At least in the back of the room, fewer kids could ogle my outfit. The boy in front of me did turn around to look though—some things never change. I sat up and pursed my lips.

“Stare much?”

But the look he was giving me wasn’t a lusty one. He reached an arm around, his hand closing over mine—squeezing just hard enough to stop my incessant pencil tapping.

“Do you mind?” he asked, then he faced forward again without waiting for an answer.

I quietly seethed. I do mind. I mind that no one here seems to appreciate designer labels or mysterious new kids. I mind that I have to play the part of kid at all, when I’m old enough to be your mother’s mother’s mother . . . or something. And mostly I mind that I came here expecting to collect minions, and instead all I have is a collection of embarrassing moments.

But I put the pencil down anyway.

At least now I wanted to use it to stake someone else.

The end of the day couldn’t come fast enough. After seven periods of subjects I either already knew or never was interested in and one lunch hour spent in the girls’ bathroom trying to wipe off my eyeliner, I was done. I paced back and forth at the bottom of the front steps, impatient for Reg to come out. No doubt he was inside sucking up to some teacher half as educated as he was. I hoped he wouldn’t bore me to death talking about his fabulous day all the way home.

“Watch it!” someone cried from the top of the steps.

I looked up in time to see students scattering to the sides like pins, and the bowling ball behind them was Reg. He leaped down the stairs, two at a time, and without breaking stride, he grabbed my elbow and dragged me away from the school.

“We are done here.” He spit the words.

“So done,” I agreed.

He was still pulling me by the arm when we hit the tree-lined street that led back to farmland, and I had to dig my heels in to make him stop.

“Reg!” I pointed to my feet. “This footwear is not suitable for jogging.”

“Incompetent imbeciles,” he muttered.

He let go of my arm and continued walking. I hurried to catch up.

“And judgmental jerks,” I added.

When Reg spoke again, his voice was a high-pitched imitation of someone else. “‘We raise our hands in this school, Mr. Smith.’ ‘Give others a chance to answer, Mr. Smith.’”

I kicked a rock out of our path. “Whispering behind my back instead of telling me what they think to my face.”

“What happened to the free flow of discussion?”

“When did everyone start wearing flip-flops?”

“And you make just one tiny suggestion about altering the reading list because it might be a little pedestrian . . .”