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  Maya’s enthusiasm continued full throttle. “Every new student is assigned a buddy so that they have an instant friend from their first day.”

  “And you’re mine.” I looked at her and couldn’t believe how tightly wound she was.

  “Yes, lucky for you. You could have been stuck with some real geeks . . . not that I’m judgmental or anything.” Maya blathered on about the “super teachers” as she proudly pointed out the state-of-the-art auditorium with digital projection, the enormous gymnasium with bleacher seating for one thousand, and the Olympic-size indoor pool. I nodded and tried to seem interested in what she was saying, but my mind wandered.

  Suddenly I imagined I was back in Tanzania, studying the chimps with Jane Goodall, and Maya was the leader of the group. Perhaps I could learn a thing or two from her about surviving in this strange new world I’d been dumped into. On the other hand, she was exactly the kind of girl I was naturally suspicious of: pretty, perky, and way too happy with herself.

  • • •

  The last stop on my tour was the school cafeteria, a large, airy dining hall with skylights and huge picture windows overlooking the quad. It was as cool as any trendy café I had ever seen.

  “They serve salads, pastas, sandwiches. Nothing freeze-dried or prepackaged,” she said, adding with a smug look of satisfaction. “And best of all, it’s totally free of charge.”

  Free? As in it won’t even cost me a dime? How could the school afford to provide free lunches to more than six hundred students every single day?

  I didn’t say any of that, but I’m sure Maya caught the look of complete skepticism on my face.

  “I know. Pretty amazing. All compliments of Bar Tech Industries, of course,” she said. “They’re like our school’s biggest sponsor.”

  Maya then launched into a Hamlet-like soliloquy praising their corporate generosity. The company had donated millions, not only for books, sporting equipment, science labs, and computers. They had also built this school and paid for the entire renovation of downtown. On top of everything they were also the town’s biggest employer.

  “Bar Tech is just awesome. They’ve made this place,” Maya said. “This town.”

  A benevolent corporation—that was impressive, not to mention highly unusual.

  Maya then rattled off a list of clubs she thought I should join: Yearbook, Student Council, and Future Leaders of America, to name a few. “Colleges look at that sort of thing. So better not wait till senior year to take your future seriously.”

  That had never been my problem—not taking life too seriously. If anything, everyone was always telling me to lighten up and chill. As if there were a special pill you could take for that. Well, actually, I guess there was one (or several), but it wasn’t like I was depressed or suicidal. Just terminally bummed at being shuttled off to live in the town that time forgot. Still, I was determined to make the best of it, so I actually listened and asked a couple of questions about the clubs.

  All of which culminated in Maya urging me to try out for the cheerleading squad.

  “We’re desperate for a sixth since we lost our last flyer.” She said it as if she were giving me the opportunity of a lifetime—a personal invitation to join the “in crowd.”

  I shot her a horrified look and blurted out, “Are you on crack?” Maya’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, and I apologized for making such an obviously lame joke. I quickly added, “Of course, I know you never, ever would do drugs.”

  Maya breathed a sigh of relief. “Great. So then we can count on you?”

  “Thanks for your tempting offer, but cheerleading and me are so not happening.” Finding me on a cheerleading squad would be as likely as finding a Prada outlet in North Korea. I’d try my best to fit into this school, but even I had my limits. “I’m really not much for group activities,” I added.

  But Maya persevered. “Oh come on, Nica. We have way too much fun, not to mention it totally fulfills your PE requirement. Health is paramount, you know. I’m sure your dad tells you that all the time.”

  “Never, actually.” True, my dad did live a healthy lifestyle, but he never preached or tried imposing his values on anyone else—least of all me. In fact he was the least judgmental person I knew. Two years ago when I’d impulsively dyed my hair deep red and sported this unfortunate emo shag, he’d told me how pretty I was despite the fact that I looked like some preadolescent skater boy.

  • • •

  With the school tour nearly concluded, I tried to politely slip off to first-period World History, but Maya insisted on escorting me to the classroom. I couldn’t exactly decline, since (miracle of miracles) she was in the class too. Maya had thought it would be nice for me to have her friendly face in my first class, so she’d helped arrange my schedule. So much for my desire to be anonymous and go unnoticed.

  To make matters worse, my World History teacher, a jovial, middle-aged man with a slight paunch, named Mr. Ghiradelli, introduced me to the class like I was some exotic species they had never seen before.

  “Everyone say hello to Nica Ashley. She came here all the way from Bangkok. In Thailand.” His saucer eyes nearly bugged out of his head he was so excited.

  The students greeted me politely. I stood there and said, “Hi.”

  And, as if that weren’t completely humiliating enough, Mr. Ghiradelli turned to me and said, “Maybe you could enlighten the class about the differences between Theravada and Hinayana Buddhism.”

  I looked at him, waiting for him to say he was just kidding. But he wasn’t. He stood there, waiting expectantly, his thick sausage fingers clasped together as if he were praying. I swallowed and looked at all the kids just staring at me. The truth was, since I had lived in Thailand and other parts of Asia I could actually answer the question. But being put on the spot like that was mortifying.

  “Mom and I are atheists. Don’t know,” I lied, then quickly grabbed a seat at the back of the room, much to his and the other students’ bewilderment. All in all, an extremely desperate and totally unsuccessful attempt on my part to fade into the woodwork, as the rest of the class kept turning around and staring at this rare bird that had landed in their classroom.

  • • •

  The rest of my morning classes (English, gym, Spanish) were pretty much a blur of unfamiliar but friendly faces. Enthusiastic teachers (“Welcome to Barrington, Nica!”) who were eager to inspire their students to reach new intellectual heights and cheerful students who seemed all too willing to soak it up—all before noon. They were all so relentlessly upbeat I started to wonder whether everyone was on Paxil or some other serotonin inhibitors. Maybe it had been slipped into the water supply?

  Forget Disney World: Barrington seemed like the happiest place on earth. To me, however, it was quickly becoming the world’s most annoying.

  • • •

  Lunchtime was a welcome relief. I breezed through the school cafeteria line, impressed by its array of nutritious offerings, and grabbed a garden salad with Tofurky along with a zucchini nut muffin. Maya was right about the food. All the salads were made fresh daily with only the finest organic ingredients, as were the free-range turkey and veggie burgers, whole-wheat pasta salads, and Margherita pizzas with basil. And all the plates, cups, and utensils were made from biodegradable corn products, which would naturally decompose in only a few months as opposed to the usually indestructible plastic crap festering in toxic garbage dumps. My ecoconscious mother would have approved of all this “green” living. I was just relieved to get some food in my system before my blood sugar crashed and I turned into a total raving psycho.

  I passed by the neatly spaced rows of empty tables and wandered outside to the quad, where most students were sitting at picnic tables, eating their well-balanced meals under the bright noonday sun.

  I spotted Maya perched atop a table, practically holding court with her perky crew of Neutrogena-fresh cheerleaders. She waved and called me over. I pretended not to hear and headed in the opposite dire
ction. All I wanted was to be able to stuff my face in peace without the extra added pressure of having to make small talk or, worse, justify my not wanting to complete their precious pyramid squad at the next football game.

  I had no sooner avoided jumping into the proverbial frying pan then I found myself heading straight for one major fire.

  Rebel Boy sat underneath a giant oak tree at the far end of the quad. Alone. He was busily typing on his laptop, as oblivious to everyone else as they were to him. It seemed as though the other kids deliberately went out of their way to avoid him, and he them. I had a thought. Maybe underneath that tough-as-nails exterior lurked a fellow outsider like me. I figured he might have a really interesting story, because anyone that gorgeous and athletic was usually leader of the pack, not ostracized by it. So I headed straight toward him, not thinking about what I would say or do if he actually acknowledged my presence.

  As if he detected an alien intruder about to invade his sacred space, he looked up and glared directly at me with those intense blue-green eyes. My throat went dry. Just look away, I told myself. And yet I couldn’t help but meet his gaze dead on and stare right back at him. He projected a rage that was so blistering and naked that I actually thought I might spontaneously combust right then and there. Barrington High’s very own Salem witch.

  Yet I continued walking toward him.

  A sensible girl would have found somewhere else to eat lunch and tried to forget all about him. A normal person would have turned away.

  Not me. I wasn’t wired like that. “Normal” wasn’t part of my genetic code (not that I was ever deliberately reckless or actively stupid). When I was attracted to something, or someone, I couldn’t pretend otherwise. There was something about Rebel Boy that was pulling me toward him.

  I never stopped or broke stride even for a nanosecond. Though slightly terrified I was determined to at least introduce myself. Our eyes locked. I became completely oblivious to everyone and everything around me.

  Until a trio of jock asses slammed into me as they played catch with a leaky chocolate milk container over the head of a cute but feisty Harry Potter type balancing a lunch tray. While the tormented kid, dressed in jeans and faded plaid shirt, didn’t look like your typical geek, he was most definitely the runt of his litter. I realized that as friendly as kids appeared to be in this welcoming school, the age-old social pecking order most definitely applied, with jocks presiding on top and geeks relegated to the bottommost rung. So the happiest place on earth maybe wasn’t so happy after all.

  My bottle of dragon-fruit Vitaminwater went flying like a Scud missile, narrowly missing the feathered coif of Señora Gibbons, my new Spanish teacher, who was on her cell phone chastising her husband (en inglés) for buying regular yogurt instead of nonfat. Luckily, I was able to prevent my salad from turning her tangerine-orange pantsuit (she looked like a giant Popsicle) into a Jackson Pollock splatter mess.

  I, on the other hand, was not nearly so fortunate. Nonfat vinaigrette dressing sprayed my Patti Smith T-shirt. Meanwhile the clueless Three Stooges continued abusing the runt without even tossing off a “my bad” or “sorry” in my direction.

  “Yo, the O-man’s hoping to jump-start a growth spurt,” said a fireplug wrestler sporting a severe buzz cut as he caught the pint of chocolate milk from one of his equally buff teammates.

  I yanked the idiot’s arm and flipped him to the ground before he knew who or what had hit him. Then I poured the rest of the milk over his head without missing a beat.

  “Oops,” I said with a sweet smile, pissed as hell that I was going to reek of garlic and onions for the rest of the day. No amount of winter-mint gum could neutralize that.

  Fireplug stared up at me, his mouth hanging open, totally flabbergasted. His jock-ass buddies were equally stunned, as were the other kids who had witnessed my swift moves. All I was conscious of was how Rebel Boy had turned back to his laptop, not giving me another glance, as if I had never existed.

  At the same time, the Three Stooges, humiliated at getting their butts kicked by the new girl (all five feet six inches of her), bolted off before they became the laughingstock of the entire student body.

  “Impressive moves,” said the cute runt, who chased after me while blotting chocolate milk off his curly mop of auburn hair. He was easily half a head shorter than me.

  “Living in Bangkok for almost a year had two benefits. I learned kickboxing from a master. And I developed a fierce addiction to prik king.”

  “Which I hear is highly curable.”

  “As is the need for being a human piñata.” I handed him some extra napkins.

  “What? And deprive the steroid six-packers of their reason for being? That would be way too cruel.” He flashed a playful smile, which I returned. I liked his refreshing I’m-no-victim attitude. Not to mention his very deft ability to throw back the witty banter.

  “Live to annoy. That’s my motto.” He held out his hand. “I’m Oliver Monsalves, by the way. You must be the new girl.”

  “So I’ve been told. Nica to my friends.” Hearing that phrase “new girl” made the tiny hairs on the back of my neck go stiff. “Speaking of cruel and annoying, was my photo and résumé texted to everyone before school this morning?” Was there anyone in this school who didn’t know my life story?

  He shrugged apologetically. “No need. There aren’t many secrets in this town.”

  Over what remained of our respective lunches Oliver proceeded to recount the highlights of my young but event-filled life with alarming accuracy, right down to my mother’s fanatical quest to discover the most unspoiled Eden on earth. Here I was an open book and I hadn’t even made it through my first day of school. How weird and depressing was that?

  Still, I was more than happy to find a kindred spirit and make my first real friend.

  • • •

  The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. Five minutes until afternoon classes began.

  Oliver and I headed for the main entrance. He must’ve seen me glancing back at Rebel Boy, who was stealing off to the parking lot toward his Mustang instead of to sixth period along with the rest of us.

  “Oh, FYI. Steer clear of that.”

  I felt myself blush, embarrassed that I’d been caught staring at Rebel Boy. Still, I decided to play dumb. “Of what?”

  “Jackson Winters.” He shot me a mocking look and shook his head disapprovingly, clearly not buying my naive schoolgirl act one bit. “I may be vertically challenged, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  I was so busted that I chewed on my lower lip in an effort not to smile. So that was Rebel Boy’s name. “He looks harmless enough.” I watched Jackson Winters slide into his car and then speed away.

  “So do most serial killers. Anyway, you’re about six months too late.” Oliver held the door open for me.

  “For what?” I looked at him questioningly, pausing a moment before entering the school building. Was Oliver really comparing Jackson to a psychopathic murderer? Was he really suggesting that the guy was on track to be the next serial killer? I have to admit that he most definitely had my attention.

  Oliver sighed in frustration as he nudged me through the doorway into the corridor, where we joined the sea of students trudging off to their respective classes. It was becoming quite clear that my new bud was hoping to squelch my unhealthy interest in Jackson.

  He tried a different approach, pulling out the big guns. “How can I best put this? Jackson is on what we sociologists call a downward spiral to Outcastville. Mind you, his wounds are mostly self-inflicted.”

  “Those are the most interesting kind.” Now I was most definitely intrigued. God knows I felt like an outcast myself most of the time.

  Oliver shook his head. Once again this was not the reaction he was hoping for. I could tell I was starting to exasperate him. I’ve been known to do that sometimes, become fixated with things that I should let go for my own good. The summer I was thirteen, when we were living in Bali, I developed an unnat
ural obsession with Facebook, at least according to my mother. By the end of my first month I had eight hundred forty-two friends (remember, I moved around a lot). Pretty soon it got to the point where if I didn’t check my page at least four or five times an hour I’d have these severe panic attacks, like I was missing something important. I’m talking full-on heart palpitations and difficulty breathing. Finally my mother held an intervention and canceled my account. Forcing me to go cold turkey. Withdrawal was utter torture. I literally felt physically ill for a week like I had the worst case of food poisoning imaginable. But it broke my addiction. And I never logged on again. Oliver’s valiant effort to keep me on a straight-and-narrow path with regard to Jackson gave me all the early signs of a similar compulsion developing, which I chose to ignore.

  Meanwhile I was rocked by a surprising jolt of emotion. A feeling that could only be described as sadness. I imagined that Jackson Winters must be a tortured soul. Maybe even a masochist. And despite the fact that I had never even said one word to the guy, for some bizarre reason I felt drawn to him. Even a little sorry for him, though I wasn’t sure why.

  “Well don’t leave me hanging. Tell me everything about Rebel Boy. From the beginning.” Oliver’s sensible words of warning aside, I was eager to know the whole story, every last detail about Jackson Winters’s tragic and no doubt misunderstood life.

  As we wound our way through the crowded hallways, Oliver recounted Jackson’s shockingly rapid descent from school star to pariah in less than six months. I was riveted.

  “Seriously, Nica, you don’t know the half. Dude was the zenith of cool ever since kindergarten. Had it all. Straight As. Natural athlete. Champion snowboarder. Coolest friends. Respect. Plus super-hot girlfriend Dana Fox.”