"Sophie McGee, Editor in Chief."

I have to say, it has a nice ring to it. I say it again just for kicks, only this time I use a whimsically French accent, the kind you only see in zee bad comedies. Then, since I'm on a roll, I launch into a few others - Southern (great), Australian (hot), Swiss (breezy and natural, but a person from Switzerland should probably be the judge). Mr. Amado, my journalism teacher, should really give the position to me now. I'm just about to attempt Human Who Is Secretly a Robot accent when someone knocks on my bedroom door.

"What are you doing? Are you talking to yourself?" asks a muffled voice that's curious and impatient all at once - a trademark of my stepsister, Caroline.

"I'm on the phone," I say loudly, before remembering that last night I left my phone on the coffee table downstairs. I add "Lie Better" to this year's to-do list.

"You're doing the name thing again, aren't you?" she asks. "I don't think your teacher will make you editor in chief if you are crazy."

It's a fair point. Still . . .

"What do you want?" I ask.

"Mom says she's going to eat your first-day French toast if you don't come downstairs for breakfast now."

Not wanting to waste time when there's powdered sugar involved, I thank Caroline for warning me and return to packing my bag as I hear her skip down the stairs. Pens? Check. Schedule? Check. Journalism notebook with article ideas for this year? Triple check. Name perfection aside, there are a lot of reasons that I deserve to be editor in chief. I've done everything I can to make sure that it's me - writing filler articles, taking extracurricular photography courses, and even going to a summer journalism camp where we were all forced to wear lime green T-shirts and work on a fake newspaper called Teen Issues Today.

After checking to make sure that my hair isn't doing anything too experimental, I clomp downstairs to the kitchen to find my family halfway through the McGee breakfast routine.

Caroline sits at our round table, dressed to the tens as she picks suspiciously at the remains of her fruit plate. Marcie gave her three slices of cantaloupe again, and as usual, one sits smiling and abandoned on the placemat while she taps her grapes as if they might be tiny purple grenades. They don't pass the test. Abandoning the fruit altogether, she crosses her tan legs and sets to picking invisible lint off of her outfit. Today it is a short denim skirt and a series of layered candy-colored tank tops, all beneath a wispy excuse for a cardigan that's designed to make our matronly principal's head spin. Caroline won't admit it, but her favorite hobby - after watching reality television - is flirting with wardrobe malfunction.

My father sits across from her in a banker-blue suit. For the first nine years of my life, I steadfastly believed that he wore a tie to bed. This morning's selection is red, striped, and currently peeking out from beneath the local business section. Every so often his head shakes as he mutters something about the NASDAQ and the depressed real estate market.

The only thing missing is my stepmother, Marcie, eating my food (lies!) and asking when I'm going to try out for tennis to fulfill her vicarious need for high school sports. Instead she's peering out the window that faces our neighbor's house, or what used to be their house until they moved out six months ago. I slide into the last empty seat and drag some French toast onto my plate with as much stealth as possible; no need to attract her attention.

"I think the house next door finally sold," Marcie announces to no one in particular. "There's a light on upstairs . . . but I haven't seen any moving trucks."

She leans over the sink, not caring that the pink belt of her silk robe is dangling down the drain. If there's one thing Marcie likes more than being our family's judge, jury, and cruise director, it's keeping tabs on the neighbors.

"It's probably an early morning reflection," my father says.

"The sign's gone."

"Then they moved in late last night."

Marcie looks doubtful, probably because she was spying last night at dinner, too, but she drops the curtain and takes her place at the table next to Caroline.

"I wish it were the Hallowells," she says sadly, reaching over to steal Caroline's neglected cantaloupe slice. "Sophie got along so well with their son."

I shove a bite of French toast in my mouth so I will be saved from responding. Marcie used to think that their son, James, was my soul mate because one time we managed to get through a picnic without starting a ketchup war or calling each other "snotbucket." In reality our relationship consisted of hair pulling (age six), doll vandalism (age eight), and relentless teasing about my freckles (age eleven). Not exactly Romeo and Juliet, but try telling Marcie that. Luckily he moved away to New York before either one of us had to drink poison or kill a cousin.

"I hope they have a teenage son," says Caroline, who's gone back to scraping the seeds off of her strawberries. "A cute one," she adds before glancing up to study my outfit. "Seriously? That's what you've decided to wear on the first day of school?"

I look down at my faded green T-shirt, low-rise jeans, and classic Converse sneakers. No reason to go cry in a corner. "What?" I ask. "Is my butt supposed to have something written on it?"

She ignores my joke. "If you want to borrow something, just ask. You know, like a skirt. Or something not made out of cotton."

"I'll keep that in mind," I say, shrugging it off. It might sound mean-spirited, but Caroline's concern for the fashion victims of the world is genuine. I once caught her sniffling over People's "Worst Dressed" list. She claimed it was allergies, but I suspect she was momentarily overcome by a star's debilitating case of quadra-boob.

After Caroline returns to inspecting her fruit, my father lowers the corner of his newspaper and winks at me, his traditional bonding gesture. Before I can wink back, Marcie leans across the table and taps me on the wrist with a manicured index finger, waiting for my full attention before she asks her question.

"Have you given any more thought to tennis this year?"

And with that, I know that it's time to grab my backpack and leave for school.

Thomas Jefferson High is on the edge of town, a location normally reserved for insane asylums and industrial plants that leak hazardous waste. I arrive in plenty of time to snag my usual parking spot at the far end of the lot, right next to the woods that border it to the west. The towering pine trees ensure that the sun does not make my Jeep a sauna, which in turn makes sure that I won't have to kill myself in the afternoon because the car is too hot. For this reason, I like the woods. My classmates also like the woods, but more because they can sneak off and kiss behind the trees.

As for the building itself, nothing has changed since last May; it could still double as a penitentiary, albeit a penitentiary with a lot of jail spirit and a streamer budget. The narrow windows are more suited to a castle turret than a place of learning, and on a gray day it's difficult to distinguish brick from sky. Unless it benefited from a surprise makeover this summer, the inside isn't any less gloomy.

The front sidewalk is peppered with clumps of students desperate to soak up the final seconds before the last bell spurs a mad stampede toward the front door. Usually I cut through the gauntlet of chatter and make my way to class, but today I'm not hearing the normal buzz about summer pool parties, new cars, and mean bosses at Dairy Queen. Instead it's about a group of new students who tried to shake everyone's hands in the hallways.

"I heard they were foreign exchange students," says Danny Baumann, his sunny, all-American head towering above the cluster of football players to my right. "From Bulgaria, or someplace else in South America."

No one would be surprised to learn that Danny Baumann spent the entire semester of World Geography planning his fantasy football league. I know this because I spent the entire semester studying Danny Baumann. Ours is a secret love. I lean in to hear more, but Lindsay Allen cuts my eavesdropping short by hopping in front of me.

"Hey! Good to see you again," she says, startling me with a hug. Five-foot-nothing, she's a red-haired dynamo who reigns over Student Council and anything involving wind instruments. She gives a mean rendition of Lady Macbeth's soliloquy at Speech meets, and the rumor is that it once made the drama teacher cry. More frightening? She moved here less than a year ago, but she's my competition for editor in chief. When she pulls away, she's already talking a mile a minute.

"So Mr. Amado wants to see you before the bell if you have a chance. He thinks we should get a head start on the welcome-back issue of the paper," she says and then readjusts her thick-framed glasses.

Great. She's beaten me to the newsroom, aka Mr. Amado's journalism classroom. Her glasses also look very editorial. I'm losing this thing already.

"What does he want us to handle?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"The new student profile thing," she says. "It's gonna be fun! And a little annoying. Hey, I called you a few times over the summer, but you never got back to me."

"Oh. Right. I was . . . busy." As excuses go, it's fairly lame, so I try to make it better by explaining that the leader of the journalism camp was in love with homework. The truth is that I meant to call her - I did - but something always seemed more important. Thankfully the ten-minute bell rings, and Lindsay makes panicked noises about having three more teachers to see before running off and saving me from digging a deeper hole.

When I get to the journalism room, Mr. Amado's busy writing his name and an "inspirational" quote in small, spiky letters on the whiteboard. The room is a haphazard jumble of desks, article clippings, and computers, many of which are so old that their keys have only the ghosting of letters. I love this place. I take in a deep breath and then start to cough. It also smells like rubber cement, even though they switched to electronic layout years ago.

Mr. Amado drops the marker in the tray and turns around. "Sophie! Nice to see you."

"Lindsay said that you wanted to discuss the welcome-back issue?" I say when I've recovered.

"Right!" he says, clapping once as he moves behind his desk. "But first, have a seat in the front row and let's go over what our goals are for this year."

He points toward a desk in the front row. I sit, taking a moment to study the deranged art scratched across its top, including a sketch of what is either Mr. Amado in drag or an attractive female Bigfoot. I'm still debating when he rolls over in his chair, brow furrowed like he's going to tell me I have brain cancer.

"I hope that you know what a great journalist and writer I think you are," he says. "Your work last year was exceptional. If my grade book didn't tell me otherwise, I would have thought you were a senior. I'm honored to have you back on my staff."

Well, this is a step up from cancer. "I know that you want me on the new-student thing, but I actually had a great article idea for the first issue," I say, tugging at my backpack's zipper and pulling out my story notebook. "Have you ever wondered how many of our library's books have never been checked out? I bet if we compare our percentages to the state average you'll see just how illiterate the student body really is. I mean, you can already see it, but just think - "

"Sophie," Mr. Amado interrupts gently and then tells me to listen. "Like I said, I love everything you're doing, but our school paper is generally supposed to be less investigative and more . . ."

"Fluff?"

"Celebratory."

"Oh."

"It's not that your article on the health code violations committed by lunch ladies in the cafeteria wasn't stellar - it was - but I think we are ruffling too many feathers. I also think they spit in my soup when I'm not looking."

I have a snappy comment ready about progress and how it can't happen if you're afraid of lunch ladies, but I swallow it. Seeing that no response is forthcoming, Mr. Amado sighs, rolls over to his desk to grab a folder, and rolls back.

"We have a lot of new students this year. Eight in the junior and senior class alone," he says, handing over the folder. "I want you and Lindsay to handle them for the 'Getting to Know Our New Tigers' feature. You have four; she has four. Frame the profiles however you like, but just make sure it's a human interest piece." The corners of his mustache lift in amusement. "You're not trying to get them to confess their innermost secrets. If they shot a man in Reno just to watch him die, good for them. We don't want to know about it."

This assignment sounds about as fun as na**d paintball. A part of me thought being a junior would mean that I could stop scouting out the mall's best frozen yogurt or asking random students if they liked the new Saw movie.

"Everything okay?" Mr. Amado asks.

"So we're talking favorite foods, hobbies, colors, movies, pets, and hair products, right?" I ask, doing my best to stop sulking and fake excitement.

"It's up to you," he says just as the warning bell rings. As he walks me to the door, he tries to be reassuring. "You'll do great, don't worry. And hey - I promise that your next story can be about how the members of the Green Team don't recycle."

One can only hope.

***********

A few years ago the administration suddenly realized that forty-five minutes isn't enough time to teach the history of Roman civilization or complex math. Now we still have eight classes, but we only go to four of them in a day. This means that savvy planners can finagle days without vectors, formulas, equations, decimals, or any other mathematical things designed to crush one's spirit. This year I've arranged it so that I have two art classes in a row, then English, then back to Journalism with Mr. Amado. First up is Drawing II with Mrs. Levine, a perpetually unhappy woman who is rumored to have dated all three of the gym teachers at once. No one knows the whereabouts of Mr. Levine. Some say that she ate him.

She gives us the usual first-day speech - don't eat, don't shout, and don't knock over any of the expensive paints or your parents will pay - before she plops bowls of pinecones on our tables.

"Still Life with Pine Cones. Go," she barks and then slams her office door.

Not surprisingly, the glamour of drawing pinecones wears off quickly. After glancing back to check that Mrs. Levine is still hiding, I slip out the folder from Mr. Amado and find a list of the new students' names and a copy of their schedules inside.

Marisabel JonesViolet MartinNeville SmithVlad Smithson Drunken baby naming is a very serious problem, I think as I flip to their schedules. I half expect to find them signed up for Defense Against the Dark Arts, but their classes are normal. I have English with Vlad and Violet, and French with Marisabel. It's a start. The schedule I'm sketching is just starting to take shape when a shadow falls over my page.

"Pinecones, Miss McGee?" asks Mrs. Levine.

"Yep. Abstract ones."

"Cute. But this one's a realistic still life, okay?" she says before wandering back into her cave.

Five minutes before class is scheduled to end, the intercom begins to crackle, and Principal Morgan's voice reminds us that next period will be replaced by First Day Assembly. When the bell rings, I grudgingly gather my things and trudge to the auditorium.

By the time I push my way through the heavy wooden doors, most of the seats are taken. The back rows are dominated by the students in oversized band T-shirts who try without much success to hide earbuds beneath their shaggy hair; Caroline and crew hold court in the front. Usually they are the center of attention, laughing about nothing and jumping back and forth over the rows while the rest of us watch.

Today, however, their heads are turned to the side. I follow their gaze to the auditorium's right wing, where a tall blond boy is leaning against the stage. His features are sharp - a long nose, highly arched eyebrows, and slicing sideburns. Every so often he uncrosses his arms to tug fastidiously at the cuffs of his tailored black shirt. It's a strange gesture, as is the way he tilts his head whenever someone in the front row speaks to him. He must hear the whispers, now at a fever pitch, and yet he keeps his gaze trained on the row of students before him, seemingly oblivious to the five hundred pairs of eyes dissecting his every move. But now and then the corner of his mouth twitches as though he's fighting off a smirk.

Ten to one he's a new student - hopefully one of my new students. Editor in chief, here I come.

The heavy curtain begins to ripple, and Principal Morgan backs onto the stage, still barking commands at a helpless AV Club hopeful. Realizing that the show is about to begin, I slip into the nearest open seat a few rows back before anyone can point me out to Ms. Kate, the terrifying teachers' aide, who may or may not be 137 years old. I still have nightmares about the day she stood behind me in the lunchroom until I finished all of my peas.

The seat happens to be next to Neal Garrett, who's nice enough in an "I went to space camp this summer" way, but who brings his hamster to school at least once per year. The way he's murmuring to the left pocket of his khakis right now makes me think that today is the day.

"Good morning, students," Principal Morgan says from on high, and then sets to smoothing her hair as she waits for the microphone to cease whining. Satisfied her bun is scraped high enough to pull the edges of her eyebrows up demonically, she continues. "I'd like to welcome you to another year at Thomas Jefferson High and to remind you that it's time to put away your summer brains and bring out your thinking caps." She mimes putting on a hat. I hope that Neal's hamster bites me and gives me a strain of rabies that will kill me quickly.

The rest is familiar stuff: our sports teams are great, good grades are great, cl**vage is bad, short skirts should be burned immediately. By the time she gets to the evils of graphic tees, most of her audience has checked out, either staring blankly ahead or studying their crotches with great interest. I glance at the new kid to see how he's taking it, expecting to find the same glassy-eyed condition that has infected everyone else around me, but instead he's bravely sitting on the arm of an aisle seat and scribbling furiously in a small bound notebook. Every so often he looks up as though afraid he's missed a stray word. One of the teachers tasked with policing the crowd approaches, face stern, and says something in his ear, but he just waves her away impatiently. The teacher tries again, and this time he turns to look at her directly. I can't see what he says, but after a few seconds she backs off.

"So, in conclusion," Principal Morgan drones on, causing my ears to perk up in the misguided hope that she's reaching the end of her speech, "pointy shoes will no longer be allowed due to an unfortunate incident at the end of last year. I will determine what is pointy and what is not." She clears her throat and shuffles a stack of note cards. "Now, please be aware that we have a bumper crop of new students this year, and I hope you will welcome them and help them learn our rules." She moves on to the next card and announces that she will be recapping proper lunchroom decorum, but stops when something in the front row catches her eye. The new boy is taking large, purposeful strides up the staircase onto the stage.

The auditorium groans. Last year's assembly ran over two hours because of a skit where a student pretended to need the principal's help reading Thomas Jeff's code of conduct. Some people get annoying pop songs stuck in their heads; I get dialogue from "The Code and You." ("Gee, but is copying off Wikipedia really plagiarism, Principal Morgan?") She's obviously recruiting the new students early.

But Principal Morgan doesn't seem to be in on the skit. "What are you doing? Go back to your seat this instant!" she snaps, clutching the head of the microphone, but the boy doesn't stop until he reaches the podium. Ignoring the principal's stuttering, he covers her death grip on the microphone and catches her gaze with a smile.

"May I have the floor?" he asks, the microphone picking up enough that the question echoes. There's a precise quality to his speech that sharpens each word.

Principal Morgan sputters something about this being First Day Assembly, and the boy smiles encouragingly. Disconcerted, I look to Neal to see if he is registering the weirdness, but he is occupied with taming the wiggling bump in his lower pocket.

"Everything's fine," Principal Morgan says suddenly, and the few teachers who had pushed forward in anticipation of being backup retreat as she folds her hands in front of her and gives him the floor.

The boy's lips quirk as he eases behind the microphone. "I'd like to introduce myself," he says smoothly before another echoing rap of footsteps comes from the side stairs. His smile falters when he sees that a willowy girl has taken the stage and is now crossing to stand by his side. She is gorgeous in a dark, moody way, with thin black brows and long chestnut hair that breaks into a natural wave at her shoulders. If ever there were a girl meant to sit in a smoky cafe and tell you about the guinea pig that died tragically when she was four, it's her.

The boy clears his throat. "Yes, well," he begins, but then stops to glare at her when she tugs on his sleeve. His jaw tightens as he turns back to the microphone. "We'd like to introduce ourselves. My name is Vlad, and this is my . . ." He pauses and tilts his head to the side. "This is my stepsister, Marisabel. We hope that you'll welcome us to your charming state of Michigan. I know some of us will become fast friends."

Vlad and Marisabel - two of my interviewees. I confirm it with my list just as he winks at the front row, executes a stiff bow, and hops off the stage. Marisabel follows a few seconds later, looking suddenly glum. At first no one is sure how to react. There is a surge of whispers, a smattering of applause, and then, finally, a few admiring whoops. When he gets back to his seat, two guys in football jerseys lean over and pat him on the back like he's just pulled off the ultimate prank. At first he seems affronted, but when he sees that they are smiling at him, he matches it with a sly grin.

"Well, yes. Okay. Thank you," Principal Morgan says, her voice shaky as she moves back behind the podium. She clears her throat a few times as her hands flit around the microphone. "Assembly is dismissed," she says finally. "No running in the halls."

"That was weird," Neal remarks from beside me, his hand on the pocket of his khakis to calm the creature that is now visibly doing a wiggle dance, most likely agitated by the din of five hundred student bodies barreling toward the cafeteria.

"I think he broke her," I say, my eyes still on Principal Morgan. Teachers have surrounded her in a protective circle. She's shaking her head and waving them away, and while I can't tell what she's saying, she still looks a little vacant.

"That's not a totally bad thing," Neal muses. "Maybe we're due for a kinder, gentler regime at Thomas Jeff. Pointy shoes for all!"

"Maybe," I say and start to ask him what he thought of Vlad's performance when I see a pink nose emerge from beneath a khaki flap. "Your, um, friend is escaping."

"Oh crap, he's hungry. Check ya later," Neal says, and scoots out the back auditorium doors in an awkward run.

Figuring out where to sit for lunch is always a tricky process. Sometimes I sit with Lindsay, but most of the time she's saving the whales or forests or last season's winter coats. Caroline will always make room for me, but only on the condition that I don't speak to anyone. She doesn't like it when I ask her friends questions like "Don't you think wearing a shirt that says 'I Brake for Boys' is laying it on a little thick?" and follow it up with "I think it's generally illegal not to." Most of the time, I end up picking a quiet corner to read or work on upcoming articles.

But after the assembly weirdness, insider access is too good to pass up. I make my way to the sea of school colors that signifies Caroline's table, where she immediately scoots over to make room for me. Her eyes are glued across the middle aisle, where Vlad, Marisabel, and a few other students I don't recognize huddle around one of the central tables. Is this new-kid solidarity, or do they all know one another? Before I can mention it, Caroline demands my attention.

"Oh. My. God. Sophie, he winked at me! I mean it was at me, right?" Caroline looks around the table with an appraising eye. "Yeah. It was totally me. It was, like, so electric. I've never felt anything like it before in my life, not even when Tommy gave me his jersey after the homecoming game."

"I imagine that felt sweaty."

"You know what I mean. Amanda, tell her."

I look at Caroline's three best friends, sitting in a row across the table. They all look like the same person with different haircuts.

"Oh yeah, electric," the middle one says, bobbing her head until her dangly earrings swing in agreement.

That adds nothing, Amanda. Before I can ask for clarification, or even decide if I want clarification, Caroline grabs my arm and hisses my name.

Vlad is making his way across the cafeteria. He moves silently and with an easy grace, an achievement when you take into account the cheap tile that makes everyone in sneakers sound like farting mice. When he stops at the end of our table, his handsomeness is more apparent, even if my discount view only gives me a direct shot of nicely defined nostrils. Reaching across my chest, he picks up Caroline's hand.

"May I have your name?" he says, bending over and kissing a knuckle.

Caroline's close to hyperventilating, but she manages to croak it out.

"A lovely name for a lovely girl," he says, politely ignoring the fact that his "lovely girl" is acting lobotomized. "I wonder if you would do me the honor of showing me around your school."

The lines are corny and dated, like excerpts from the failed script of Pride & Prejudice: The High School Years, but that doesn't seem to bother Caroline.

"Yes," she blurts. "I would be delighted to chauffeur you around."

My sister has a tendency to lose her powers of vocabulary when nervous. I'm guessing she was going for "escort," but the rest of it's strangely formal, too, even for someone who's not her.

"Wonderful," Vlad says, and then probably follows it with something else ridiculous ("Your hair is like sunlight in space" or "Let's greet the dawn with kisses"), but I'm distracted by a loud huff, followed by a smacking sound and the swing of a lunchroom door. I sneak a peek at Vlad's table. Marisabel has disappeared. Either she thought too hard about the "Surprise!" part of "Lunchmeat Surprise!" or she does not approve of Vlad wooing Caroline.

I want to ask Vlad about his stepsister, but the bell rings, sadly bringing an end to our twitterpated weirdfest. After another strange little bow, Vlad strides back to his table, and I realize that this is probably as good a time as any to talk to him about getting that interview, which I have to admit is looking more interesting. After grabbing my stuff, I dump my tray and approach, annoyed to find that he's already in the middle of a group conversation with two beefy, athletic-looking guys and a boy with coppery hair who can't seem to decide whether or not to put his hands in his pockets. I slip into a seat at a nearby table and pretend to be searching for a worksheet as I wait for an opportunity to jump in.

"They already like me, Neville," Vlad says. "Did you see how many of them congratulated me afterward? Look, this is called a 'fist bump.' It is more accepted now than a handshake."

Neville - or, as I like to call him, "Interview Subject Three" - ignores Vlad's proffered fist. "I still think that it is unnecessary attention," he says and then pulls a crumpled schedule out of his khaki pocket. "What do you think one studies in 'Basic Skills'? I do not think I will attend that."

"You must go to everything," Vlad snaps. "Everyone goes to everything."

For a moment Neville looks as though he might protest, but then thinks better of it. "Very well," he says, looking around the cafeteria. "Where is - "

"I do not know. I will deal with him later. Go to class."

Neville's mouth tightens, but he complies, and I'm a little disappointed that I won't get the chance to knock two interviews off at once. After he's disappeared through the cafeteria doors, Vlad turns to the two quarterbackesque boys with a look that suggests he finds Neville's attitude unbelievable. They say nothing, just respond with matching smiles. Except for a chin dimple and their hair color - one black, one a dirty blond - they're almost identical.

This is officially the creepiest clique ever. Not only do the new kids all seem to know one another, they -

No, I tell myself. No. According to Mr. Amado, my job is not to suspect, just to interview. Before Vlad has a chance to turn and talk to the other two guys, I walk up and tap his shoulder. He whips around, the suave grace from before replaced by a wary alertness. When his eyes flick down to meet mine, I notice that they are a dark gray.

"Hey! I'm Sophie," I say, holding out my hand, but he stares at it like I've just hauled my pet fish out of my pocket and suggested he touch it. When it becomes clear that he's not going to shake it, I let it go limp at my side. "Okay. Anyway, I work on our school paper, and we like to do features on all of the new students. You know, the traditional stuff: where you're from, favorite bands, what dead person you'd like to have dinner with . . ."

He snorts at this last one. God, this is embarrassing.

". . . that sort of stuff. I know it sounds boring, but if you want to pick a time, we can get it over with."

I wait. For the first time since I started this appalling introduction, he looks at me, really looks at me, from the crown of my head to the tips of my sneakers before meeting my eyes.

"No."

"What?"

"No, I think not," he says politely, and gives me a cool smile before turning his back and walking toward the exit. The two giants lumber after him wordlessly.

"I'm Caroline's sister!" I call out, and then make a mental note to punch myself in the face for making the humiliation worse. But it doesn't matter; the swinging door marks this conversation as over.

My next class is around the corner, so I allow myself a few moments of post-snubbing indignation before heading for the classroom. As I'm walking to the door I give my ego a reassuring pat by telling it that I don't have to see him again. And I don't, at least not until two seconds later, when he's sitting in the front row of my English class with his long legs extended. I steel myself for a smirk, an arrogant chuckle, or some sort of recognition, but he's leaning back in his chair, alternating between absently studying his fingernails and writing in the small black journal I first saw in the auditorium. (My guess? "Today I was a total douche for no reason. The End.")

Even though I'm one of the last ones in, there's still an empty spot in the back row. It doesn't take long to figure out why. A wave of floral perfume hits me like a truck before I'm even halfway there. It's coming from the diminutive blond girl I saw leaving the cafeteria earlier, who is now sitting primly in the corner seat like the poster child for perfect posture. Of all the newbies, she wins the award for strangest outfit, having chosen a lavender floor-length skirt with a flouncing layer of gossamer ruffles and a fitted velvet jacket.

I check my chart. Good morning, Violet Martin. After Ms. Walpole passes out our semester syllabus, I make a bid for her attention. "Psst, Violet."

She continues to stare ahead, idly twisting one of her blond curls. I wait until Ms. Walpole turns to write the five steps to a good thesis statement on the board and then tap Violet's shoulder.

"Yes?" Violet says, her voice strange and airy. First-day lectures are never anything to make you stand on your desk and thump your chest, but she's achieved a new level of spaced out.

"My name is Sophie," I whisper to her cheek, "and I'm doing profiles of all the new students for the school paper. If you have a second after class maybe I could ask you a few questions?" I notice that her boots have hundreds of little black buttons and an intricate tangle of laces. "I know I'm eager to hear your fashion philosophy."

I get no response, unless you count how she fiddles with her hair and the locket around her neck. I try another tactic. "So . . . is that locket from your boyfriend?"

"No, it's not," she hisses, and then collapses into a few dainty sniffles before pulling a lace handkerchief from her bodice to dab at nonexistent tears. A few people in front of me turn around to glare, worried that the noise will get them in trouble. I am about to tell them to mind their own business when Violet's fingers clamp around my wrist.

"Can I ask you a question?" Violet asks, finally looking at me as she jerks me toward her and starts rambling in a breathy rush. "Let us say that you liked this boy. You liked him so much that you didn't care that your family and friends said that it would end badly. You think he admires you as well, so you give him everything that he could ever want. But what does he do? Does he stay with you forever? No! He ignores you and goes off to live who knows where." Her voice cracks, and she lets go of my arm to flounce back into her seat. "I am at a loss," she hiccups, holding the handkerchief to her mouth. "Do you think I should give him a lock of my hair? Maybe he is unaware that I still care."

I look up from studying the little pink crescents that her nails have left tattooed on my arm. "No, that would probably freak him out."

"Then what should I do? What should I do?"

"Um, here." I hastily pick up the wilting copy of Seventeen that someone left under my chair. Pointing to a headline on the cover, I say, "Look! 'How to Tell if Your Crush Likes You.'"

She grabs it out of my hands and flips through it wildly, mouthing the words as she reads.

"Yes, this may work," she mutters after a few seconds. "'Drool-worthy'? How repulsive. I may need some assistance with the language. Will you give me your address?" She lowers the magazine and looks at me expectantly.

"What about my cell number?"

"No. Address, please."

I'm torn - giving it to her might mean I end up with half of a "BFF" necklace and my fingers superglued into a pinkie swear. Neal, who has the desk in front of her, takes advantage of my hesitation and turns around.

"You can have my address," he says, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that is more Charlie Chaplin than leering creep, especially when you take into account that the back of his sandy hair is threatening to cowlick.

"Pardon me?" Violet says.

"My address."

"I am not entirely sure that would be proper."

"Neal, stop it," I hiss, scared that I'm going to lose all of my previous progress if we continue down this road.

He ignores me. "Has anyone ever told you that you look like an anime character?" he asks Violet. "I kind of dig it."

"Neal!"

"Cowboy Bebop. Come over sometime and check it out."

Violet looks to me, helpless, as if genuinely confused as to what the proper response is.

"Neal, if you don't stop I will kick your pocket," I threaten.

"But - "

"I will."

Looking more befuddled than scared, Neal turns around. Partly relieved - and yet partly offended that Neal so readily accepted me as a hamster kicker - I scribble my address on a slip of paper. Really, what's the downside? If I can lure her to my house, I may be able to get her to concentrate enough to answer one or two questions.

My last class of the day is journalism, and while it's usually my favorite, the nonexistent progress on the interview front has me worried. Sure enough, Lindsay's already at Mr. Amado's desk when I get there.

"I've talked to three of them already," she boasts as Mr. Amado listens with bemused patience. She's about to say something else when she spots me lingering at the door. "Isn't this project great?"

Sure, if you're a sucker for torture. Why didn't I get the chatty ones? I slump into the front row just as Mr. Amado shoos Lindsay away from his desk to address the class.

"Most of you stopped by to see me this morning, and I think we all have a good idea of our individual responsibilities for the first issue. We go to press in two weeks, so I'm not going to bore you with my classroom rules or make you share what you did last summer. Let's get started." He points to Neal, who is busy drawing something on the back of his binder. Neal does the monthly comic strip for the paper and thinks that his class participation should end there. Mr. Amado, on the other hand, insists that he should try his hand at articles as well. Sometimes I think that their power struggles are the highlight of my life.

Mr. Amado walks over and takes a place in front of Neal's desk, tapping the corner when His Boy Friday fails to look up. "Neal, what have you found out about the missing donated blood from the Back-to-School festival?" He shoots a glance toward Lindsay. "Students worked hard to make sure there was a volunteer component this year."

"Well, there was blood . . . ," Neal starts.

Mr. Amado's eyes light up with hope. "Yes?"

". . . and now there is less blood."

Mr. Amado gives a tight smile. "You're going to need more than that for your article," he says, straining to keep his voice encouraging rather than frustrated.

Neal goes back to shading the complex design he's sketched on the back of his folder. "Isn't this something for the police?" he asks, distracted.

"I wanted you to look at it from the student's perspective, talk to the girls who manned the booth. They were there until eight that night."

"I did."

"Great!"

"They don't know what happened."

Mr. Amado sighs. "Just do me a favor, Neal, and dig a little deeper. Please."

Neal salutes. "Righto, Mr. Amado."

Unappeased, Mr. Amado bends down to Neal's level and starts to whisper encouraging threats, or possibly threatening encouragement. Lindsay takes the opportunity to lean over and study my closed notebook. Hers is already covered in scribbles. Editor-in-chiefly scribbles.

"So, what's your angle going to be?" she whispers. I can spot the competitive edge through the friendliness.

"Why the new students hate me."

"What?"

"Never mind." The least I can do is act like I might have something to write down. I flip open my notebook and try to make conversation. "Have you met all of yours yet?"

"Almost," she says and turns the page. "Everyone except for James. Hey, do you want to maybe see a movie on Friday? There's that indie cinema on Main Street that always plays cool stuff."

"I can't," I say, still annoyed that she is beating me.

"Oh, okay. Well, maybe - "

"Mr. Amado's on his way over."

Lindsay straightens in her seat while Mr. Amado strides toward us as purposefully as one can in loafers. Crouching down, he peeks at what we've written. I put up my hand as a shield.

"So," he starts, and then holds up a finger before Lindsay can speak. "I think I have a good idea about Lindsay's progress; I'm interested in what the other half thinks."

The other half has no idea what to say. Put on the spot, I ask some of my actual questions. "Don't you think it's strange that they all seem to know one another? And think Michigan is charming?"

Mr. Amado doesn't respond at first, just gives me a look akin to the one you'd give the homeless person who stands outside the grocery store shouting that there are aliens in the bread. If his mustache had fingers, it would be wagging one at me right now. "Sophie," he says. "I thought we talked about this."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lindsay shooting me covert sideways glances like she was once warned not to stare directly at a loser eclipse.

"I know," I say, "but - "

"We're not investigating," he says. "We're celebrating. Try it again tomorrow."

He raps the desk and walks away, leaving me to wonder why Neal's curiosity is encouraged while mine is smashed into tiny little bits. I sink into my chair and draw circles in my notebook for the rest of the period while Lindsay rattles off all the juicy tidbits she's collected about the two boys who were hanging around Vlad in the cafeteria. Their names are Devon and Ashley - a slap in the face to their obvious aspirations to be brick walls.

"They don't speak all that much, but we managed," she says. "Do you know that they were in the circus when they were little?"

"Wait. You're telling me that they're mute circus people?" I ask, wondering if this is some great cosmic experiment: See how long it takes Sophie's head to explode if we drop her in a vat of weirdness and continue to tell her that no, the soup she's in is perfectly normal.

"Well, okay," Lindsay admits, "it's sort of different. But it's going to make a great article. Unlike Andrew Archer, who doesn't want to talk about anything but dirt bikes." She closes her notebook. "What about Vlad? He's yours, right? He seems interesting at least. A little show-offy. I can't believe Morgan let him get away with that this morning."

Me either, Lindsay. Me either.

****************

At dinner that night I am treated to "The Vlad Show." Vlad is hot. Vlad is cool. Vlad has a silver Hummer with tinted windows and he offered to drive Caroline around in it. Vlad is rich. Vlad's parents are away on business in Europe, so he has the house to himself. And yes, he's delighted that they let his friends come stay with him this semester so he wouldn't be lonely. Caroline's so excited, she's shoveling vegetables into her mouth without inspecting them first.