I am the worst person ever, I thought. Yelling at Rhonda is like yelling at a puppy that just can’t help itself. “I’m sorry, Rhonda—I’m just…”

Her face brightened. “YOU’RE JUST HAVING A BAD DAY!”

“Yeah,” I told her. “I am. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“IT’S OKAY,” Rhonda said. “IT HAPPENS TO EVERYONE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO ME ONCE? I ACCIDENTALLY STUFFED MY SKIRT INTO MY UNDERPANTS AND…”

She kept talking all the way down the hall.

Like I said, she just can’t help herself.

Stop, Book Thief!

A miracle!

I sat in homeroom for fifteen minutes, and NOTHING horrible happened.

Mr. Grank didn’t even mention my hair, which made me wonder if he’s color-blind. It would definitely explain some of his outfits.

Then the bell rang for first period. It was about time for something horrible to happen, right? I was three steps from the door when Mini-Miller swiped my book right out from under my arm.

“That’s what you get for walking so slow, Peg Leg.” He grinned his dumb grin at me.

“Do you even read?”

Mini-Miller shrugged his enormous shoulders. “No.”

I planted my hands on my hips. “So, what are you going to do with a copy of The Book Thief?”

Mini-Miller snorted. “Duh,” he said. “Sell it on eBay.”

Great. Mini-Miller will probably be the next Internet millionaire, thanks to me.

I sighed and watched Mini-Miller lope down the hallway. I couldn’t believe my copy of The Book Thief was stolen by a real book thief. Could this day get any worse?

Yes, it could!

Because just at the moment Mini-Miller turned the corner, Mrs. Stricker swooped past him going in the other direction—toward me.

The minute she saw my hair, her face lit up. I could tell I’d just made her day. Not in a good way.

“Green hair, Rafe Khatchadorian’s SISTER?!” she screeched. “That’s a violation of our dress code! I’ll see you in detention!”

And she took off down the hallway, gleefully passing out a stack of brand-new HVMS Code of Conduct booklets.

My Six Favorite Books This Year (So Far)

Who wants to give the first oral book report?”

Before the question was out of Mr. Mahoney’s mouth, my hand shot into the air. Teachers are always impressed when you show enthusiasm—and I wanted to prove that I was no Rafe Khatchadorian! Mrs. Stricker might have just accused me of a genetic relationship, but none of my real teachers had called me Rafe in more than a week. By the time I finished my oral report, that name would be wiped from everyone’s memory—permanently.

“Does anyone else wish to go first?” Mr. Mahoney asked. “Anyone?”