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slightly. “ Molly? ” he said, his voice squeaking on the y . He quickly cleared his throat.
    “Sorry I’m late, Mr. G,” I said hastily. From the clipboard in his hands, I could tell he’d already started on his daily oral pop quiz—or pop torture as Hayley liked to call it. “I, uh, got stuck in the bathroom.” I’d meant to say stuck helping a freshman in the bathroom, but with all those eyes staring at me, my words got lost in translation. I waited for the laughter to start (who says they got stuck in the bathroom ?) but not one person even snickered. They were too busy gaping at me.
    “No problem, Molly, no problem,” Mr. G said, ushering me in. “Just go on and take a seat.” I stared back at him in disbelief. “Go on,” he said again, winking at me.
    I exchanged a stunned look with Kemper as I sat down. We had this theory that Mr. G was massively, pitifully unpopular when he was in high school, and was trying to make up for it now that he was a teacher. He lived to give his pop quizzes, and as far as we could work out, his scoring system made about as much sense as a flamingo in the North Pole. You could tell him that, in 1983, the King of France took over America, and if you were Ashley Coolidge or Blair Duncan, he’d just smile and say, “Close enough! One point!” But if you were me or Kemper, you’d get a disapproving, “ Someone didn’t do the reading last night. Negative two points!” Kemper called it the Pretty Factor. The prettier you were, the higher your odds became of scoring an A in Mr. G’s class.
    A note landed on my desk as I sat down. While Mr. G grilled Steph Hanover about exactly how many soldiers were killed during the Civil War, I unfolded it quietly. Your odds just tripled! it said.
    I glanced over my shoulder to smile at Kemper, but as I did, someone tossed me another note. I recognized the curlicue handwriting and fat circles over the i ’s right away. What happened to you ??? Hayley had written. Did your mom finally talk you into a makeover!? Is THAT why you were late?
    “Molly?” My head snapped up at the sound of Mr. G’s voice.
    “Sor—” I began, sure Mr. G was calling me out for reading notes in class. I could only begin to imagine the number of points he’d subtract from my grade for that. But then I noticed that he was standing patiently at the front of the room, tapping his pointing stick at the big pull-down map. I recognized that stance. He was waiting for me to answer a question. “Sorry,” I continued. “Can you repeat the question?”
    “Sure,” Mr. G said easily, without a glimmer of the glower he usually reserved for question-repeaters. “Where did the Confederate forces fire, beginning the American Civil War?”
    “Fort Sumter,” I answered immediately. Unlike some of the kids in my class, I actually did my history reading. Not that Mr. G usually noticed.
    “That’s correct!” Mr. G beamed at me. “Five points for Molly.” Five? I think the most points Mr. G had ever given me was three—and that was because I was the only person in the entire class who could name every state capital. “Okay, onto the next question!” Mr. G strolled over to the back row, where Ashley and Blair sat. “Ashley, during the Civil War, the South became known as the Confederacy. What did the North become known as?”
    Ashley scrunched up her forehead in the I’m-thinking-really-hard gesture she had perfected. “Let’s see,” she said slowly, drawing out each word. She looked up at Mr. G with wide, innocent eyes. “Team North? The Big N? Ooh, what about Northern Stars? Is that right, Mr. G?” she asked hopefully, smiling prettily up at him.
    Mr. G gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder, chuckling a little under his breath. “No, but I’ll give you a point for creativity,” he decided.
    A point for not knowing the answer. Only Ashley. I rolled my eyes at Kemper and she fake-gagged in response.
    “Everything okay over there, Kemper?” Mr. G asked