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of her. I can sense her sadness and I feel sad for her. Rachel is on the outside, too.
    The Nasties are busily ignoring Rachel, leaning on each other’s shoulders and giggling and talking to Josh and three other boys. And clearly, the boys are eating up the attention like starving cubs. Macie, as always, is at the center, a sun for the others to revolve around. Rachel and Elizabeth Tillson hover at the outskirts of the circle, like distant planets, whilePearl and Kellie, Josh, Matt James, and Evan Miller compose the rest of the Nasty solar system.
    I remember when Macie first moved to town; we were in the fourth grade. This odd-looking girl with a big puff of hair and mismatched socks and electric pink sneakers stood hunched at the front of our classroom as the teacher introduced her as the new girl. I remember Pearl and Kellie scorning her outrageous outfit and ridiculous hair. One week later, however, Macie had turned the tables on the other two and installed herself as Queen Bee, the barometer by which every measure of cool was measured. And the Nastiest trio was cemented.
    I hate watching the Nasties treat Rachel like this now. I hate seeing her just standing there, being purposefully ignored, seeing her watching Josh flirt and be flirted with. I can feel their Nasty intentions spreading out like rotten roots curling beneath the ground; I know they are perfectly aware of Rachel standing beside them. I can feel their cruelty curdling the soil. It makes me so mad.
    I walk over to Rachel and tap her on the shoulder. As she spins around, I say, “Hey, I have to go. Are you coming?”
    “What? Is it already ten?” Rachel looks annoyed and glances around at Josh and the Nasties. “Uh, I think I’ll hang around here. Is that okay? I can get a ride from someone else.” She avoids my gaze, kicking at the straw on the ground.
    “Are you sure?” I ask almost pleadingly. Why? I add silently. Why do this to yourself?
    “Yesss,” Rachel hisses.
    “Fine.” I turn on my heel and snake my way out of there and head for the parking lot. Sure enough, my mother is there, waiting. As I near the car, I can see that she is anxiously tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.
    “Hey, Mom,” I say casually as I climb into the passenger seat.
    “Where’s Rachel?” she asks.
    “She’s staying,” I tell her, my voice wavering.
    “Well, how was it, honey?” my mother asks, quickly putting the car in drive.
    She looks so tired. I’d bet all of my best drawing pencils that I look the same.
    “It was fine,” I reply.
    Except everything isn’t fine. I sit on my bed, staring across the room at the map pinned to the wall. Nothing is fine at all, actually. I am mad. Mad at Rachel for being different from how she’s always been and for being obsessed with “everyone who’s anyone” and for wanting to be accepted by the Nasties when they won’t even open their circle to her. How could she ditch me at the bonfire, leaving me by myself to talk to Damian? How could she make me walk out of that field alone? I’m mad at her for her stupid valley girl voice and her tight miniskirt and her green eyeshadow and her dumb crush on Josh. Josh! Whom she’s never spoken to, who probably doesn’t rememberher name, who probably has never read a book in his whole stupid life.
    “Auggghhh!” I cry and pound my fists against the comforter. “I hate her!” And I burst into tears. Fat, hot, angry tears that course down my cheeks in a very satisfying way, while snot leaks from my nose. I sob like this until I can’t catch my breath and can only gasp.
    I cry like this a lot. It’s like someone has hooked up my tear ducts to the county water line. Ever since the funeral.
    Funeral.
    Damian was at the funeral, in a dark gray suit. His eyes were dark, dull as lead. Dead. But not dead like Nate’s. I remember my mother had walked up to Damian after the service and asked him to leave. She had sounded so cold. So furious and hateful. And Damian had