For her second day at this new school, Rose had put together the perfect ensemble. The first day she hadn’t done anything too wild. Just an old shirt of her mom’s and leggings. A few months before, she had made a belt to wear with the shirt from all the lanyards she had woven in summer camp. One sixth grader had even admired it. The outfit was low-key. Her outfit today, however, was hardly outrageous. Bow ties and boys’ collared shirts were so in right now. Or so she had thought. She had felt confident.

But today they had reshuffled the homeroom assignments, and she was put in with the three meanest girls in the entire school. Every school has its mean girls, but usually Rose managed to dodge them. These three seemed particularly vicious. Like mythical creatures, harpies perhaps, with human heads and bodies but the wings and talons of predatory birds. She was their prey. Fresh blood.

Yes, it all fits, Rose thought.

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Rose—Rose Ashley. And over three weeks ago, she became an instant orphan when her mom was killed in a car crash. Now she’s surrounded by three of the most horrible girls—pardon, harpies—in a new school, in a new city, living with a grandmother she barely knows.

Their game was about to begin again. Rose hardly had time to pick up her backpack and flee when there was a screech from one of the girls. Rose looked up just as a boy in an electric wheelchair came crashing into the middle of the circle.

“Sorry, coming through. Didn’t mean to crash into you, Brianna.”

“Just buzz off, Creepo Palsy,” Brianna sneered. Rose was shocked. It was a terrible thing to say. Her new homeroom teacher, Mr. Ross, had already told her that she would be sitting behind the boy in the wheelchair, Myles, who had cerebral palsy.

“Learn how to drive!” Carrie shouted. She gave Rose a sharp look and then the girls scattered, like flies shooed off food at a picnic.

“Uh . . . thanks,” Rose said to the boy. “You’re Myles, aren’t you?” He wore very cool, squarish glasses. The lenses were thick and seemed to magnify his dark brown eyes. Shaggy black bangs fell across his forehead. He was cute—“a handsome lad,” her mom might have said. Or if he had been a girl, “comely.” Her mom had a penchant for old-fashioned phrases.

“Yes,” Myles said. “The student in the wheelchair. My reputation precedes me.” His head wobbled a bit as he shifted slightly. His left hand was bent inward and appeared immobile. His right hand hovered over the chair’s controls, the fingers open and relaxed. “And you’re Rose Ashley. The new student.” His speech was thick, like cake batter, as if his tongue had to scrape and push the sentences out of his mouth.