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wouldn’t have to shout.
    Once Spencer had been fed, and she’d cleaned up the mess he’d made pouring syrup all over the table, and she’d called good-bye to her mother through the shower door, she slipped the notebook back into her hoodie pocket and walked the four blocks to school. First period was English, taught this year by Gabriel, whose eyelashes were shockingly long for a grown-up male. Practically all the girls at Hubbard had crushes on him; they called him “Babe-riel,” even Isadora. Zoe was pretty sure she didn’t have a crush, but her heart sort of skittered when he stopped her in the hall.
    â€œYou have that essay for me, Zoe?” he asked, smiling.
    â€œWhat essay?”
    â€œThe one I assigned the second day of school. Writing a myth about yourself? Zoe-as-Olympian? You don’t remember?”
    â€œNo, I do,” she said quickly. “I just…haven’t done it yet.” The truth was, she couldn’t figure out what to write. Briefly she’d considered turning it into a sort of joke—Zoe, goddess of color doodles, turns Malcolm,god of obnoxious comments, into cherry pi (pie?). But of course Gabriel wouldn’t have understood it. Or even have thought it was funny, probably. So she’d just tried to forget the whole assignment.
    â€œThat’s not okay,” Gabriel said. He stopped smiling. “You know, I really don’t think you’re operating on all cylinders, Zoe, and I also don’t think you and I are on the same page. To mix metaphors, for which I apologize. Maybe you should have a little chat with Owen.”
    Owen Kimball was the Head of Middle Division. He was always cheery; the kids loved him.
    Zoe peeked at Gabriel’s eyelashes. “You mean,” she said carefully, “go have a little chat with him now ?”
    â€œSure,” Gabriel said. He smiled at her again. “Why not?”
    Then Mackenzie came running over to tell Gabriel how she’d nearly memorized some sonnet, and he turned his back to Zoe, as if it had all been settled. Well, fine, she told herself. She’d go see Owen. Kids did it all the time.
    Owen’s office was on the third floor, a few doors down from Signe’s classroom. She tapped lightly on the door. “I’m on the phone!” he called out. “Just two more seconds, please!”
    â€œOkay,” she called back, immediately realizing thatif he was on the phone he didn’t want an answer. She looked around the tiny waiting area. The walls were layered with postcards and cartoons and incredible student artwork—abstract paintings (not doodles, though) and moody self-portraits of kids she sort of recognized. On a tadpole-shaped coffee table there were copies of the most recent editions of the Hubbard News , a three-times-a-year publication that bragged about all the awards and achievements of the “remarkable Hubbard community.” She picked up a copy and opened it randomly: “Barrett McKay’s third book of poetry was recently nominated for a National Book Award—” “Jennie Godwin’s work with Siberian tigers is the subject of a new documentary—” She closed it, returned it to the pile on the tadpole table, and tucked her hair behind her ears. A minute or two later Owen called her into his office.
    He was grinning, as if he were thrilled to see her. He was a small, wiry man who raced in the city marathon, his head shaven, probably to reduce wind resistance. There was something about him that was so sharp, so energetic, so opposite-of-Dad, that Zoe immediately felt uneasy.
    â€œWell, hello, Zoe Bennett,” he boomed. “Sit down and stay awhile!”
    He gestured in the direction of two seating options: astandard metal office chair pulled up alertly to his desk, or a red plastic beanbag chair squished casually against the wall. Zoe nearly dove into the friendly-looking giant beanbag, but something told