It was Kori’s idea, just to have a laugh. She thought it would be hysterical if we showed up early and took one of the round tables. We picked the lowest upper rung of the social ladder, the JV drill team. They only had the title because the school’s administration didn’t feel rejection benefited perky blondes, so they created a whole new group to accommodate all the leftovers from cheerleader tryouts. It wasn’t like they had a lot of clout. Not that we had any either, but we did have the table.

The drill team girls were, understandably, horrified. They stared at us, unable to comprehend. Some looked to the JV cheerleaders, but they found only laughter. A couple of drill team girls stomped their Kaepas and huffed, but they eventually had to sashay on over to the rectangle tables and wedge in between the debate-the-obvious geeks and the free-the-granola-trees freaks.

Unlike Chelsea Westad—who continues to eat at the round tables because no one at Pizza Hut gives a shit who she is—we can’t wait to give up our table. As soon as Cole—the first of us to turn sixteen—gets her license, we will gladly abandon the table, and peace will be restored to the land. But not a minute sooner. After all, you don’t go back and hunt slimes after you’ve hit level fifteen. *Cough*Cough* I mean, once you’ve sat at the round tables, you could never go back to the rectangles.

As Chelsea Westad and her black-and-blue entourage swung past our table, she made a grand production of checking her ringing cell phone’s LCD and … wait for it … here it comes … “Hey, Destiny’s calling, must be for you, Serena!” Snicker, snicker, barf, barf. The friggin’ BBs think they are sooo original, starting up with their shit again now that Mr. Dick Click has so kindly reminded them of my mother’s bizarro name with his Manifest Destiny assignment.

Once Chelsea was long gone, I muttered, “God, she’s such a bitch.”

Kori’s lip quirked up sympathetically. Then she scribbled something on a napkin and shoved it toward me. Apparently, after last night’s skinny-dipping screamfest, she’d damaged her vocal cords or something. The choir teacher, Mizz Stella, told her she wasn’t allowed to speak if she wanted her most valued instrument to heal.

Tell her off.

I rolled my eyes at her. I probably should’ve stood up to Chelsea, but what would the point be, really? It would only make it worse.

I shot Kori a mocking smile. “Too late. The moment’s passed.”

This time Kori was the one to roll her eyes.

She snatched the paper back, scribbled frantically, then with her middle finger pushed it back to me.

I dare you.

When I didn’t respond, she said, “You owe me.”