When the bell rings for lunch the next day, I scan the crowd for Piper’s wheelchair, determined not to walk in alone. I wouldn’t even be considering it if she hadn’t texted me after first period.

Claimed a lunch spot yet?

Keeping my options open

Hit me up by the vending machines

I’ll think about it

Don’t be a hero

My combat-boot lunch pals from the stage yesterday file past me toward the auditorium. I consider retreating to the anonymity of the curtains as well when Piper texts me again.

Are you coming or what? No one survives solo

While I weigh my options, I notice a poster outside the bathroom, advertising the spring musical. In my old life, I would have auditioned with my friends, would have been part of a group to call mine. Now, I am a solo act.

But maybe Piper’s right: the only way to get through these two weeks is to belong—somewhere.

The clatter from the lunchroom spills into the hallway along with the aroma of Tater Tots and teen sweat.

I push the doors open despite the itch spreading down my arms.

A table of girls closest to me turn in unison. I pretend not to notice how they bunch their heads together over their cell phones, their texting thumbs and eyebrows flying in rapid-fire girlspeak.

I scratch my arm outside my compression garments as the itch intensifies. Where is Piper? I must look lost or confused, probably confirming everyone’s suspicions that my mind is as messed up as the rest of me. The roar of the cafeteria crescendos around me, making me wish I had my headphones, and I’m just about to turn tail and run back to the stage when—

“Ava!”

I’ve never been so relieved to hear my name. Piper waves from a table in the back corner, the hot-pink stripes of her compression garments now visible above the crowd.

“Welcome to the Island of Misfit Toys!” she says when I make my way to her.

The other kids at Piper’s table don’t seem to share her enthusiasm. They briefly scrutinize my face and return to their lunches. One boy tinkers with a clarinet, wiping the reed on his shirt before wedging it back into the mouthpiece. A girl pores over a math textbook, and another keeps her eyes glued to her phone while she chews a sandwich.

Piper pats the seat next to her.

“Okay, for real, though, I don’t even know what these guys do after two-thirty every day,” she whispers. “But my regular squad kind of disintegrated recently, and like I said, you need a pack to survive.”