“Reg, we’re not the hunters anymore,” I said. “We’re the prey. The mouse instead of the cat.”

He clucked his tongue in disagreement. “I don’t think anyone will ever accuse you of being a mouse, and no magic fence can take the catty out of either one of us.”

Laughing again, we turned from the residential street onto the main road, and the high school rose up immediately before us, a tower of red brick. I stopped short at the sight of it, my breath catching in my throat. I’d seen more imposing buildings. I’d lived in more imposing buildings. But for some inexplicable reason, I was on edge.

I ducked down quickly to check my face in the side mirror of an SUV. My new blue eyes looked back at me, surrounded by thick black eyeliner and lashes heavy with mascara. I said a quick thank-you to the gods of fashion and beauty for waterproof makeup. Everything was in place, even my hair, which I’d wisely slicked back into a ponytail. I had seen what humidity could do to human hair over the years and didn’t want to risk frizz.

Reassured by the mirror and sweating a little less, thanks to the shady streets, I straightened up with renewed confidence. I felt every bit the queen bee, and this sad little school could probably use one. I tossed my head back as we crossed the street, passed under a “Hope High School” marquee and scaled the steps to the school’s front doors.

I look amazing.

Reg and I pushed on the doors simultaneously, and they swung open too fast, slamming into the interior walls with a crash. A hundred pairs of eyes in the grand front hall looked up at the sound, then stopped to stare.

At me.

Because I looked ridiculous.

Six

As Seen on TV

Everything was wrong, from my Prada to my pumps.

I stood out like a black leather weed in a garden full of denim and cotton.

Where were the slinky sundresses? The thigh-high boots? The hair extensions? The students surrounding us looked nothing like the kids I’d seen on TV. Most of them were in jeans or shorts with sloppy T-shirts, and a few had pulled on sweatshirts to combat the building’s over-powerful air-conditioning. Here and there, I saw a pair of wedge sandals to break up the monotony of flip-flops, but mostly the fashion train had skipped this stop.

For a moment, I wondered if I was at the center of some practical joke—a trick played on the new kids. After all, I’d seen a version of this episode on almost every teen TV show: the main character attends what they think is a costume party, but they’re the only one in costume; or they have a nightmare about showing up somewhere naked. I wondered which scene I was in—what part I was supposed to play.