Petra turns her bright blues toward Atlanta. Doesn’t say anything. Not this time, at least. Sometimes she offers a polite Don’t forget we have biochem homework, or maybe Quiz tomorrow, as if Atlanta’s really gonna have to deal with homework for the rest of the year. Susie shields her face with a curtain of dyed-black hair, but through the scissor slit Atlanta can see her looking. Susie always looks so sad. Like the look you get from watching one of those Humane Society commercials with the crusty, one-eyed dogs and all that Sarah McLachlan music. Atlanta gives her a little nod. Susie doesn’t return it.

Then there’s Bee. Third in the trio, side by side, closest to Atlanta.

Bee, her old best friend, now not a friend at all.

Bee pretends Atlanta isn’t even there. Eyes forward. Chin lifted. They used to be so close. Being a transplant, it wasn’t like Atlanta was a big part of the ecosystem. Now she’s on the shore of the pond. Dry when everyone else is wet. Standing while everyone swims.

Even the tadpoles and snails and water skeeters don’t want shit to do with her.

After English class, Mrs. Lewis pulls her aside. Hands Atlanta a paper. Atlanta’s own paper, by the looks of it. A one-pager on the subject of A.E. Housman’s “To an Athlete Dying Young.”

“What is this?” Mrs. Lewis asks. The woman’s got some mean eyebrows. Like two fuzzy caterpillar lovers, straining to reach one another, trying to make out. Now those furry brows are scrunched up tight.

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

“It’s my paper,” Atlanta says with some authority. Because, duh, it is.

“It’s one page.”

“Thank you. Yes.”

“I asked for a seven-page paper.”

Atlanta blinks. “Yeah. I know. And mine’s one page.”

“Do you remember how you ended the paper?” Mrs. Lewis asks. “Do you remember how you reached the conclusion that resolves your thesis?”

Atlanta does remember. But she just shrugs instead, lets the teacher talk through it.

“This one sentence just . . . trails off and the ending is replaced by ‘blah blah blah.’”

“I thought it was a nice commentary on the futility of collecting information and, uhh, synthesizing, ummm. Thought patterns.” Atlanta nods, having settled that. “Yeah. Synthesizing thought patterns.”

“You’re messing with me.” Mrs. Lewis’s mouth goes from a tight line steadily melting downward into a mean scowl.

“Well. I don’t mean to.”

“I need you to rewrite this. Today’s Tuesday. I want it by Friday. All seven pages.”