“Let’s say three things about ourselves, but weird stuff so we can all remember it,” said a take-charge girl, clearly a student body president or leader of the debate team or most valuable soccer player. Her hair was cut short and she wore a T-shirt that said ABLE. “I’m Jasmine, but like most of you know that.” She rolled her eyes, and a few people laughed. “Here are my three things. First, my brother plays professional football.”

A girl to my right sighed heavily, tossing her shiny black hair with dramatic blond streaks over her shoulder, eyes on her phone. “Really?” she asked sarcastically, but it sounded playful, not mean. “As if anyone doesn’t know that.”

“She might not,” Jasmine said, pointing in my direction. “Or him. Who are you guys, anyway?”

“Rude much?” the other girl said.

“Sam, stop interrupting,” Jasmine said.

“Stop bragging about your brother,” Sam said with a smile.

“Hey, I’m Sam, too!” said a boy with a neat haircut wearing a fitted, short-sleeved button-down shirt and slip-on canvas shoes. “I just moved here from Park City.”

“No way!” said curvy, texting Girl Sam. “Then we’re new best friends!”

Everyone laughed except me. Nothing felt funny.

“What about you?” Girl Sam said, turning my way. “What’s your story?”

“I’m Tess, and I’m from Long Beach.” I felt like a mouse.

“California?” Boy Sam asked, stepping toward me, maybe to hear me better, eyes sparkling like he thought California was the best place on the planet.

“No, Washington,” I said. He stepped back, looking disappointed.

“I didn’t know there was a Long Beach in Washington,” Jasmine said, tilting her head at me, confused.

“There is.” They were all staring, making my cheeks burn. “It’s near the border of Washington and Oregon. It’s tiny.”

“Pinedale’s a speck, too,” Jasmine said, shrugging one shoulder like small towns were fine with her. “What brings you here? Did you move like Sam did?”

I shook my head, wishing they’d stop asking questions and that someone would give me water. My mouth felt like I’d eaten glue, my voice was higher than normal, and I couldn’t get a deep breath.

“I’m just visiting.”

“Where are you staying?” Girl Sam asked.

“At our cabin?” I asked back. She stared at me like she wanted the address. “It’s on 191 in the direction of Jackson Hole.”

Girl Sam smirked, and a couple other people outright chuckled.

“No one calls it Jackson Hole,” a boy said. “If you want to talk like a local, call it Jackson.” He smiled with perfectly straight white teeth that stood out against his olive skin. He was about an inch taller than me, with dark, super-curly hair. “I’m Izzy.”