“I know you’re new, Miss Gómez,” Ms. Garcia says in clipped tone, “but we raise our hands here at Poppy View Middle School.”

“I, uh, really have to go to the bathroom.”

“Hurry back,” she snaps.

In the breezeway, I’m still clutching the pink permission slip and my hands are shaking. Is it panic or excitement? All I know is that I’ve got to find Mercedes. I wish I knew what class she was in now. I walk past my locker and Mrs. Ellingham’s classroom. I’m just about to turn around and walk in the other direction when I spot smooth dark-brown hair that’s just beginning to frizz. She’s sitting in the desk closest to the door. I stop and she looks up. Our eyes meet for half a second and then, before I realize it, she sneaks into the hallway.

“What is it?” she asks. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m good, actually.”

She glances over her shoulder. Is she checking to see if the teacher is watching? Or is she worried about the other kids? I know she’s embarrassed to be seen with me. She shakes her head. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Have you had science class yet?”

She gives me a quizzical look. “No, next class. Why?”

“You’ll find out. We’re going on a field trip. The whole seventh grade.” I hand her the paper. “Look.”

Mercedes’s face goes pale and then her cheeks burn red. Her brown eyes widen. The amber specks glint in the sunlight.

“It’s a sign,” we say.

In unison.

CHAPTER 18 Mercedes

This is what we’re going to do,” I whisper to Mattie. We’re in a handicap stall in the girls bathroom across from Ms. Garcia’s room. “We won’t say anything, just get on the bus on Friday like everything is normal.”

“Can we sit together?” Mattie asks.

I shake my head. Yesterday Gaby and Rebecca group-texted me.

Rebecca: Are you friends with the weird new girl, M?

Mercedes: No. Why would you think that?

Gaby: We saw you with her after school. U didn’t notice us.

Mercedes: I told you we had to work on our social studies project.

Luckily, my friends didn’t ask any more questions. And I don’t want them asking any on Friday.

“You sit with your friends,” I tell Mattie firmly, “and I’ll sit with mine.”

She crosses her arms like she’s insulted. I wonder what her life was like before she moved here. She’s so weird; she doesn’t seem to be able to figure out how to fit in. Like, maybe if she just got a few new T-shirts she wouldn’t look so kid-like. We’re in seventh grade, after all. She could really use a flat iron, too. Mom bought me one when I was nine.