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day?” he asked.
    â€œWhat, you mean they don’t clap like that every day?” I asked sarcastically.
    â€œRight,” he said, his cheeks reddening. “Obviously.”
    I worried that I sounded like a jerk, so I smiled and asked, “What’s your first class?”
    He leaned over and glanced at my schedule. He smelled oddly sweet. “Oh, hey,” he said. “I have first-period history too. Meyers. He’s boring as hell. I’ll walk you there. You’re in my sixth-period chem class too.”
    â€œCool,” I said. The bell rang and we walked together toward the door.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” I asked.
    â€œAnthony.”
    â€œI’m Emily,” I said as we walked through the crowded hallway.
    He nodded. “Right—the clapping.” He smiled.
    I am such an idiot.
    We rounded a corner. “Emily from Pennsylvania,” Anthony said.
    I spun my head around. “How did you know that?” I asked. My heart raced as I recalled the never-ending news broadcasts.
    Anthony looked wide-eyed and caught off guard. He held a door open and ushered me into a seat next to him. “They told us,” he whispered.
    â€œWhat?” I said, a little too loudly, and my new history teacher looked up from his desk. He hobbled over and dumped a book and some photocopied papers onto my desk. “Miss Carson, I presume?” He panted.
    I nodded, feeling all eyes turn toward me.
    Anthony scribbled something on a piece of paper, then slid a note onto my desk. I knew you were from PA because they told us about you last week, before you came.
    Who’s they? I scrawled, and handed it back.
    Principal, VP, you know, the admin.
    Why?
    They wanted us to be sensitive to your situation.
    I was boiling. Why couldn’t everyone just leave me alone? What IS my situation????
    I waited to see what he would write. Your parents died . . . Your face was splashed across the news . . . Your mother’s creepy mystery message . . .
    He scribbled and passed me the paper. You have a tremendous body odor situation.
    I giggled.
    Mr. Meyers looked over at me, surprisingly pleased. “Thank you, Miss Carson, at least someone is paying attention to my jokes.”
    Anthony burst out laughing.
    Mr. Meyers smirked. “Don’t be a kiss-up, Mr. Rucelli.”
    My next three classes were uneventful. Then I was forced to face the most crucial element of my new school transition: the lunchroom. One wrong squat toward a seat in a geographically undesirable location could forever land me with an invisible badge of unpopularity. I didn’t want to sit in the corner with the unknowns again.
    I opened the cafeteria door and walked toward the food line near the mantel, which I discovered was not in fact a working fireplace, merely a decorative piece. The choices were overwhelming. No mystery meat and frozen pizza—this was actual food . Fresh wraps, sandwiches on rustic focaccia bread with goat cheese oozing out the sides, fruit bowls, croissants, organic-looking pasta salads. Even the potato chips were kettle-cooked. I decided on some good comfort food and got a bowl of clam chowder. I grabbed a Diet Coke and began my seat search. It was difficult to know where to sit because with everyone in the same uniform green shirts, it was impossible to decipher cliques on first viewing.
    The lunchroom didn’t have long lunchroom tables like I was accustomed to. Instead, there were café-style circular tables made from more of that mahogany wood. It was a much more intimate setting and therefore all the more intimidating. I scanned around hoping to find Anthony, the only person I had really talked to. But I didn’t see him.
    â€œHey,” I heard someone call out.
    I turned around and saw two girls sitting at a table, water-falls of shiny hair cascading down their backs. The blond was fair-skinned with ocean blue eyes and invisible blond eyebrows that made her eyes seem