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high school events, and I’ve had guys take me out for movies and hamburgers and parties. But I’ve never really had the opportunity to break the pact. So my so-called reputation has been a nonissue.
    Until now.
    I finger Jackson’s pencil approximately 736 times the rest of the afternoon and avoid direct eye contact with males and females alike. I don’t have to pay for my lunch sins until the end of the day, when I have last-hour study hall with Jessica and Cassie.
    Nobody should be forced to spend the last hour of school in the library. They can’t possibly think anyone will study. It’s not the last minute for any class. What’s the use?
    The Girls and I sit in the back corner behind the biggest books, the reference shelves. That way we are farthest away from Ms. Lake, who looks so much like a librarian should that I suspect she’s impersonating one and one day we’ll find out she’s a wanted serial ax murderer hiding out from the FBI. Her round face is the epitome of pleasant, framed by curly, dark hair. She wears silk scarves every day with library memorabilia on them, like books and library cards.
    When Ms. Lake interrupts our library conversations, she does so with index finger pressed to her thin lips as she whispers, “Quiet, please!”
    You have to love this woman, ax murderer or no, symbol of the American library.
    I make a pit stop in the girls’ bathroom before reporting to the library. You couldn’t pay me to actually use the johns in this room, of course. I’d rather my sides split from holding it. I just need a minute to collect myself before facing The Girls in study hall.
    Nobody’s in the john, except a group of freshmen girls, who don’t know any better. As I wash my hands at the sink, I watch them in the mirror and wonder if I was ever that young and carefree.
    I glimpse myself in the smudged glass reflection, and for one second I don’t recognize this stranger drying her hands on a paper towel. I can’t look away from her as she stares back at me. Inside my head, voices are describing what I’m looking at, Mary Jane Ettermeyer:
    Plain Jane : Average. Average height. Nothing remarkable about her face, except for the zit on her chin. Brown eyes (like three-quarters of the known Homo sapiens). Good eyesight. Brown hair. Lips are too big. Doesn’t look good in anything she wears. Nothing to write home about.
    M.J.: 34C. Nice rear end. Sexy. Hot even. Desirable. Jeans could be tighter. Should have used Flame Red lipstick on those luscious lips.
    If I’m ever wanted by the police, I hope the voices in my head are the only witnesses to the crime. I’d like them to be the ones describing me to the police artist. Nobody would ever catch Mary Jane Ettermeyer.
    I tell Ms. Lake I’m sorry as I arrive late to study hall. She shakes her head and gives me a sweet smile, undoubtedly so that I won’t suspect her real profession, ax murdering. Still, I’m less afraid of her than I am of The Girls, who are waiting for me, just as I knew they would be.
    “Hey, guys,” I call, taking the seat between Cassie and Jessica, the chair they’ve obviously left for me. It feels a bit like taking the witness stand.
    Samantha is on the other side of Jessica. She’s no more firmly entrenched in the popular group than I am and has been known to flit from branch to branch. But she’s in on this, whatever this is.
    I glance down at Cassie’s feet. “Sweet! Great kicks, Cassie.”
    This momentarily puts her off track. “You think?” She raises her crossed leg so she can admire her new shoes. They’re Doc Martens. “I loved them in the store,” she explains. “Now I’m not so sure. You think they go with jeans?”
    She’s wearing Levi’s, and the shoes don’t go.
    “Yeah,” I lie. “They’re so fly. Wish I had a pair like them.” Which I would only wear if I were dead.
    Jessica clears her throat with meaning.
    “Anyway,” Cassie begins, “we need to talk, Mary Jane. I don’t think you have