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class. Mr. Bentley, former Marine drill sergeant, now math teacher to the numerically challenged, scratched algebraic equations onto the blackboard. I prayed he wouldn’t call on me.
    Finally the bell rang, and I raced out into the crisp air. I fought my way through the backpack-wielding crowd toward Room 222. Yearbook.
    “Evie!” Parvani squeezed past a pack of popular girls and drew up beside me. “How was Algebra…?”
    Zhù Wong walked a few yards ahead, his back to us. Tommy Deitch cut in from the side and bore down on Zhù like a rogue SUV. Before Parvani or I could call out a warning, Tommy slammed Zhù against a large, metal trashcan. Zhù hit with a loud bang. A startled sophomore cursed. Tommy laughed.
    Parvani hissed air between her teeth.
    The potential for a fight or major humiliation hung in the air. Even the clutch of popular girls stopped talking and watched.
    I expected Zhù to fall like an overturned turtle. But somehow he landed on his feet, his body tense. Tommy gaped. For a wild second I thought Zhù would do something amazing, like flatten Tommy with a karate chop or a taekwondo kick.
    You could have heard a bobby pin drop. Zhù stared Tommy down. Zhù. The Nerdinator. Zhù, who weighs half as much as Tommy.
    “Whatever.” Tommy shoved his way through the throng, headed straight for us. I clutched the topaz in my pocket.
    “What are you staring at, Jekyll and Hyde?”
    My mind stuttered.
    “Ow!” Tommy swerved away from the jab of Parvani’s umbrella. “Watch it, Hyde.” Scowling, he stormed off, holding his side.
    “Jerk!” Parvani tucked her umbrella under her arm, then dashed after Zhù. “Are you okay?” she asked him as I headed up the ramp to Yearbook. “You were awesome.”
    My teacher, Miss Roberts, poked her head out the door. Short, plump, with shoulder-length, flyaway hair, she appeared closer to fifteen than twenty-three. “What’s going on?”
    As much as I would have loved to see Tommy hauled off to the office, I followed the unwritten No Snitching code. “I’m not sure,” I lied. “Someone must have banged into the garbage can.” In the back of my brain, I relived the scene. Tommy’s startled face would have made a great photo. Too bad I don’t take pictures anymore.
    “The first set of pages is due October fifteenth,” Miss Roberts reminded me.
    Forty-one pages in nine days? No problem. There were two other photographers on the staff—Zhù, and an artsy sophomore named Hallie.
    “Hallie is sick today,” Miss Roberts said. “You’ll have to shoot the fashion candids.”
    “But…”
    “I’ll do them.” Zhù joined us on the ramp. I so wanted to hug him.
    “I need you to cover academics. So grab your cameras, you two, and get going. Be back before the bell.” Miss Roberts made a sweeping gesture and whisked us into the classroom.
    Zhù retrieved the digital cameras from Miss Roberts’s desk and handed one to me. It felt cool and heavy in my hand. My mouth went dry.
    “Let’s hit the classes together,” Zhù suggested.
    The room silenced. I didn’t have to glance around to know the rest of the class was staring. “Miss Roberts…”
    “Go on, Evie. You’ll be fine.”
    Sweat gathered beneath Dad’s lucky cap. I wanted to scream, “I can’t!” But Miss Roberts ushered me out the door.
    Zhù talked me down the ramp. “Parvani has French. Let’s start there.”
    Hot tears brimmed my eyes. I hate Miss Roberts. I hate Yearbook. I hate Hallie for missing class.
    Zhù walked me past the library then guided me to Room 505. “Parles-tu français?”
    I glared. Can’t he hear my heart pounding? I may die right here on the spit-covered concrete.
    “Right. Well, plié and pas de chat are about all the French I know. If you live in California, you should speak Spanish. ¿Es verdad?”
    “Sí,” I replied. French ballet terms? Zhù’s been hanging around Parvani way too much.
    Zhù opened the door. Madame Marseille raised a penciled brow.