. First, I’m worried about whether my lunch account is set up properly with sufficient funds. The lady at registration promised Nick it would be and that nobody would know I’m on free lunch, but the fear of anyone finding out how poor we are is pervasive. Then there’s just being in the cafeteria. I hate cafeterias, and I haven’t eaten in one since midway through last school year. I just couldn’t. I still don’t know if I can. Instead, I spent most of my lunch periods hiding out in the school library. But this place is different. Nobody knows me here. I’m no longer Abby Lunde, I’m Ariel.

  My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since the PB&J sandwich Mom gave us all for dinner last night. I steal a glance at Josh and he smothers a grin.

  “Don’t say a word!” I warn.

  “What? Me?” Josh throws his hands up.

  I lift an eyebrow and give him a stern glare, but his laughter makes it impossible to stay serious. My face breaks into its own st
upid grin.

  “Yeah—you need more practice, Ariel. You’re way more Little Mermaid than Sea Witch.” He laughs. “C’mon, let’s get something to eat before someone mistakes you for a ravenous Simba.”

  Josh picks up two trays and hands one to me. “Now I know you’re hungry, but go slow. The buffet looks really cool, but there are dangers hidden within.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

  I bump my shoulder against his. “Can you be serious for one minute?”

  “I am serious.” He waves a hand toward the various food lines like Vanna White presenting letters on Wheel of Fortune. In his best game-show-host voice he says, “Over here we have the salad line, and—if your dietary preferences run more toward the carnivorous variety—we offer a burger bar along the back wall on the right side. On the other side of that same wall is today’s ‘special,’ but don’t be fooled. The only thing ‘special’ about it is the hocus-pocus they did to make it look edible. Trust me when I say you’re better off with a burger or salad.”

  I smother a giggle. “Thanks.”

  I choose the burger bar because it has the shortest line. I select a cheeseburger and add a container of tater tots to my tray.

  Josh is waiting for me near the cash register next to a large refrigerator with a selection of fruit drinks and milk. Grabbing a bottle of apple juice, I smile at Josh and join him in line. Piled high on his tray is a small mountain of salad topped with enough croutons and cheese for three people.

  “Would you like some salad with your cheese and croutons?” I tease.

  He snorts. “Just playing it safe. You can’t really ruin salad toppings when they just pour them out of a bag.”

  Josh hands his card to the woman at the register. In seconds, he’s through the line and it’s my turn.

  “We’re back in the far right corner. Round table.” Josh nods toward the back of the cafeteria. “I’ll save you a seat.”

  I nod, but my stomach churns and nausea overwhelms me. Where only minutes ago I was hungry, now I can think of only one thing: Please let my card go through without a problem! Please don’t let Josh find out I have no money for lunch.