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weeks in a row says, “Nice shoes,” then laughs and walks away.
    The whole time Amber was yelling at me, this big circle of people around us was quiet. Dead quiet. But the minute she leaves they all start talking and whispering and laughing. And I’m standing there feeling like I just fell off a merry-go-round, when Heather walks by with her friends chanting, “Sammy loves Jared, Sammy loves Jared.”
    I would’ve turned around and gone home right then if Marissa and Dot hadn’t run up asking, “What
happened?
”
    I say, “I don’t
know
,” then tell them everything that Amber had said.
    When I’m done, Marissa shakes her head and whispers, “That is so weird!”
    The bell rings and Dot says, “Don’t worry about it, Sammy—you’ll straighten things out!” She goes to her homeroom, and off we go to ours, and the whole time we’re hearing the announcements and getting our books ready for our classes, Heather’s passing notes and the other kids are whispering. Whispering and pointing.
    Marissa throws me a note that says WHY DIDN’T YOU WASH THEM ?
    I want to tell her about Mrs. Graybill and about sleeping at Hudson’s and waking up late, but I can’t. All I can do is sit there in a room full of kids who think I have ugly feet and a crush on Jared Salcido while the rest of the school is busy spreading rumors about me. And what they’re saying is, “Sammy? You don’t know who
Sammy
is? No problem—she’s the one in the green shoes!”
    So I suffered through homeroom and then walked my little green feet over to English where Miss Pilson decided to spend the whole class period talking about this big assembly we’re supposed to have in the cafeteria next week. Normally Miss Pilson could give two hoots about assemblies. I’ve seen her sit in the back with the art teacher, Miss Kuzkowski, and talk through entire assemblies.
    But Miss Pilson’s interested in
this
assembly because it has to do with English. Some professor of hers from college wrote a book about a farmer in the Midwest, and she invited him to speak to the whole school about it. It’s been Professor Yates
this
and Professor Yates
that
for weeks, and, really, she acts like she’s crazy in love with a guy who made up a story about someone who plows fields.
    After English I went to math, and I started to write a note to Marissa because I couldn’t concentrate on what Mr. Tiller was doing anyway. Trouble is, Mr. Tiller noticed.
    Normally I can answer any question Mr. Tiller might decide to ask me, and normally Mr. Tiller doesn’t have to worry that I’m writing notes while he’s explaining something. So maybe that’s why he just stood there for a second watching me, kind of twitching his mustache back and forth while I gave him half a smile and looked guilty.
    Everyone likes Mr. Tiller. He’s young and funny and smart, and half the girls in school have a crush on him. The only thing
not
to like about him is that he posts notes. He tacks them up on the bulletin board for everyone to see, and leaves them there for
days
.
    Mr. Tiller didn’t post my note. He didn’t even take it away from me. He just said, “Sammy, give me the primefactors for three hundred fifty-seven,” and held out the chalk.
    I looked at him and said, “Can’t I do it at my desk?” because I didn’t want to stand in front of the class in my stupid green feet. He just held out the chalk and gave me that get-up-here-
now
look.
    So up I went, and sure enough the kids snickered. And I’m standing there trying to break down three fifty-seven and getting nowhere when Mr. Tiller says softly, “Is it divisible by two?”
    I shake my head.
    “Three? Do the digits add up to a multiple of three?”
    I nod, and that’s all I need. I break it down and write 3 × 7 × 17, then hightail it back to my seat.
    Bobby Krandall leans over and says, “Nice shoes.”
    I say, “Yeah. Matches the snot in your nose, Bob,” but really I feel like throwing up.
    I was hoping we’d