I finally skidded into a parking place at school thirty minutes late for class. And when I made my way up the long stairs and into the building, and managed to find the right classroom, I was utterly traumatized to discover that I was sitting next to Amber, in the front row.

I hate the front row. I feel like I’m being watched when I sit there, which of course, I am. The anxiety of all those eyes boring holes into your back felt overwhelming, and with Amber next to me, these feelings were only intensified. So much so that when I pulled my water bottle out to quench my dry, nervous mouth, my hands were shaking so much that I spilled water on her book, ruining the work she’d done, while also wetting her skirt. By some cruel twist of fate, it seemed I was destined to go through life at BWH continuously pissing off the likes of Amber—the one girl at school you didn’t want to piss off.

And like my first day at BWH, this day also just deteriorated. Because I soon discovered that wearing a soup can on my clothing had not been a good idea. This became evident when the Three Ts cornered me in the bathroom.

“Do you, like, really, really like, like, soup, like, a lot?” Teagan asked.

I wanted to open my mouth and shout, Do you, like, really, really like, like, saying like, like, a lot? Like? But didn’t.

“Isn’t it, like, too hot, like, for soup, like?” Teagan asked. (Okay, so I’m lying about all the likes. They weren’t really saying them, but I was imagining them in my head.)

“Yeah, I’d understand it if it was a smoothie or something,” the one called Tasandra added thoughtfully.

“Oh em gee, that’s such a good idea!” Teagan clasped her hands enthusiastically. “We should get shirts made with our favorite smoothies on them, and then we wouldn’t need to open our mouths to order them, we could just point at our shirts.”

What. The. Hell! Had I heard that correctly? I stared in shock, watching Tasandra and Teagan as they looked like they were really considering this as a legitimate new way of ordering their favorite blended drinks. And then something strange happened. Thembi, the tall, golden-brown goddess, tilted her head to the side and looked at my shirt again.

“Isn’t that by a famous artist?” she asked.

“Andy Warhol,” I replied quietly.

“He did those pictures of Marilyn Monroe and the cows. I saw them when I was in New York.”

“You saw original Andy Warhols?”

“Yeah, they’re cool,” she said and then turned around. This seemed to be the cue for the other Ts to follow. I stared after them as they walked toward the door.