Ident.i.ty Theft.

(Point Horror).

Anna Davies.

To the NYC crew:.

For always keeping me on the right side of sanity.

I paused for a moment outside the royal-blue doors of Bainbridge Secondary School. Around me, groups of kids were buzzing about lakeside bonfires, evenings spent driving around town, and thankless summer jobs whose only benefit came in the form of cute coworkers. Even though I'd gone to school with these kids my whole life, I hadn't seen any of them since I'd left for the summer debate intensive at the University of New Hampshire.

But I wasn't looking for a catch-up session. Instead, I pressed my back against the ridges of the oak tree outside the door, pretending to be supremely interested in examining my senior year schedule as Keely Young, Ingrid Abramson, and Emily Hines walked across the parking lot toward the entrance. Once my best friends, they'd pretty much ditched me midway through freshman year, when I quit the field hockey team to concentrate on my grades. Ever since, they'd made it clear through sideways glances and snide comments that I'd made the wrong decision.

Among the kids streaming into the entrance, the three of them stood out. Keely's highlighted blond hair and glowing skin made it seem like she'd breezed in straight from a Nantucket beach. Ingrid was now sporting a tiny silver stud in her nostril, most likely obtained during her two-month-long backpacking trip through Europe. I'd read all her Tweets about it, but seeing her in person - the way the stud glimmered in the light, the way her scarf was perfectly draped around her neck, the way her shoulders were held back in stark contrast to Keely's signature slouch - I felt a wave of betrayal.

It should have been me. In eighth grade, she and I would spend hours clipping articles from travel magazines and dreaming of trips we'd take when we were older. We'd even made a list of everything we'd do: getting as many piercings as possible, being driven through Paris on a Vespa, meeting a hot boy on a train (her), and being mistaken for a native Parisian and being kissed by any boy at all (me).

Jealousy knifed through my stomach. I couldn't help but wonder what else she'd crossed off the list.

"So I think this year I'm only going to date guys from the U," Emily said in a vapid voice that made it clear her main extracurricular of the summer was watching way too many episodes of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. She was wobbling on five-inch heels as if she were a baby deer nursing a shin splint. "I think that dating high school guys when you're a senior is kinda pathetic, you know?"

"Eh, it depends on the guy. You know what I think is even more pathetic?" Keely asked in an actress-y voice that forced me to look up despite myself. We locked eyes and I immediately glanced away, but not quickly enough. Keely was about to go on the attack, and I was going to be the victim. "Girls who don't date at all in high school. Like, they think a guy will wreck their GPA."

Emily snorted. "Or they make up a boyfriend and put him all over Facebook. I think that's even worse."

"Seriously, I'm done with Facebook anyway." Ingrid sniffed. "It's so ... insular. Everyone who's anyone uses Instagram."

"And then uploads the pictures on Facebook. Besides, I saw you just posted your new Europe alb.u.m, so don't even talk to me about quitting," Keely said. "Although even the losers are joining," Keely hissed as she walked by me. I lowered my head until I heard the fading echo of Emily's heels clicking on the ground, surprised that another insult hadn't been lobbed in my direction. Keely's a.s.sertion wasn't entirely correct. Because while they certainly thought I was a loser, I definitely wasn't on Facebook. They'd made sure of that back in ninth grade.

Once they were a safe distance away, I walked through the double doors of Bainbridge Secondary School. The lobby smelled the same as it always did: a combination of Lysol, floor wax, and Axe body spray, courtesy of the freshman boys. To me the scent was as welcoming as apple pie or the perfume-filled air of a department store. It was the scent of home. The nostalgia caused my shoulders to drop and my gaze to lift. Here, I didn't have to worry about snarky comments and former best friends.

To my left was the Bainbridge trophy case, where no fewer than ten different plaques chronicled my achievements: HAYLEY WESTIN: OUTSTANDING ACHIEVEMENT IN PHYSICS. HAYLEY WESTIN, SCHOLAR-ATHLETE OF THE YEAR. HAYLEY WESTIN, NATIONAL MERIT SCHOLAR. I smiled to myself as I looked at my name etched in metal. I tried not to think about the fact that I had more awards than friends. After all, these awards had led me to my Ainsworth scholarship nomination, which was all I'd wanted since freshman year. The Ainsworth was a big deal, a scholarship for ten students nationwide that paid full college tuition and room and board, as well as a $5,000-a-year travel stipend. I had to win it. It was the only way my mom wouldn't have to worry, where I wouldn't have to choose the major that promised the most money upon graduation. The Ainsworth didn't ask that their nominees be oboe-playing phenoms or Olympians. All the Ainsworth asked for was excellence. The plaques all proclaimed that was what I had. I just hoped that the nominating committee would agree.

"So, then, we ended up having this epic party at this house share in Nantucket? It was, like, all these college guys?"

As I turned the corner, my reverie was ruined by the uptalky conversation between Hilary Beck and Rachel Martin. Both juniors, Rachel and Hilary always hung out at the Ugly Mug coffee shop after school. Because I'd worked there, and because their voices were so loud, I was intimately familiar with Rachel's boy drama and Hilary's acne problems. I shuddered. Even though I'd miss the paycheck, quitting the Ugly Mug to focus on winning the Ainsworth was worth it.

As long as I won.

"Ugh, really? I'm so jealy! I wish I'd done that instead of going to stupid Greece with my stupid parents. We went on a stupid cruise. h.e.l.lo, did they never see t.i.tanic? Plus, the rooms were, like, the size of my closet," Rachel huffed, drinking the dregs of what I instantly recognized as the Espresso Yourself Icy Frozen Blend. I knew it well, having made approximately one billion over the past three years, about half of which were ordered and drunk by Rachel.

I whirled around and caught Rachel's eye, but she gazed through me, as though she'd never seen me before. As if that was even possible in the Ugly Mugmandated orange-and-purple ap.r.o.n and hat.

"Everything will be worth it," I whispered under my breath as I hurried up toward the math and science wing. It was my mantra whenever things got tough.

Quickly, I slid into one of the side desks in the AP Calc cla.s.sroom. It wasn't until I'd already settled and had pulled out my notebook and pen that I realized I'd plopped down right next to Adam Scott.

"Hayley." He nodded curtly in my direction as though we were two opposing lawyers sitting in front of a judge instead of two cla.s.smates who'd known each other for twelve years.

"My favorite seatmate." I smiled tightly. Adam and I had been frenemies since kindergarten, when he came in after winter break announcing he could read chapter books. I'd immediately gone home and demanded to my mother that she help me sound my way through Jane Eyre. And ever since then, the rivalry for number one had been intense.

"How was your summer?" Adam asked, pulling out his iPad and setting it on his desk.

"It was all right. Lots of work, not so much play. The usual." I couldn't help but notice that he looked good. His shoulders filled out his blue b.u.t.ton-down more than I remembered last year, and his curly brown hair had grown out so it was a teeny bit s.h.a.ggy, a nice change from the buzz cut he'd sported for at least the past decade.

"How was debate camp?" he pressed. I glared at him. Yes, we were in AP Calc, aka the varsity squad of nerds, but did he have to say debate camp quite so loudly? Besides, it wasn't like he cared. The question was clearly his not-so-subtle attempt to suss out whether or not I had an upper hand when it came to the Ainsworth application. So I decided to mess with him a little.

"Why? Worried your foreign field trip wasn't academically rigorous enough?" I teased. Ingrid wasn't the only Bainbridger to have pa.s.sed the majority of her summer in Europe. Adam had spent six weeks in a language immersion program in Aixen-Provence in France while I'd labored away in the cinder-block dorms of UNH. He'd been able to enjoy evenings in cafes drinking espresso while I'd listened to monotone professors discuss policy. He'd had the opportunity to explore the world. And I'd spent another summer being a type-A overachiever.

"France was cool. I had fun. But I worked hard, too. In any case, I'm sure the experience will give me plenty to talk about with the Ainsworth committee," Adam said with a smirk.

"Great." I shifted in my chair. Sure, Adam wanted it. But he didn't need it the way I did. His dad was a Harvard legacy and corporate lawyer and his mom was the provost at the U. He lived in one of the fancy houses up on the Ridge, and his family would have no problem getting into - and paying for - any school he wanted. Realizing that brought our rivalry up a few notches beyond good-natured compet.i.tion, and I couldn't help but feel that, for the time being, I shouldn't be as friendly as I'd been in the past.

At that moment, Dr. Osborn strode in, wearing a chalk-covered corduroy blazer over a T-shirt that read WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE MOBIUS STRIP? Behind me, Jake Cross, a thirteen-year-old who took high school cla.s.ses, chuckled so hard he snorted.

"First rule of Calculus, and it's an important one. Never drink and derive," Dr. Osborn boomed. He looked hopefully around the room, but his only response was another high-pitched snort from Jake.

"Well, of course, since you're all underage, you wouldn't be drinking anyway, but I'm saying this only because it's a play on words, and it is true that derivatives must take your complete and total attention," Dr. Osborn sputtered as he wrote an equation on the board. I hastily began copying it into my notebook. Beyond his dorky sense of humor and chalk-stained clothing, Osborn was a serious teacher who could make or break my straight-A average. Next to me, Adam was scribbling away, too.

It was good to be back.

AP Calculus, AP English, AP European History, gym, and it was finally my lunch period. Most seniors left the building at lunch. They'd either head home to hang out with their significant other while their parents were at work, or they'd drive to the strip of sandwich places on Main Street. I rarely left campus. I preferred to eat a PB and J and get stuff done that I didn't have time to do during the day. Even though it was the first day of school, I still had plenty on my to-do list, starting with selecting the editors for cla.s.s sections for the Spectrum, the award-winning Bainbridge yearbook. I'd been procrastinating on that project all summer, pulling out the folder, then pushing it back into the depths of my desk drawer to deal with later. No matter who I ended up picking, someone was going to get mad, and that would lead to another round of whispers and talking behind my back. It wasn't something I'd wanted to think about in the summer. But now, I didn't have a choice. Besides, it wasn't like people were begging me to head out to the sandwich shop with them.

I grabbed a seat in the corner of the cafeteria, pulled my sandwich from my bag, and began to look through the applications.

Around me, scared freshmen were swarming into the cafeteria like spooked wildebeests, unsure of where to sit or whom to avoid. A small, skinny girl with owl-like eyes behind round gla.s.ses and tangled, wiry hair paused by my empty table.

I glanced up and gave her an encouraging smile. I knew how she felt. But instead of sitting down, she scampered away. I wanted to tell her that it got easier, that eventually, she'd find a place for herself, even if it was just sitting solo and doing work. That despite what you saw on the CW network, friends weren't necessarily the most important part of high school. That, in a way, not fitting in meant you had the opportunity to stand out, in the best possible way, to teachers, college admissions officers, and scholarship officials - who were really the only people who mattered.

But I didn't have time to give advice. I spread the junior-cla.s.s applications in front of me, wishing I had a red pen or a pair of gla.s.ses to feel more editorial-official.

The first was from Kayla McDonough. A field hockey player with a surgically altered nose and a modeling agent in Concord, she clearly wanted the position to ensure that pictures of her friends were prominently featured in the yearbook. The second applicant was Jessica Adamson, an honors student who'd also applied for the editor in chief position last spring, even though she'd been a rising junior. Traditionally, the spot went to a senior, but that wasn't a hard-and-fast rule. Luckily, Mrs. Ross, our advisor, had kept to tradition and chosen me. I was grateful, because I knew that Jess would have won by a landslide if students had voted on the position. She hosted bonfire parties at her lakeside house and invited Hacky Sack kids and honors students. She played lacrosse in the spring and hung out at football games in the fall. She made sure to wear blue and white on School Spirit Day. In short, she lived the type of laid-back, fun, high school dream life we created in each page of the yearbook layouts. Or, rather, I created in each page of layouts as everyone else was actually out having fun. I did everything from ensuring that people actually showed up for all group activity photos that they were part of (people tried to skip Marching Band and Select Chorus photo calls for the dork factor, but not under my watch) to policing senior quotes for anything un-PC (which pretty much meant rejecting any lyric by anyone except Taylor Swift). I knew that all of my own proofreading and double-checking and editing was the reason why the yearbook always looked awesome. But this year, the recognition would be mine - something I was confident admissions officers and Ainsworth application readers would appreciate.

And as much as I hated to admit it to myself, I was a teeny bit jealous of Jess. Mostly, it was her confidence - how she could a.s.sume she even had a shot at the position when I was the one putting in hours and hours of actual work, hunching over in the yearbook edit room while she was putting blue and red ribbons in her ponytail or baking cookies to sell during halftime. She even went so far as to throw a fit when Mrs. Ross gave the position to me, citing a conflict of interest because I was also the editor of the school paper, the Bainbridge Beacon. It was a stupid argument, but she wouldn't let it go, even going so far as setting up an anonymous survey online asking for my removal. And, for once, the apathetic student body worked in my favor. No one bothered to vote. Still, that didn't mean Jess wouldn't make things extra hard for me this year.

I glanced back and forth at their applications as I took another bite of my sandwich. I paused at Jess's application. She was good. Kayla was not. But in the end, it came down to Slacker versus Backstabber.

Slacker, I decided, ripping up Jessica's application. Yeah, I'd pretty much have to do Kayla's job to ensure the junior section didn't suck, but I wasn't afraid of hard work.

Whoever said it was lonely at the top was right, I mused as I pushed my chair back and headed out of the cafeteria to make an appointment with my college advisor. I saw a few seniors walk in carrying Zoomie's milkshakes. They were laughing and hanging off one another, as if they were extras in some face wash commercial about how awesome it is to be a teenager. Meanwhile, I felt like I was an overworked, underappreciated corporate attorney. It would be worth it.

I pushed open the heavy oak door to the guidance suite, relaxing as the door clicked behind me. Set in the center of school, the brightly lit guidance office was large, airy, and a million times more inviting than the dark and claustrophobic cafeteria. At one end of the room was a gla.s.s-topped conference table, where ten or so freshman - including Keely's sister, Laurel - were in the mandatory Intro to the Guidance Office meeting every new student had to attend. Laurel widened her eyes at me. I looked away and hurried toward the secretary desk at the opposite end of the room.

"Hi, Miss Marsted," I said politely to the sixty-year-old secretary who co-owned the pie shop downtown with her sister. A lot of kids only came to the guidance office because they hoped for a snack. Today, a strawberry-rhubarb pie and an apple tart were sitting on the counter alongside a stack of paper plates.

At the sight of me, Miss Marsted's doughy, wrinkled face broke into a smile.

"Miss Westin, how lovely to see you," she said warmly, as though I were an unexpected houseguest. "Now, I know you're probably falling down busy on your first day back, but you must have a piece of pie and you must tell me all about your summer. It's your favorite kind." She bustled to the front of the desk to cut a thick slice of the strawberry-rhubarb.

I shook my head, ignoring the vague rumbling of my stomach. I was well aware that Laurel and a few of her friends were watching me curiously, and I didn't want the next generation of Bainbridge students to think I was the weird girl who was BFF with the guidance office secretary.

"Are you sure?" Miss Marsted asked, the knife still poised above the lattice crust.

"Yes, thank you. I just need an appointment with Mr. Klish. As soon as possible. It's in regard to my Ainsworth application."

"Oh, of course." Miss Marsted bustled behind the desk. "I can schedule an appointment tomorrow morning before first period. Will that be all right?"

I nodded, feeling strangely grown-up. I could so clearly imagine myself in ten years as an attorney at a law firm, trying to set up a time to meet with a partner. I'd wear a charcoal suit, just like the one I always wore to debate tournaments. My dark brown hair would be pulled back into a low chignon, and my lips would be a s.e.xy, subtle coral color that I was never able to master with my current makeup bag of drugstore cosmetics. It would be great. No, it would be better than great. It would be perfect.

"Seven forty-five all right?" Miss Marsted asked.

"Of course." I pulled out my pink Filofax and wrote down the appointment, noting the tiny blank squares that were all about to be filled with obligations, deadlines, and interviews.

"You still write on paper. Just like me!" Miss Marsted enthused loudly. I heard a few giggles emanate from the corner. Awesome.

"I don't believe in computers," I said tightly. She beamed back at me, oblivious to my abrupt response, which only made me feel worse. I spent so much time telling myself I didn't care what other people thought of me. I just wished it could be a little more true.

"All right, see you tomorrow, Miss Westin. And if you want any pie, well, you know where to find it."

"Right," I mumbled. I knew that a full schedule would fulfill me way more than a full stomach would.

All right, so let me announce the new Spectrum executive board." My voice cracked, and I quickly took a large sip of my coffee. I noticed my hand was shaking, but I couldn't tell if it was nerves or caffeine jitters.

It was seven a.m. the next morning, and I'd already drank a sixteen-ounce coffee at home and was halfway through my second oversized thermos. Two years ago, Princ.i.p.al O'Neill had come up with the genius idea to have most clubs, including Yearbook, meet during zero period. And since most people preferred sleep to saturating their college resumes, membership had declined sharply. Even our faculty administrator, Mrs. Ross, was nodding off in the corner of the room, occasionally emitting a snore that sounded like a high-pitched teakettle.

"Shouldn't you wait a few minutes? Make sure that everyone is here?" Jess asked from her seat directly opposite me. Her blue eyes were wide and innocent, but I understood the subtext: Attendance was spa.r.s.e and the majority of people in the room were freshmen.

I took a deep breath. The past Spectrum editors in chief had made running a meeting seem way easier than designing a layout or editing a story. After all, they just had to stand up, talk, and a.s.sign. I was used to making speeches in front of strangers through debate. But this was different - and I was reminded of that every time I looked over at Jess. Her unblinking stare made me feel like I was on a tightrope. One wrong sentence could cause everything I had worked so hard for to topple.

"No, I think we're fine. We have a lot of ground to cover today," I said firmly, arching one eyebrow in her direction. One of the techniques taught at debate camp was that raising an eyebrow is one of the key gestures that will make your opponent realize that you're in charge.

I looked down at the list, willing myself to stop letting Jess undermine me. I might not have been as charismatic as Jon Keselica, our editor in chief last year, or as pretty as Meg Smith, the editor in chief from two years ago, but I'd gotten the job. I deserved it. No matter what Jess thought.

I smiled at Libby Dorn in the front row. Also a senior, she'd been on Yearbook since freshman year. She smiled back. She was nice enough, but I barely knew anything about her, beyond the fact that she had four sisters and hoped to be a poet when she grew up. She hung out with the slam poetry kids and the other artsy hipster types who tended to spend lunch in the atrium by the auditorium. I wasn't one of the creative kids, and it wasn't as if Libby had ever invited me to eat with them, anyway.

"All right, so our freshman editor is Dominick Jenson. Congratulations, Dominick." I nodded in the direction of a skinny ninth-grader with bleached-blond hair and thick gla.s.ses. He turned beet red and beamed, then threw his hand in the air and waved it.

"Yes?" I asked nervously. Jess's previous question had thrown me off balance.

"Can I call my mom and tell her?" he asked excitedly.

Laughter erupted from the back corner of the room. I was so relieved to no longer be the center of attention that I didn't bother to stifle a smile as I nodded. Truth was, I was thankful for his enthusiasm, even if he had been the only one to apply. All he had to do was interview other frosh, about how they were adjusting to pep rallies, what they thought of high school, and what they kept in their lockers, and with a little help, he'd do all right. I added Figure out freshman section to my mental to-do list.

"Soph.o.m.ore-cla.s.s editor is Christina Jenner," I said, locking eyes with a beaming, gla.s.ses-clad girl whose cello case was propped against her desk. That had been an easy decision. She'd done a decent job as freshman-cla.s.s editor last year.

Just then, the door opened and Matt Hartnett sauntered in. A hush fell over the room as everyone, including me, turned to stare. Even though he was wearing jeans and a b.u.t.ton-down - the unofficial boy uniform of Bainbridge - he stood out. He was taller and more built than most guys, but it was beyond that. He seemed wholly comfortable in his own skin. He never gave the impression that he tried to be anyone else. Even though Keely, Ingrid, Emily, and half the female population of Bainbridge seemed to follow him around, Matt had never had a serious girlfriend. I sometimes wondered if he, too, realized there was more to life than high school.

"Yo, Hayley. Mad sorry I'm late," he said sheepishly.

"That's fine, just have a seat."

"Cool." He waved his way between desks, oblivious to the stares that followed him. He'd been the sports editor since freshman year, and even though I often had to rewrite his stories so his sentences contained more than four words, he was pretty diligent. He'd once told me that he wanted to be a sports reporter after college. I liked that about him. Platonically, of course. But it was nice to see that he had aspirations beyond prom king or winning soccer sectional finals.

Finally, he perched on the radiator in the back of the room. I hoped the relief wasn't evident in my voice. But seeing him was the feel-good equivalent of an A-plus on a test, a sign that everything was fine.

I smiled broadly and squared my shoulders back, allowing my gaze to fall straight on Jess. "And junior-cla.s.s editor is ... Kayla McDonough," I said, realizing before her last name left my mouth that she wasn't even there.

Silence hung in the air. I wasn't sure what I had been expecting. Maybe Jess to yell, or immediately complain to Mrs. Ross. But instead, she stared silently down at her desk. I noticed her knuckles were white from clutching her travel mug. It was a gesture I knew all too well myself, something to focus on to stop any tears from forming. I looked away.

"And senior-cla.s.s editor is Libby Dorn," I said, smiling at Libby. "So we'll have a special cla.s.s editor meeting next Tuesday morning to brainstorm stories. But for now, since the cover is due to the printer by next month, we need to come up with a theme and t.i.tle for the book." I glanced over at Jess, but her head was still bowed low, making it impossible to tell whether or not she was upset.

"What are you thinking, Miss Westin?" Mrs. Ross prompted.

"Of course. Well, I was thinking, um ... Ever Upward, I guess. I mean, Ever Upward," I corrected. Um and I guess weren't confident.

"I hope everyone here will agree that it's fun, it's inspirational, and I think it exemplifies the high school experience on a few levels. Plus it's cla.s.sic. If we do something from a song or a movie, it dates the book too much. What do you guys think?" I asked. I'd already worked on a few preliminary sketches to go along with the theme. I liked it. It was simple, yet direct, and wasn't one of those cringe-worthy ones like Teenage Dream or Dancing Queen that people are guaranteed to make fun of at all future reunions.

Immediately, Jessica's hand shot up. Her eyes flashed at me, and if she'd been close to crying a minute ago, she certainly wasn't now.

"I don't like it. What does it mean? It sounds so cheesy. Like, seriously, if I had to show a yearbook called Ever Upward to my college roommate, I'd be really embara.s.sed," she said, not even waiting for me to call on her.

Of course Jess doesn't like it. You knew she wouldn't, I reminded myself as I felt my heart lurch from a canter to a gallop. Ten minutes into my first meeting and Jess had messed with my mind. I needed to put a stop to it. I couldn't let it seem like she could bully me. And I couldn't seem threatened. I took a deep breath, exhaled through my nose, and focused on the spot right between her eyebrows. "What's your idea?"

"Well, I think it should be more like That's What Friends Are For. Or maybe Lean on Me. You know, something that has a message about friendship. What people want is a t.i.tle that exemplifies the high school experience. And isn't that what it's all about, Hayley?" she asked pointedly. "Won't the biggest thing you'll miss after graduation be your friendships?"

I froze. All eyes were on me, and I felt blood rushing to my face. I turned toward the board so people couldn't see me blushing.

That's What Friends Are For. I wrote with a shaking hand. And then Lean on Me.

Unbidden, my mind drifted back to when Keely, Ingrid, Emily, and I were a foursome. We called ourselves HIKE after our initials. In middle school, we'd even gotten permission to leave gym cla.s.s for HIKE club meetings. We'd managed to convince Coach Ervin it was an official group led by our Earth Science teacher, and had managed to spend half a semester gossiping during gym before he'd caught on. That was around the time that we realized HIKE could also be a contraction for Hot Guys We Like. We'd write pros-and-cons lists on each of them, contemplating their kissing potential and whether or not we should date them now or wait until the end of high school, when the romance was likely to last longer than a month. Of course, I'd known even then that none of the guys on the list would have actually dated me. Not in ninth grade. And definitely not now.

They were drawn to Keely's confidence; Emily's short skirts and long, mermaid-like hair; and Ingrid's sense of adventure and ability to flirt. None of the boys cared about my math skills or ability to quote Shakespearean monologues from memory. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't compete with Emily, Ingrid, or Keely. And the worst part was that I could never figure out what I was doing wrong or how I could change.

That was when I began really focusing on schoolwork. I'd always been smart, but in ninth grade, I wanted to become exceptional. Because academics made sense in a way popularity didn't. It was an equation: You worked hard, you got a good grade. Not so with guys. I could say the same thing as Ingrid and they'd ignore me, but when Ingrid said it, they'd smile. I tried flipping my hair the way Emily did, but my hair never grew much beyond shoulder length, and too much flipping would cause it to tangle. I'd begun to resent HIKE. I wanted out. And I'd gotten it. Keely had made sure of that.

I squeezed my eyes shut to block out the memories floating into my head. I needed to focus on now.

"So, you're saying you feel our high school experience is best exemplified by the t.i.tle of a cheesy song from the seventies?" I gripped the chalk so tightly it split in two with a loud crack.

"I think it would be exemplified by what normal students want," Jessica said with a condescending smile. "Besides, I was thinking off the top of my head. Some people didn't spend their whole summer thinking about Yearbook," she said smugly.