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In spite of my mom’s and my best efforts over the past week, it’s still orange. We’ve tried everything, re-dyed it like five times, even tried to dye it jet-black, but the color always washes out to the same horrendous, eye-stabbing orange. It’s like some kind of cruel cosmic joke.
    â€œYou can’t always rely on your looks, Clara,” Mom said after failed-attempt number five. Like she’s one to talk. Like she’s ever looked less than gorgeous a day in her life.
    â€œI’ve never relied on my looks, Mom.”
    â€œSure you have,” she said a bit too cheerfully. “You aren’t vain about it, but still. You knew that when the other students at Mountain View High looked at you, they saw this pretty strawberry blonde.”
    â€œYeah, so now I’m not strawberry blonde or pretty,” I said miserably. Yes, I was wallowing. But the hair is just so horrifically orange.
    Mom put a finger under my chin and forced my head up to look at her.
    â€œYou could have neon green hair, and it wouldn’t take away how beautiful you are,” she said.
    â€œYou’re my mother. You’re legally required to say that.”
    â€œLet’s try to remember that you’re not here to win a beauty pageant. You’re here for your purpose. Maybe this hair problem means that things aren’t going to be as easy for you here as they were in California. And maybe there’s a reason for that.”
    â€œRight. A very good reason, I’m sure.”
    â€œAt least the dye will cover the bright stuff. So you won’t have to worry about keeping your hair covered.”
    â€œYay for me.”
    â€œYou’ll just have to make the best of it, Clara,” she said.
    So here I am, making the best of it, like I really have a choice. I get out of the car and sneak to the back of the parking lot to inspect the silver truck. AVALANCHE , it reads in silver letters across the back fender. License plate 99CX.
    He’s here. I force myself to breathe. He’s really here.
    Now there’s nothing left to do but walk into the school with my crazy, unruly, insanely bright-orange hair. I watch the other students stream into the building in their little groups, laughing and talking and goofing around. All total strangers, every single one of them. Except one. Although I’m a stranger to him. My hands are simultaneously sweaty and clammy. A flock of butterflies flaps around in my stomach. I’ve never been more nervous in my life.
    You’ve got this, Clara, I think. Next to your purpose, this school thing should be a snap.
    So I straighten my shoulders, trying for Jeffrey’s confidence, and head for the door.
    My first mistake, I realize almost immediately, was assuming that even with the designer exterior, this high school would be essentially like any other. Boy, was I ever wrong. The school is as high-end on the inside as it appears on the outside. Almost all of the classrooms have tall ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows with mountain views. The cafeteria is a cross between the inside of a ski lodge and an art museum. There are paintings, murals, and collages in practically every nook and cranny of the place. It even smells better than regular schools: pine and chalk and a fragrant mix of expensive perfumes. My old cinder-block school in California seems like a prison in comparison.
    I’ve stumbled into the land of pretty people. And here I thought I’d come from the land of pretty people. You know how sometimes on TV they’ll show you a picture of a celebrity from high school, and that person looks perfectly normal, not really any more attractive than anyone else? And you think, what happened? Why is Jennifer Garner so hot now? I’ll tell you: money happened. Facials, fancy haircuts, designer clothes, and personal trainers happened. And the kids at Jackson Hole High had that celebrity polish, except for the few here and there who looked