“A doppelgänger. You know, someone who looks just like you. Like twins only not.”

Twins? I examine Mercedes. She has a small brown freckle on her chin, and mine is freckle free. My teeth gap in the front; hers hug each other close. Her skin is a shade darker than mine. My forehead is a little wider. Even so, there’s something eerily familiar about this girl. Despite the fact she’s carefully avoiding eye contact, it feels like an invisible wire connects us.

“Hey,” the boy hisses again, “did you know it’s bad luck to see your doppelgänger?”

My stomach drops like I just ate rocks. I’m not usually superstitious, but I ask, “What kind of bad luck?” I’ve already had enough bad luck.

The boy checks to see if Mrs. Ellingham is watching and then scoots his chair closer to me and Mercedes. “Some people die after seeing their doppelgänger.”

My hands feel tingly and my heart thumps.

“Do you feel okay?” he asks me. “What did it feel like when you first saw Mercedes? Your doppelgänger?”

“Um,” I say. “Weird, I guess.” I don’t say that it doesn’t really feel like a bad-weird. Just weird.

Mercedes leans forward and hisses, “Shut up.”

I’m not sure if she’s talking to him or me.

“It’s only a coincidence,” she adds. I can tell by the squint in her brown eyes that she has decided it’s bad-weird. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“Boys and girls!” Mrs. Ellingham claps her hands. The three of us jump. The boy scurries to his own place as the teacher says, “Look at the person sitting across from you.”

We all look. Except Mercedes. Her eyes avoid mine.

“Say hello to your project partner!” Mrs. Ellingham says cheerfully.

Now Mercedes looks up. And she glares at me. Her cheeks turn bright pink. I feel my own burn. How have I managed to make enemies with a girl I’ve only just met and then end up partnered with her on our first big project? All on my first day in a new school? It must be my doppelgänger bad luck.

“Write both your names on the assignment and exchange phone numbers. You’ll need to do some of this project outside of class. My room will always be open after school, too.”

A few voices cheer, a few groan. Mercedes is one of the people groaning. Then she sighs a loud sigh that says how much she doesn’t want to be my partner.

“What was your name again?” she asks, pencil poised above her paper.

“Mattie.” Does she feel it? Does she feel the bad luck? “Mattie Gómez,” I tell her. For one millisecond after I say my last name for the second time that day, her eyes flick to me and then back to the paper.