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weakly.
    This comes out as a this-conversation-is-over growl: “Luckily, you will be in school and won’t have to deal with him.” And she turns back to her ledger.
    Right. Luckily, I’ll be at school. Never thought I’d be saying that.

8
    I ’M SITTING IN THE BACK of the short bus, wanting to pee my pants. Not from fear, totally. Mostly because I was late, trying to tame my triangle into a normal, human-shaped head, and trying to see if any of the outfits I owned could ever exude coolness, if accessorized correctly. Thus, before I knew it, the bus was out front, and peeing was not an option.
    For the record, my hair now looks lopsided, more like a rhombus, and it’s hard like a helmet, and no amount of fake jewelry can make an XXL Hanes sweatshirt look stylish.
    Evie is in the front, chatting with Becca. We’re the only three people on the bus. My sister is bouncing her legs up and down so that her flip-flops smack against her heels. Smack-smack-smack. She blows a noisy bubble with her gum and grins excitedly, like she’s in her own musical and about to break into song.
    For a second, I think maybe, maybe, maybe things won’t be as bad as I’ve feared. Maybe when my mom and I meet Wish at the airport tonight, I can tell him about the dozens of new friends who welcomed me into their open arms and how we all sang “Kumbaya” together. Then we cross over the bridge and I see the school looming in the distance, like the house from Psycho. Vultures are circling over it.
    Then I wake up and see the crowds of students standing outside, waiting to be let in. They’re all huddled in their tight, impenetrable circles. For some reason, this reminds me of that goofy sex-ed presentation they showed in sixth grade, the one where the egg is standing firm while all these little sperm flutter about, trying to break in, constantly getting the brush-off. Yes, in this scenario, I am the sperm. Thespian egg? Denied! Chess club egg? Denied! Future Homemakers of America egg? Denied! I don’t even bother to go near the really popular eggs, because that would be spermicide.
    When I step from the bus, I imagine that this is how soldiers on the front lines feel when they’re being shot at. I duck my head, avoid looking directly at anyone, and find a spot in a corner, near the building, where I plop down on the grass and pull out a notebook. I’ll pretend to read something important in it—which is kind of difficult, since it’s blank. It is the first day of school, after all. I find a pen in my purse, and the point hovers an inch over the paper for the longest time. What to write, what to write? Oh, yes. A list of things I need to bring into school with me tomorrow. Like what? I already have all the pens and notebooks I could possibly need; my ever-prepared mother had my bag packed and ready to go in mid-July. I look up for a second and realize that someone—I’m not sure who—is staring at me, no doubt thinking, “Well, well, well, what friendless loser have we here?” and getting ready to launch an attack, so I get nervous and write the first thing that comes to my mind.
    Salami.
    Where the hell did that come from? I don’t even like salami. Or anything remotely salami-like. I quickly scribble it out, so hard that I almost rip through the page with my pen point. Fine. I can just look through my bag for my cell phone, like I need to make an important call. Even though I don’t actually own a cell phone.
    Suddenly I hear someone yell above the noise, “Yo, baby!”
    But it isn’t any ordinary “Yo, baby.” It’s in that horrible nasal Rick Rothman voice. And it’s really close by. I see a pair of filthy Vans backing up toward me. Rick may be one of the richest kids in school, but he has a way of dressing like he’s been raiding the nearest Dumpster. And he seems always to be walking backward, tossing greetings to his many admirers, completely oblivious to anyone who might be in his way. I freeze.
    One of his