Sighing, I wander down the hallway, trying to decide whether or not I want to endeavor to the cafeteria or just skip lunch and pick something up on the walk home waiting for me at the end of the day. Normally, I skip lunch, mostly because of an incident in seventh grade when I got a tray of spaghetti dumped onto my head, then everyone started cracking jokes about how I must’ve killed someone again, that the spaghetti sauce was really blood. After that, I made a point to bring my lunch and eat it in the bathroom. Then, eventually, I started walking to food places to get something to eat. But I don’t know my way around town yet, so I’m unsure if I have time to make it to any fast food places in time.

I could take up Katy’s offer and try to sit by her friends, but without her around, it just seems weird. And who knows if rumors have been spreading about me yet? I haven’t heard anything, so maybe Dixie May is waiting to spill the gossip about me. Why she’s waiting, I have no damn clue.

And what about this Zay guy? He warned me that he was going to show me my place in this town. Before, I wasn’t that worried, but after what Katy told me, I feel slightly apprehensive. I’d probably be scared shitless if I hadn’t spent the last six years of my life living in bullied hell every day.

Slut.

Freak.

Murderer.

Just as I’m about to arrive at the cafeteria, I receive a text message, which is weird. No one ever texts me. Like ever. Well, except for on the rare occurrence when my aunt notifies me of a chore that she wants me to do while she’s out. It’s really the only reason I have a phone. And it’s a really shitty phone. Like, I’m talking one that flips open.

I dig my phone out of my pocket, and my guard instantly goes up when I see Bitchy Bitch of the West has texted me. Aka, Dixie May.

Bitchy Bitch of the West: My mom says you have my makeup case. You better give it to me ASAP before I get pissed. And you better not touch any of my makeup. The last thing I want is to get like herpes or something from you.

I roll my eyes as I type back.

Me: Yes, I have it. And no, I didn’t touch it. I have no desire to look like Bobo the Clown on my first day of school.

Bitchy Bitch of the West: Nah, you just prefer to look like a hobo, which, FYI, you’re doing a stellar job at.

Me: Well, at least I can do a stellar job at something. You can’t even work your clown look.

Bitchy Bitch of the West: You know what? I was trying to be nice to you, but since you’ve decided to be such a bitch, I think I’m going to let everyone know who you really are. I’ve already obtained the phone numbers of some very popular people in the school, and I think I’m going to send them a link to that article about your parents’ deaths.