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Her hands are clasped in front of her, and her beady little rat eyes dart from left to right, right to left. She doesn’t wear a nun’s habit. None of the nuns at Bishop Marshall do. Instead, she has on the same long gray skirt, maroon blouse, and gray angora sweater she wears every day. The first button on her shirt is open, and a gold cross with a crucified Jesus hangs just below her neck. I swear, if I see one more crucified Jesus … I don’t understand why people wear them. It’sjust so depressing and all. I wouldn’t wear any dead person hanging from my neck, no matter how many miracles he might have performed.
    I take my loose-leaf binder out and ease my knapsack under my desk. I didn’t sleep a wink last night, but I don’t feel tired. Just the opposite. It’s as if I’ve eaten two pounds of sugar. I’m filled with all this anxiety, and it’s taking everything within me to not start shaking uncontrollably. I take a deep breath, and as I exhale, I notice Keisha mouthing the word “Karma” and “Ooh,” and miming a horror-movie scream. For the first time in the past fifteen hours, I can feel a smile working its way onto my face. But just as quickly, my face muscles tighten and I begin to feel the anxiety again.
    I’d have to consider Keisha my very best friend, and even though we don’t sit together—on account of the Sister seating everyone alphabetically—she’s the only thing that makes religion class and Sister Margaret Theresa Patricia Bernadette bearable. She’s the only thing that made starting a new high school in the middle of freshman year bearable.
    Keisha and I kind of have a bit of history, since we went to junior high together. And even though we weren’t great friends there, we were friendly. But then her stepdad bought a brownstone and moved the family to Fort Greene, and she started at Bishop Marshall right off. Mama and I moved too, but just deeper into Flatbush. By the time I got to Bishop Marshall, everyone was already part of one clique or another, and most didn’t want to let in a new kid. But not Keisha.
    I know best friends are supposed to tell each othereverything, and I wish I could explain to her all the angst I feel inside, but I can’t. She could never understand what it’s like being me. After all, she has a mom who’s interested in every little thing that goes on in her day. She has a mom who hugs her and tells her how much she cares. And though her dad died in a car accident when she was two, she has a stepdad who comes home every night and treats her and her brother, Kevin, like they’re his own.
    I keep looking as Keisha continues clowning, but I suppose me not laughing causes her to become serious. The next thing I notice is that she’s mouthing, “Are you okay?”
    I shake my head and force a smile before turning away and looking down at my desk. That’s how Keisha is all the time: sensitive and caring and ready to help out. She’s always taking in stray animals with broken limbs and making sure everyone is okay. On Saturdays, she even volunteers at this nursing home in Williamsburg with her cousin, so just imagine me telling her I think I might have killed an old woman I was in the process of robbing. She’s so sweet and good that sometimes it makes me feel like even more of a bad seed. And I feel like I’m one of those wounded animals she’s always trying to rescue. I guess that’s mainly why I keep hanging out with Gillian and Caroline. With them, I can be as rotten as I want, and I don’t have to feel guilty about it. I don’t have to make any apologies.
    As Keisha continues to clown around, I try to forget everything that happened in that old lady’s Parkside Avenue apartment. I even chuckle a little. But the nun must have some weird laser lock on me, because with all thewhispering and fidgeting going on, I’m the one her death stare focuses on.
    “Ms. Andrews, may I inquire as to what you find so comedic?” she asks.
    Oh, I have a