I laughed, but then Rhonda looked hurt, and I realized she was serious. “You… sing? You?”

“WHY? DOES YOUR BAND NEED A SINGER?” She grabbed my arm and squeezed it hopefully. And painfully.

“No,” I said quickly. “Sorry.”

“OH.” She looked crestfallen. “BECAUSE I’M REALLY GOOD,” Rhonda added.

“Okay,” I told her. “Well, here’s my class. Gotta go!” And I finally escaped into social studies.

I could feel Rhonda watching me from the door as I sat at my desk. But I didn’t look at her. I just stared at the whiteboard until the bell rang and she disappeared.

I am soooo regretting being nice to her.

If I’m not careful, she could sink my whole year.

I’m In!

What did I do?

Something. It had to be something.

Is it because I took their torture without complaining? Because I ditched the pony backpack? Because I’m the sister of a seriously rebellious HVMS legend who now goes to a totally hip art school?

None of those reasons seemed likely. I only knew one thing: Missy Trillin asked me to have lunch with her and the other Princesses.

There has to be a logical explanation, I thought, but I couldn’t figure it out. Here’s what happened:

Actually, it was a little more like this:

Ha-ha, ha-ha, Rafe! I’m winning already!

So—okay—maybe they just wanted me to bring them cookies. That was today. Tomorrow, it could be pie. And after a while, I would just be hanging out with them. The fourth Princess, on patrol.

I picked three enormous cookies flecked with M&M’s for Missy and the B’s. The HVMS cafeteria mostly serves reheated mystery meat, but the desserts are good.

Out in the courtyard, I sat down on a bench, wondering why more people don’t eat out there. It was a pretty day, with only a few puffy clouds in a bright blue sky.

“Excuse me?” someone called. It was a cute guy with sandy-blond hair. “Um, hey—” He glanced over his shoulder, then hurried through the cafeteria doors. “You’re not supposed to be out here.”

“What?” I asked. I turned to look over at the cafeteria windows.

“Oh,” I said. I felt like I’d just swallowed a boot: sick and lumpy.

“Are you okay?” the blond kid asked me. “You look like you just swallowed a boot.”

Suddenly, the cafeteria doors burst open. In a cloud of smoke, Mrs. Stricker—the Hills Village Middle School vice principal—appeared.

And she was heading straight for us.

Mrs. Stricker Loves Me

Mrs. Stricker swooped toward me. For a moment, I was terrified. Then I remembered something: I had cookies.