As they escort me from the office, Mr. D goes to pat my shoulder but changes his mind at the last second, his hand floating awkwardly in the air.

“Ava. The students have also been warned—told—they’ve been told about you. But your aunt suggested you might want to take a few minutes in each class to tell your peers about yourself. Meet this thing head-on.”

This thing? My melted face? My messed-up life? What thing are we talking about here?

“Yeah, that’s a definite no,” I say.

I don’t need people to understand me. I don’t need to answer questions or make friends or be an inspirational mascot. All I need is to get through the next two weeks.

“Well, it’s up to you,” Mr. D says as the bell screeches overhead. Boisterous voices and bodies flood the hallway. “My door is always open. I like to think of myself as more of a friend than an administrator.”

He shoots me a winning smile with his bleached-white teeth, and I can’t help but picture the Viking at the front door.

“You’re gonna love it here, Ava. I guarantee it.”

Mr. Lynch offers no such encouraging words. He points to the clock on the wall.

“Class starts in five,” he says. “Don’t be late.”

I hesitate on the threshold between the relative safety of the office and the melee of students quickly filling the hallway. The words running the gauntlet come to mind, conjuring up images of medieval Britain where criminals walked half-naked in a line, flanked by men with whips.

Facing the crowded corridor now, I’d prefer to take my chances with the British.

My new bestie, Big D, starts high-fiving hulking boy-men in letterman jackets. Mr. Lynch yells at a student to walk.

Clearly, Principal Danner is here to relive his teenage glory days. Mr. Lynch is here to avenge them.

Me? I just want to survive.

4

A group of boys sees me first.

A skinny one with zit-ridden skin jumps back with a “whoa.” His buddies turn to me, then do an about-face to the lockers, doing a truly terrible job of hiding their laughter. They peek sideways at me with quick head jerks. Real supersleuths.

I sense eyes on me—a feeling I should be used to by now. Whispers and gasps are the background soundtrack to my life, but in this small hallway surrounded by kids my own age, the heat of so many eyes creeps up my neck. My legs and arms start to itch as the familiar buzzing spreads through my body. My face burns as I cast my eyes to the ground.

Don’t look up.

I force myself not to react, even when I hear a group of girls break into nervous giggles and whispers, followed by “Shhhhh…shhhh…stop. She’s coming.”