Mrs. Mac’s smile fixes, not sure how to take me—probably trying to figure out how much trouble I’m going to give her, if my epic hair fail is a cry for help, if I’ll be a daily-visit drama queen or just one of the faceless multitude who don’t need her at all. “Are your teachers helping you catch up on classwork? I know that you came to us a little late.” When you’ve had as many get-to-know-you meetings with guidance counselors as I have, that air of client-attorney privilege takes on a distinct aroma of bull. If I mentioned that, uh, actually, my teachers hardly seem to register that I’ve missed five solid weeks of the first quarter, she’d be scheduling a conference faster than you can say college brochure, which she has a nice collection of, fanned out on the blotter within easy reach.

“Everything’s going good so far.” Bulletproof answer. Reassuring, without necessarily ruling out the possibility of us meeting again.

A little movement of her chin, a quirk of her mouth. Translation: I’m a tough nut, but she likes a challenge. “Well. I just wanted to check in and let you know where I am. My door’s always open.” Except when it’s not? “Also . . . you should know that we recently lost a student. A sophomore. Gavin Cotswold.” She clears her throat. “There’s a good chance it was drug-related.” Shifts a pad of sticky notes three inches to the left. “So, don’t be surprised if things seem a bit off.” Her gaze returns to me. “Can we chat again in a couple weeks? I’d really like to get to know you better, Clara. Touch base about your plans for after graduation, that kind of thing. Sound okay?” I nod. My plans involve a state university, major undeclared. Right now, all I’m sure of is that I don’t want to work at a quickie mart for the rest of my life, and that Ma and Dad will kill me if I don’t put my grades to use. Ambition, thy name is Clarabelle. “Lovely.” She holds out a wicker basket, gives it a shake, like calling a cat for yum-yums.

With effort, I lean forward. Inside are pin-back buttons featuring the PDHS Raging Elk. Hooves raised in combat, upper lip curled. Mrs. Mac smiles over the rim. “I think you’re really going to like it here.”

They find me at lunch. I spot Trace immediately, table-hopping, eating everyone’s chocolate pudding. Bang onto a stool, talking while he shovels, plucking the plastic cups from every reachable tray, then moving on to the next empty seat before his victims know what hit them. He demolishes both freshman tables in under five minutes; by the time he reaches the upperclassmen, the pudding cups are piled and waiting for him. His “Yes. You are my people” rises above the cafeteria buzz to the rafters.