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was a reason to worry. “But . . . you promised,” I said. I could feel the back of my neck start to itch, which often happened when things didn’t go the way I had written them in the imaginary movie that was continuously playing in my head. According to WebMD, that was one of the main symptoms of seborrheic keratosis, which was a thickening of the skin from age. I really hoped it wasn’t that.
    “Well, now I’m un-promising.” She shrugged without looking up.
    “But . . . you can’t,” I said.
    She looked up. “Oh, really? Why?” she asked, her eyes blazing. Dylan was not someone who was used to being told what she could and couldn’t do.
    I thought about it. “Well . . . because.” Apparently my A’s in English for having such a way with words didn’t translate into conversations with popular people.
    “I think we should ask Asher about this,” she said. “Asher!” she yelled to the table of surfer-looking dudes next to her.
    I reminded myself to keep breathing. While Asher and I were probably around the same weight, he’s about five inches taller than me. He’s got that typical L.A. surfer-dude look—blond hair that’s on the longish side and a year-round tan. Either he was hard of hearing, or he was ignoring her.
    “Asher!” she yelled again.
    “What?” he finally said.
    “Come here for a second,” she ordered.
    “Why?”
    “Because I need to ask you something, babe.”
    My neck was now itching bad. I couldn’t believe this was happening. “But what about my USC application?” I panicked. “I already sent it off with a proposal for the documentary.”
    “Maybe you could just do a documentary about the uncool kids,” suggested Hannah helpfully.
    “Or better yet,” said Dylan, “why don’t you do a documentary about my archenemy? You could call it Girls Who Try and Steal Other Girls’ Boyfriends ?” She picked up her fork and jabbed it toward the middle of the cafeteria. “I’m sure some people would just love the attention.”
    I looked over to see what Dylan was scowling at, and it suddenly became even more difficult for me to breathe. Walking—no, swaying —across the cafeteria floor was Amy Loubalu. As she walked toward her table with her hamburger (I loved a girl who wasn’t afraid to eat meat), every guy on The Ramp stared. Including Asher. You’d think that the beautiful/nice combination would have earned Amy a prime seat on The Ramp, but the truth was she didn’t have a lot of friends. I didn’t meet her until high school, but I heard that she had been one of the most popular girls at Curtis, the junior high she went to. At the start of sophomore year a rumor started going around that Amy was dating a twenty-five-year-old talent agent, which I found hard to believe, and by that summer, her reputation had made it so that her only real friend was Whitney Lewin.
    By now Asher had finished watching the Amy Loubalu show and was standing over Dylan’s shoulder, picking the tomatoes out of her barely touched salad. “What is it?” he asked, annoyed.
    “This is the guy who wants to do a movie based on my life,” Dylan replied.
    Oh, please. That movie had already been done. It was called Clueless .
    “It’s a documentary. About popularity,” I explained.
    “Sounds cool.” He shrugged as he started to walk back to his table.
    “He’s got a lot on his mind,” said Dylan.
    If I were him, I’d be trying to figure out how to break up with her.
    “Listen,” she said. “I just don’t feel comfortable doing this.”
    “But—” I began.
    “But what?” she snapped.
    Here was my chance to stand up for myself. To give the speech the hero in a movie gives where at the end of it there’s applause because he’s touched everyone’s souls, changed their lives, and made them look at life in a different way.
    “Nothing,” I said, starting toward the stairs.
    “But I’ll be back,” I whispered. Somehow it didn’t have the same impact as when Arnold said it in