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  I wasn’t a big fan of the pep rallies at my old school, so maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. I’d just sit back and relax. Hopefully no one would even notice me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Her reddish-brown French braid—which hung clear down to her butt—swished like a horse’s tail as she led me down the hall. Bridgette paused beside a cluster of girls at their lockers and announced, “We have a new student today. This is Poppy Browne. She’s from Colorado,” like it was the most exciting news ever.

  A pair of freckle-faced twins said “Hi” in unison.

  I opened my mouth to say something, but before a word eked out, Bridgette dragged me away and into a large room with a multitude of arched windows. Everything was made of dark wood: the floor, the pews, the pulpit, the high-backed chair where a man wearing a navy blue suit sat cross-legged. He tapped his toes as about twenty students sang “All Things Bright and Beautiful” and an owlish woman played an upright piano.

  “I like to sit in the second pew,” Bridgette said. “It’s the best seat in the house.” To my mortification, she started up the center aisle. The students who were already seated turned to look at us, and I felt my face flush.

  I grabbed Bridgette’s shoulder. “I’d rather sit in the back,” I said. She took another step and made a faint whimpering sound as the girls from the hall marched around us and filed into her favorite row. “But hey, if you want to go up there, knock yourself out.”

  She seemed uneasy with the curveball I’d thrown her, but she joined me in scooting into the desolate back pew. I took a deep breath, the smell of wood polish making my lungs burn.

  Speaking of lungs, the choir held the last note forever. Then, in perfect synchronization, they snapped their mouths closed and sat in folding chairs. “That’s the general choir,” Bridgette informed me in a hurried whisper. “There’s also the Good News Choir, which is our show choir. We meet at six fifteen in the morning, but it’s worth it ’cause we get to perform all over Texas. We even go to Six Flags. You know those girls I introduced you to in the hall? They’re in it with me. The Good News Choir, I mean. Anyway, you should think about trying out. We all auditioned the week before school started, but maybe they’ll make an exception since you just barely moved here.” She paused like she expected me to say something. I didn’t. “When you’re performing, you’ll probably have to take that thing out,” she said, pointing at my nose stud like I had a booger. “So, what are you, anyway?”

  I squinted at her. “What am I?”

  “Are you an alto or a soprano?”

  “Oh, right. I don’t sing. At least not in public, and definitely not on a stage.”

  “Huh.” Bridgette’s face fell. Apparently, I’d stumbled upon a surefire conversation stopper. She folded her hands in her lap and directed her attention to the pulpit.

  The preacher straightened his ivory tie and cheered, “What a wonderful day to praise the Lord!” And with that, he launched into his sermon. It felt weird being in a church service anytime other than at Easter or Christmas or my grandparents’ funeral, let alone on a Thursday morning at school.

  Part of me wanted Bridgette to start babbling again. It was better than having to listen to the sermon. In my experience, preachers rambled on and on, slaughtering hundred-dollar words and tossing in a few anecdotes that sounded a bit too “happily ever after” to be true. Besides, didn’t every sermon boil down to the same three things: Follow the Ten Commandments, Love Thy Neighbor, and Put Money in Thy Offering Plate?

  I zoned out for pretty much the entire twenty minutes, staring at the backs of heads. The guys seemed taller here in Texas, and the girls all had their glossy, styled hair—they must’ve visited salons all the time. Mom went to a salon back home, but I never understood having to get an appointment two weeks out. I’d just wake up, notice my hair looked like crap, and step into my friendly neighborhood Great Clips. One of the stylists brought her golden retriever to work, and I’d hang with him till my turn came up, and sometimes after my cut as well. Funny, but so far I missed that stupid dog more than anybody else in Boulder.

  After a dramatic pause (a tactic preachers used—again, in my limited experience—to awaken the daydreaming congregation), the preacher said, “Let us pray.” I bowed my head like everybody else. Immediately after the all-inclusive “Amen,” Bridgette whispered, “Did you pray at your old school?”

  I shook my head no, but of course I prayed at my old school. Like when I made less than an A on a test and desperately needed God to whip up a flood or blizzard or other natural disaster so I wouldn’t have to go home and face the wrath of Mom. I also prayed for Spence to screw up beyond salvation when his band took the stage at the Spring Fling talent show.

  “I saw on Fox News that more and more public schools are allowing students to get together and pray during the school day. I think it’s wonderful, don’t you?”

  “It’s the answer to their prayers,” I said, trying to keep a serious face.

  The preacher held his Bible high in the air and everyone stood and slapped their hands over their hearts. “The pledge,” Bridgette whispered, and I nodded, thankful for something familiar.

  “I pledge allegiance to the Bible,” everybody intoned. To the Bible? I snapped my mouth shut and just listened to the remainder of the chant. “God’s holy word. I will make it a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path. I will hide its word in my heart, that I might not sin against God.”

  Next, the students angled their bodies toward a trio of flags hanging in the corner of the room and recited: “I pledge allegiance to the Christian flag and to the Savior for whose kingdom it stands; one Savior, crucified, risen, and coming again, with life everlasting for all who believe.” I figured the Christian flag was the mainly white one with the red cross in the upper left-hand corner. That left the Texas state flag with its famous lone star and, of course, the American flag.

  “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America . . .” I lip-synched the words that were tattooed into every American child’s brain, the monotonous rhythm nearly hypnotizing me.

  “Ah, good. At least you know that one,” Bridgette said. “I was beginning to worry. Ready to go? You can’t be late to European history.” As she ushered me out into the hall, I wondered what kind of energy drink she’d had for breakfast. “Mr. O’Donnell gets his jollies handing out yellow slips,” she said, giving me a conspiratorial smile.

  Mr. O’Donnell wasn’t that bad. In fact, once I got past morning service, my classes that morning weren’t much different from those back at Flatirons High. My first homework assignment came in period two, honors English. Mrs. Oliverson wanted us to write an essay on Hamlet, which, as luck would have it, I’d read in the eighth grade. Bridgette was also in that class and toward the end, she turned around and said, “How about we meet at the library tonight to work on our essays? Say, seven o’clock?”

  “Okay,” I agreed. It wasn’t like I had a full social calendar, and after unpacking more boxes this afternoon, I’d be all for getting out of the house. Plus, Mom couldn’t argue about me going to the library to do homework. It might even earn me some brownie points, which I could definitely use.

  “Cool. If you want, I can program my number into your cell phone,” she said, and I gave her my phone. “You know, in case you need me.”

  Bridgette walked me to my physics class and then headed off to her third period class, her braid swishing in rhythm with her hips. The teacher, Mrs. Clemmons, immediately picked me out as the newbie, and once everybody else had filed in, she asked me to introduce myself. Reluctantly, I stood. “Hi, I’m Poppy Browne,” I blurted.

  “We can’t hear over here, sugar,” a guy called from the far wall. Like most guys at Calvary High, he sported a polo-style shirt and khakis. However, his unkempt hair and piercing green eyes made him look less . . . tame than the others. I half expected him to pull a cigarette out from behind his ear and light up. But he just grinned and said, “Can you repeat that?�
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  The room fell silent, and my stomach chose that exact instant to remind me I’d skipped breakfast. I repeated my name for Mr. Smartass, and my stomach rumbled again. In fact, it growled mercilessly throughout the entire period, taking advantage of any and all snippets of silence. Whenever I heard even the slightest giggle or chuckle, I was all paranoid it was directed at my bodily noises.

  For once, Bridgette wasn’t waiting for me when class was dismissed, so I fetched my lunch from my locker and took myself and my unruly stomach to the cafeteria. So far, Bridgette had personally delivered me to my rooms so I wouldn’t get lost, and I’d sat in the back of every class, safe and secure in my little note-taking bubble. But now, I had no clue what awaited me behind the lunchroom’s double doors.

  Back in Boulder, I’d always sat at the table with the kids Mom complained about, with their tats, piercings, and general contempt for everything and everyone conformist. Did that describe me? Not really. Well, there was the nose piercing, but that was new. Anyway, I considered myself more of a vagabond, and since they accepted me—well, accepted in their dispassionate, covert way—I never felt the need to embark on a quest for a different clique.

  I took a deep, cleansing, encouraging breath and then pushed open the door.

  Even with the fans whirring overhead, Calvary High’s cafeteria felt like a freaking sauna. Pop and water bottle machines were on one side, the food line on the opposite, and a sea of long tables in between. Two ladies donning hairnets stood behind the counter chitchatting animatedly, oblivious to the students who slid their trays along the metal rail toward a bowl of green apples and speckled bananas. A chubby old man with his baseball cap turned backward sat on a folding chair by a little cash register, grinning as he accepted meal tickets.

  Okay, so nothing out of the norm there. Substandard, mass-produced food being served to hungry students. Now to find somewhere to sit . . .

  Where the hell was Bridgette?

  I scanned the room, trying my hardest not to appear as anxious as I felt, but the overly helpful girl with the insanely long hair was nowhere to be seen. I promptly switched to Plan B, searching for someone—anyone—who seemed nice or looked familiar from one of my morning classes. However, with every second that passed, empty seats got more and more scarce. My heartbeat intensified and my armpits felt sticky. I froze, listening to my pounding heart, wishing a trapdoor would open beneath me and I’d be back at Flatirons.

  A girl with a big black bow protruding from the side of her head gave me the faintest glimmer of a smile. What’s more, the seat right next to her was wide open. I steeled myself and marched toward her. Before I had a chance to ask if I could sit there, though, another girl plopped down and said, “I totally miss the days when they served mac ’n’ cheese like twice a week. I think I’ll have my daddy write a note to the board.” Then she looked at me and clapped her hand over her chest like I’d startled her. “Oh, my! You weren’t going to sit here, were you?”

  I shook my head, feeling totally awkward. “Nope.”

  “Oh, good.” She turned back to Bow Head. “Anyhoo, have you heard that Miss Babcock is finally engaged? But she said she won’t marry the guy till he gets baptized.”

  Stepping away from the table, I turned my head side to side, blinking and breathing, blinking and breathing. Something had taken over me—something foreign and desperate and beyond my control. It was as if my legs had a mind of their own. I ran out of the cafeteria to seek refuge in the bathroom.

  Just a few minutes, I told myself. I’d stay there just long enough to recoup and recover my composure and then I’d march right back into that cafeteria and sit wherever I damn well pleased.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have the bathroom to myself. A classically beautiful girl with wavy, honey-colored hair struck poses at the mirror. I thought it was a bit weird that she didn’t stop once she realized she had an audience.

  “Does it look better like this . . . ,” she asked in a soft Southern drawl, undoing the upper button on her top, “. . . or like this?” She rebuttoned it and twirled a half-turn. A small diamond cross dangled from her gold necklace.

  I glanced around for anyone else she might be talking to, but it was just the two of us. “I like it unbuttoned,” I said. “Makes a nicer neckline.”

  “But it doesn’t look . . . slutty, does it?” she asked, unbuttoning it again.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that was the look you were going for. In that case, you need to take the shirt off. ”

  Her big blue eyes widened in surprise. Or was it delight? She lifted her chin and nodded at her reflection. Then, turning to look directly at me for the first time, she said, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Mary Jane Portman.” She offered her hand—accessorized with a French manicure and an assortment of silver rings—to shake mine.

  Her introduction struck me as oddly formal, but I went with it and shook her hand. Maybe she’d just completed finishing school or something. Who the hell knew what bizarre things Southern debutante types did with their free time? “Poppy Browne.”

  Mary Jane’s smile didn’t falter when she said, “Love your nose piercing, Poppy. Très chic.” Then she tossed her hair, said, “See ya around,” and walked out, greeting a pair of younger girls as they came in and commandeered the mirror.

  I busied myself with the process of washing my hands, the chilly water cooling me down. As the girls blotted their lipstick, they stole glances at me in the mirror. I dried my hands and tossed the balled-up paper towel into the wastebasket. Only I missed and had to scoop it off the floor. By the time I stood again, the girls had left. I took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of Ajax and other not-so-savory bathroomy smells.

  I stood there for quite some time, listening to the erratic drip of a faucet, the low hum of a recently flushed toilet, and the thunderous growling of my stomach. I toyed with the idea of eating my lunch on the bathroom counter, but what if somebody came in? I could always dine in the privacy of a stall, but the very thought grossed me out. Who knew what kind of diseases I might get?

  Leaning toward the mirror, I searched my dark brown eyes. What the hell was my problem? I didn’t want to be that girl, the one who spent her lunchtime in the girls’ bathroom. What next? Curling into a fetal position on the floor, my hair drenched with drool? I gave my head a couple of shakes, and before I had the chance to talk myself out of it, I made a beeline for the cafeteria.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I’d barely stepped through the doors when a guy holding a tray came up behind me and whistled. “Lookie what we’ve got here. The new girl.” On second glance, I recognized him from my physics class—the guy who’d asked me to repeat my name.

  “My name is Poppy, remember? Or is that too much information to squeeze into that pea-size brain of yours?”

  His leer sizzled right through my skin. “A feisty blonde, mmm-hmm. Looks like God answered my prayers after all.”

  “You’d better pray for a better line, because yours officially flopped, shithead.” I walked away, fishing a granola bar out of my lunch pack.

  He jogged after me. “Now that’s not nice,” he said, frowning.

  I stopped and faced him, and thankfully he was able to stop before colliding into me. “Sorry. I meant to say, ‘my dear shithead.’ Better?” I tilted my head.

  “Much.” Something about his carefree laugh made me wonder if perhaps I’d been too harsh on the guy. But before I had the chance to worry about it, I realized we had a very attentive audience. Everybody’s eyeballs bugged out of their sockets and the entire cafeteria had gone silent. With great effort, I refrained from biting my lower lip. I forced myself to hold my head high and keep walking away from him. However, had the earth opened up and swallowed me right then, I wouldn’t have complained one bit.

  “Poppy.” I turned in the direction of the soft Southern drawl and smiled when I spotted Mary Jane Portman, the girl from the bathroom. “Where are you going?” She sat at the table by the big
window, nestled among preppy-chic girls almost as pretty as she. Meticulously highlighted hair, ultrawhite teeth, and dangly earrings glistened in the celestial sunlight. Not a pimple or crooked nose among them. Mary Jane’s manicured fingernails flicked in the air, waving me over. “It’s a lot easier to eat if you’re sitting down,” she said.

  I regarded the granola bar in my fist. What had happened to the other half of it? Revitalizing my smile, I dropped it into my insulated lunch pack.

  “Sit down and stay a while.” Mary Jane inclined her head toward the seat next to her, which happened to be occupied by a superskinny girl with a sassy short hairdo. Mary Jane raised her chin in a quick, almost undetectable twitch, and the girl slid down to make room, causing a chain reaction down the entire bench. “I’m dying to know, did you really call David a shithead?” she asked, whispering the last word.

  Little by little, people went back to whatever they were doing before. Except for at this table, where all the girls studied me with unabashed curiosity.

  I took a deep breath. The cafeteria smelled like garlic, perfume, and a hint of bleach. Not exactly appetizing aromas, but decidedly an improvement over the bathroom. “I guess I did. Though with a little more time, I’m sure I could’ve come up with something better.”

  “I’ve never heard anyone put him in his place like that,” Mary Jane said. “No one dares cross David. I swear they think they’ll be struck by lightning.”

  “He thinks he’s God’s gift to women,” the girl across from me added with an eye roll. “Too bad all those good looks come with such a bad attitude. Right, y’all?” She was a striking black girl with a strong, athletic body. Her full, sleek hair with maroon streaks swooped halfway down her back, and her sporty, light blue dress hugged her curves. Where Mary Jane resembled a Ralph Lauren model, she’d look great in a magazine ad for Nike. Her gaze landed on something behind me and her right eyebrow shot up dramatically. I shifted to see what had caught her attention.