They all chorus friendly hellos, and it’s clear Isabel’s mentioned me, which is just … so confusing. They’re all unreasonably and dauntingly gorgeous—Jenna’s a study in contrasts, with pale white skin, dark hair, and otherworldly blue eyes; Ashleigh looks exactly as I imagine Tyra Banks did at sixteen; and Priya’s one of the few South Asian students I’ve seen at Camden, with warm brown skin, strikingly long-lashed dark eyes, and a wide smile that could stop traffic. I don’t know how stunning people somehow seem to get along simply by virtue of being stunning, but I do know I do not fit in with them.

Thankfully, I don’t have time to think about it before we’re ushered inside by the organizer, who introduces herself as Brenda and launches into a speech she clearly gives every visit.

“Welcome to the Pinebrook Community Center’s soup kitchen,” she greets us, pushing the sleeves of her chunky mauve sweater up to her elbows. “How many of you have volunteered at a soup kitchen before?” Heather, Kayla, and Isabel raise their hands. “Great, so you guys are old pros. The most important thing to remember is that these are simply people in need, and they deserve the same respect you’d give anyone else. Smile. Call them ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am.’ A little kindness goes a long way.

“Another thing we take very seriously is hygiene. We’re working with food, so we want to be extra careful.” She hands a cardboard box to Mrs. Dodd. “Your teacher is going to pass around latex gloves. Please take a pair.”

“Do we need to wear hairnets?” asks the female half of the couple that was sucking face in the van.

Brenda smiles. “No, just keep your hair tied back and out of your face and you should be fine,” she replies, looking around at us. Her gaze lands on me, and she frowns. “Except you. You should wear a hairnet.”

Of course.

I do my best to ignore the stupid freshman boys taking pictures of me in my hairnet, and anyway, they mercifully stop when Isabel puts on her own. “If one of mine gets in the food, everyone will know it was me,” she says with a grin, tweaking a strand of her strawberry hair before twisting it all up into an elegant knot.

My heart warms at the solidarity, and while I don’t understand why Isabel is being so nice to me, I do wish Claire could see me and how I’m making real friends. I would’ve traded a hundred Dunkin’ runs and ice-cream-filled sleepovers to have her stick up for me when it counted. And here, a girl I barely even know—a girl who clearly doesn’t need any more friends than the ones she’s already got—is letting herself look like a dork for me.