When I left the cafeteria, the noise suddenly died down (and I’m not just talking about Rhonda). The only students in the hall were three girls clustered around a locker, and they all looked like they’d been dressed by the same celebrity stylist. They eyed me for a minute, and then one put up her hand to shield a whisper. The others laughed.

I’d seen them before. All three are in my French class. Missy Trillin is clearly in charge of, like, the entire school. And everyone in it. In class earlier today, a nerdy boy with glasses had made the mistake of sitting in the seat she wanted.

Missy’s family is incredibly rich. Her mother invented Mac N Cheesyohs—you know, macaroni-and-cheese on a stick that you heat up in the toaster—so they have gobs of money. Everyone wants to dress like Missy. Everyone wants to go to her parties. Everyone wants to ride in her solid-gold limousine.

The two celebutantes with Missy were named Brittany and Bethany, but I wasn’t sure which was which. Looking at them, I finally understood what Rafe had meant about my pony backpack. These girls had clothes that made my T-shirt and jeans look like sewn-together old dish towels. Their perfect skin made my face look like someone had attacked me with a permanent marker. Their white teeth could’ve blinded anyone within fifteen feet of them, and you could probably lose a pet Chihuahua somewhere in the middle of their thick, puffy hairstyles. (In fact, Missy actually did have a pet Chihuahua.) I felt like I’d just wandered into a shampoo commercial they were starring in.

Their eyes were on me as I walked along, looking for the girls’ room. It wasn’t where I expected it to be, but I kept hoping it would appear, like an oasis in the desert.

“Clip-clop,” Missy said, and the B’s cracked up.

I didn’t know what that meant, but it was clearly a joke, so I chuckled along.

“Um, hi,” I said with a smile. “Can you tell me where the girls’ room is?”

Missy gave me a pursed-lips smile that twisted up the side of her mouth. “Do I know you?” she asked. Her voice made it clear that she couldn’t possibly know me. She gave me an up-and-down look that made me want to go hide out in a locker for the rest of the year.

“I don’t think we know anyone who gets her clothes out of a Dumpster,” one of the B’s said.

“Or cuts her hair with a Weedwacker,” added the other.

Clearly, these girls were grade-A snobs. So I was all “I guess you guys blew off a couple of lessons at charm school, because that was seriously rude.” And then they burst into tears, and Missy tried to draw me a map to the girls’ room, but I just walked off.