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in the air, as she (I assumed) tried to get my attention.
    Gripping the strap of my messenger bag, I squeezed through the gauntlet to reach Scout. She was beaming, one hand on her hip, one hand splayed against one of the top lockers. A silver nameplate in the midst of all that cherry-hued wood bore a single word: SCOUT.
    “It says ‘Scout’!” she said, glowing like the proud parent of a newborn.
    “That’s your name,” I reminded her.
    Scout shook her head, then ran the tips of her fingers across the silver plaque. “For the first time,” she said, her gazing going a little dreamy, “it doesn’t say ‘Millicent.’ And only juniors and seniors get the wooden lockers.” She bobbed her head down the hall, where the lockers switched back to white enameled steel with vents across the front—the high school classic.
    “So you’ve upgraded?”
    Scout nodded. “I’ve been here for four years, Lil, squeezing books into one of those tiny little contraptions, waiting for the day I’d get wood”—I made an admittedly juvenile snicker—“and G-Day.”
    “G-Day?”
    “Graduation Day. The first day of my freedom from Foley and St. Sophia’s and the brat pack. I’ve been planning for G-Day for four years.” She rapped her knuckles against the locker as girls swarmed around us like a flock of birds. “Four years, Parker, and I’ve got a silver nameplate. A silver nameplate that means I’m only two years from G-Day.”
    “You really are a weirdo.”
    “Better to be myself and a little odd than trying to squeeze into some brat pack mold.” Her gaze suddenly darkened. I glanced behind us, just in time to see the brat pack moving through the hall. The younger St. Sophia’s girls—awed looks on their faces—moved aside as Veronica, Amie, and Mary Katherine floated down the hall on their cloud of smug. That they were only juniors—still a year from full seniority—didn’t seem to matter.
    “Better to be yourself,” I agreed, then looked back at Scout, who was still massaging her nameplate. “Do I get a locker?”
    “Only the best one,” she snorted, then pointed down. LILY was inscribed in Roman capital letters on a silver nameplate on the Utah- shaped locker beneath hers (which was shaped more like Mississippi).
    “If your stinky gym sock odor invades my locker, you’re in deep, Parker.” Scout slipped her own ribboned room key from her neck and slid the key into the locker. It popped open, revealing three shelves of the same gleaming wood.
    She faked a sniff. “This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. Such luxury! Such decadence!”
    This time, I snorted out loud. Then, realizing the locker bay was beginning to clear out of students, I poked her in the arm. “Come on, weirdo. We need to get to class.”
    “You have to stop the compliments, Parker. You’re making me blush.” She popped extra books into her locker, then shut the door again. That done, she glanced at me. “They probably will be expecting us. Best we can do is honor them with our presence.”
    “We’re a blessing, really.”
    “Totally,” she said, and off we went.
    Our lockers arranged (although I hadn’t so much as opened mine—there was something comforting about having my books in hand), I used the rest of our short walk through the main corridor of the classroom building to our first class—art history—to drag a little more information out of Scout. Thinking it best to hit the interesting stuff first, I started with Veronica’s breakfast-hour ploy.
    “So,” I said, “since you didn’t answer me before, I’m going to try again. Tell me about Michael Garcia.”
    “He’s a friend,” Scout said, glancing at the room numbers inscribed on the wooden classroom doors as we passed. “ Just a friend,” she added before I could ask a follow-up. “I don’t date guys who go to Montclare. One private school brat in the family is enough.”
    There was obviously more to that story, but Scout