It only takes a few minutes for the noise of the party to vanish behind us. Out here, the night is thick, and the buzz of mosquitoes is a steady soundtrack.

"So," he says after we sit down in the grass, "do you remember the time you and your mom came out to visit us and my mom made her special gumbo?"

I shake my head sadly. "I wish I did. I think maybe I blocked out most of my memories of being a kid here."

"But you remember your mom?"

"Yeah. I still think about her a lot." I pause. "She died a long time ago, though. Sometimes I wonder if there's something wrong with me for not moving on."

"Eveny! That's crazy! She was your mother. Of course you're still thinking about her."

I look out in the blackness. There's rustling in the trees and splashing in the water, and although I don't know what's out there, I realize I feel safe with Drew.

"She's just on my mind a lot more since we've moved back. I think-" I hesitate. "I think I still can't wrap my head around the idea that she took her own life."

Drew studies me for a long time and then pulls me into a hug. "I'm so sorry you went through all that, Eveny."

I'm relieved that he understands and grateful when he abruptly changes the subject, chattering all the way until we're called to eat.

As we stroll back to Teddy's house, he tells me all about his band, which is called Little Brother and plays something called bayou fusion rock music.

"Bayou fusion rock?" I repeat.

He laughs and says it's their own form of banjo-driven rock 'n' roll. "Like if the Eagles, the Avett Brothers, and a New Orleans jazz band got together and had a music baby. I play the guitar," he adds. "Teddy's our drummer; he thinks we'll get a record deal if we can just get in front of the right people."

"Is that what you want to do with your life, go into music?" I ask.

"Who wouldn't want to be a rock star, right? But I'm not a total idiot; I know those things don't always work out. I'm going to go to college too, so I have a backup plan."

"Where do you want to go?"

"LSU," he says instantly. "No doubt. But I'll have to get a scholarship or take out a bunch of student loans. It's not like my parents have the money for something like that anymore."

"Anymore?"

He shakes his head. "Let's not talk economics right now. Too much of a downer. So how about you? Planning to go to college?"

"NYU," I answer without hesitation.

"You want to go back to New York?" he asks in surprise.

"No offense, but this isn't home. New York is."

"Well," Drew says, "we'll see about that. This town has a funny way of sinking its teeth into you."

Ten minutes later, I'm standing in Teddy's backyard again, watching as the guys pull giant metal strainers out of the huge pots, shake them dry, and dump them on long picnic tables covered in newspaper. A sea of what look like miniature lobsters pours out alongside hundreds of potatoes and ears of bright yellow corn that have been cut into thirds.

"Dig in!" Drew shouts at me across the yard as he carries one of the strainers toward the back deck where Teddy's already hosing them off.

I laugh as the crowd descends on the tables, piling big handfuls of crawfish, corn, and potatoes onto Styrofoam plates. Drew arrives at my side a moment later and leads me over to scoop up my own dinner, then we retreat to a quiet corner of the yard, where we sit down, leaning our backs against a big oak tree. Drew teaches me how to eat the crawfish, which is kind of a gross process: you twist them in half, suck the heads, and then squeeze the tails to get the meat out.

"You're a natural," Drew marvels after I've decapitated my fourth crawfish.

"Maybe I belong here after all."

"I guess we'll see," he says, suddenly serious. "You've got some potato on your face." He reaches over to gently brush a speck off my chin, and from the way he pauses and looks at me, I have the uneasy feeling he's about to kiss me. But then he pulls back and looks down. "Glad you liked everything," he says. "I'd better get you home once we're done eating before your aunt skins me alive."

7.

I'm nervous the next morning as I get ready for my first day at Pointe Laveau. Even with Aunt Bea's tailoring, my uniform looks terrible. My white oxford shirt is boxy, my maroon plaid skirt comes down just past my knees, and my white socks and black oxfords make me look suspiciously like a seventy-five-year-old orthopedic patient.

"You sure these are the shoes we have to wear?" I ask Aunt Bea as I round the corner into the kitchen.

"That's what the school guidebook said," she tells me apologetically. "For what it's worth, I think you look cute in a retro kind of way."

I text a photo of my uniform to Meredith, hoping she'll make me feel better, but she doesn't reply. It takes me a few minutes to remember that Louisiana is an hour behind New York, so she's probably already at school with her phone off.

At breakfast, Aunt Bea seems even more nervous than I do. She spills her coffee, knocks over her juice, and drops her toast on the floor twice.

"You're going to have a great first day!" she tells me with a smile that looks as fake as it probably is.

"You're acting a little weird," I say. "Everything okay with the bakery?" Her grand opening party is scheduled for Wednesday night, and the closer it gets, the more scatterbrained she's becoming.

"It's you I'm concerned about; I remember how tough first days are. But you're going to do great."

"Sure I am," I reply drily. "What could possibly go wrong in a school full of beautiful rich people?"

"Stop worrying," she says, but she's chewing her lip the way she always does when she's uneasy. I'm relieved when she drops me off in front of the school twenty minutes later because her nerves are rubbing off on me.

Pointe Laveau Academy must have been built right around the same time as my house, because it has the same kind of dramatic, neo-Gothic construction. The main building has narrow, arched windows, steep gables, and a bell tower, and the outlying buildings, which are clustered around a green space I can barely see from the street, are flatter versions of the same design. The complex looks like a cross between a church and an old prison. I shudder as I walk up the front steps and lose the sunlight.

Just before I enter the building, my phone dings with a text message. It's from Drew.

Sorry, he says, but I won't be at school. Woke up sick this morning. Hope you didn't get my germs. Have a good first day!

My heart sinks. He's my only friend here, and now I'll have to brave my debut alone. I text him back Aw, feel better!, then I switch my phone to silent and head inside to start my new life.

"Eveny Cheval," the pudgy school secretary says flatly as I enter the front office, which is decked out in regal-looking furniture with eggplant-colored cushions.

I nod, wondering how she knew it was me.

"We never get new students here," she remarks, answering the question I haven't asked. She fluffs her bleached-blond curls and purses her bright pink lips at me. "Except scholarship kids from out in the Peripherie once in a while. But I know all of them in advance."

"Oh, do you live out there, in the Peripherie?" I ask, trying to be polite.

"Are you being smart with me?" She glares back.

"What? No, of course not."

"Well, last time I checked, I wasn't sitting on a mountain of gold coins in a mansion like you people," she says. "But I'm certainly not from out there." I just stare at her, wondering how I've managed to piss off the first person I've encountered. "Now go on," she says, handing over my class schedule. "Your books are in your locker."

I take a deep breath and head into the main hallway, which is teeming with students. The first thing I notice is that although all the girls are wearing the same uniform I am, every single one of them is pulling it off way better. None of them are in clunky loafers; they seem to be wearing everything from ballet flats to cowboy boots to strappy heels. My heart sinks as I realize the first impression I make here will be one of dorkiness.

The guys are all wearing pressed khakis and pale purple oxford shirts with the initials of the school emblazoned on their left breast pockets. They, too, seem to have skipped anything resembling an official dress code. I spot a few purple and gold letter jackets, but most of the guys are dressed in pieces that smack a bit more of individuality-leather bombers, a few suit jackets, a handful of hoodies.

Everyone is streaming by in a hurry, and nearly all of them are shooting me curious glances, but no one stops to help. I look down at the schedule again. It says on the top that I've been assigned to locker 445.

Yet I have no idea where locker 445 might be, or how I'll find my first class. I look around, hoping I'll spot Peregrine or Chloe or another one of the Dolls, because at least they're not complete strangers.

That's when I notice that the hallway is draped in black crepe ribbons. Signs that say We love you, Glory and We'll miss you, Glory are taped on walls, and I spot a few photographs on a pin board nearby, framed in black. I step closer and see Glory Jones's face smiling out at me.

"You look lost." A voice comes from the right, startling me, and I turn to see a slender girl with a heart-shaped face, big brown eyes, and thick dark hair. She's wearing a purple tissue-weight cardigan and faded purple Converse high-tops with her uniform, almost as if she's trying to look anti-glamorous. I like her instantly.

"Yeah. It's my first day, and I have no idea how to get to my locker," I admit. "Or my first class. And I'm beginning to feel like an idiot."

"It was super rude of Mrs. Perkins to send you off without telling you where to go. I'd blame it on all that tacky hair bleach going to her head, but around here, if you're not one of the chosen ones, you can forget about anyone giving a crap about you."

"The chosen ones?"

She laughs, although it sounds a bit like a snort. "You'll see." She squints at my schedule and says, "All right, let's get you to your locker." We begin walking, and she adds, "By the way, I'm Liv."

"Eveny," I reply.

She reads my schedule as we dodge other students in the hall. "Cool, we have physics together sixth period," she says. "Other than that, our classes don't match up. But I'll show you where your first period is."

We reach a row of lockers, and she points to one near the middle. "Here we are. Locker 445."

I look at the slip of paper, which tells me the combination is 16-7-13. I turn the dials, and the door pops open, revealing a neat stack of books-and a name scratched into the inside panel: Glory Jones. I freeze.

"This was Glory Jones's locker?" I ask.

Liv peers inside and sees the curvy letters too. "Can't believe they'd reassign it so soon. Then again, Glory was one of the nice ones. She'd probably want you to have it."

I grab my textbooks for English and trig, my first two classes. But what I'm thinking is that, nice or not, Glory would probably prefer to still be here, using her own locker.

The bell rings. "Here we go again," Liv mutters. She points down the hall and says, "Your English class is that way. Fifth door on the right. Mrs. Shriver. You'll be fine."

I take a deep breath, clutch my books to my chest, and begin walking, relieved that I've now met at least one potential friend who's not dead.

The second bell rings a millisecond before I walk into English, which makes me officially late.

I feel two dozen pairs of eyes on me as I hand Mrs. Shriver my schedule and mumble that I'm new here.

"Oh yes, Eveny Cheval," she says. "We were expecting you. You can take that empty seat in the last row."

"No." I hear a languid voice from the back, and I turn to see Peregrine, decked out in thick eyeliner, dark lipstick, and a lacy black silk camisole under her standard-issue oxford shirt. The same stone necklace I noticed at the funeral dangles in her cleavage, and she's wearing a close-fitting black quilted leather vest. "Eveny will sit right here." She gestures daintily to an empty chair beside her.

I hesitate, wondering if she's just being nice to me because her mother's making her, but she snaps her fingers, gestures to the seat, and says, "We don't have all day, Eveny. Chop chop."

"Go on, take the seat, dear," Mrs. Shriver says, seeming to recover a bit as I move down the aisle toward Peregrine.

"Nice shoes," Peregrine says, raising an eyebrow at me after I sit. "Did you borrow them from a nursing home?"

"The dress code said we had to wear black loafers and knee socks," I say, glancing down. She's wearing strappy black platform stiletto sandals on her bare, perfectly pedicured feet. I feel ridiculous.

"Eveny, you'll soon learn that we don't have to do anything," she says. She turns away without elaborating.

As Mrs. Shriver begins to talk about The Great Gatsby, which I read last year in my American Lit class, I spot Chloe sitting beside Peregrine, wearing a dark fur stole. She's paired her oxford with a set of Chanel pearls featuring a diamond-encrusted, interlocking double C. Her high-heeled Mary Janes are studded with what look like diamonds, and her hair is artfully mussed.

"Yoo-hoo, Eveny!" she says, waving at me pleasantly. "Welcome!"

I wave back to Chloe vaguely as I realize that no one seems to be paying any attention to Mrs. Shriver. A cluster of skater-looking guys in the back of the room have pushed their desks together and are playing games on their iPhones. I recognize Arelia and Margaux sitting just behind Peregrine and Chloe, dressed in matching leopard-print cardigans and sky-high heels. There are a few guys wearing purple and gold letter jackets near the center of the room and three cheerleaders who, even in their short-skirted uniforms, look frumpy compared to the Dolls.

I glance down and realize suddenly that Peregrine's big, studded, designer tote, which is lying half open on the floor beside her desk, appears to be moving. I let out a strangled gasp as her snake pokes its head out and blinks its beady eyes at me. Mrs. Shriver's monotone monologue about Daisy Buchanan and Nick Carraway screeches to a halt.

"Is there a problem, Ms. Cheval?" Mrs. Shriver asks.

"Uh, no." I'm pretty sure I've now turned as red as my skirt. "Sorry."

"Oh, relax, Eveny," Peregrine says in a bored voice, examining her nails. "It's just Audowido." She looks up at Mrs. Shriver and says, "Don't worry. Everything's under control. You can resume your lecture."

Mrs. Shriver shrugs and begins droning again. I turn to Peregrine. "You bring the snake to school?"

She looks at me blankly. "Of course." She pauses and adds, "His name is Audowido, by the way. Addressing him simply as 'the snake' is so impersonal. He really dislikes it."

"Oh," I say helplessly.

"I accept your apology," Peregrine says.

I spend the remainder of the class sneaking occasional glances at Audowido, who just keeps staring at me with his unblinking little eyes.

The rest of the morning goes by uneventfully-and thankfully without any other reptilian appearances. There's no one I know in my fourth-period economics class, so when the bell rings and everyone begins flowing toward the cafeteria, I let myself get swept up by the current. The whole way there, I'm hoping I won't have to eat alone.

It's Liv I want to run into, but I see Peregrine and Chloe first, mostly because they're impossible to miss. Not only are they undoubtedly the most gorgeous girls in school, but they're being trailed by a crowd of adoring-looking guys as they sweep into the cafeteria in a cloud of expensive perfume.

"Eveny!" Peregrine exclaims, whisking over to where I'm standing in the caf line, trying to decide between the fried chicken and the gumbo. "What on earth are you doing?"

The cafeteria seems to grind to a halt. Everyone is staring at us, and I can hear a few whispered voices asking who I am and what I'm doing talking with the Dolls.

"Getting ready to order lunch?" I venture.