Instead, he introduces me.

“Class, we have a new student joining us today,” he says, gesturing my way. Like dominoes, each triggered by the one before, heads start to turn in my direction. Mr. Jefferson continues. “This is Daisy West, and she comes to us from Michigan. Let’s all give her a warm Victory welcome.”

A few people mutter “hi”; a handful smile or wave. I smile politely and wait for the spotlight to move off of me. After a few seconds, Mr. Jefferson clears his throat for what feels like the hundredth time and begins class. The dominoes reverse themselves and I quietly exhale.

Except that I have that prickly feeling, like someone is staring at me.

Warily, I search the classroom. Everyone in the row next to me and the next one over is paying attention to Mr. Jefferson. But when I get to the row by the door, I see that the late arrival is eyeing me. And that’s when I realize what I hadn’t before:

The guy is flat-out, undeniably, unbelievably hot.

He casually sweeps the front of his shaggy hair to the side with his thumb. The back of his hair flips out from behind his ears in that adorable way that makes it impossible to tell whether he needs a haircut or just got one. He’s got dark eyebrows—the kind that sexy TV villains have—and almond-shaped brown eyes that make him look like he has a secret. He’s slouching ever so slightly in his faded green T-shirt and worn jeans, and he smiles at me in a way that looks almost… familiar. Then he faces front and I feel like I’ve been dropped back to earth from the clouds.

I watch the guy for the rest of the period, but he never looks at me again. When the bell rings at the end of class, I lean down long enough to put away my stuff and pick up my bag, and when I sit back up, he’s gone. I’m disappointed until I realize that I’ll see him again tomorrow, and every day for the rest of the year.

And for that, I silently thank Vice Principal Waverly.

At lunchtime, Audrey and I meet up at our lockers as planned.

“Hi!” I say as I approach.

“Hey, Daisy!” Audrey says back, matching my broad smile. “How’s it going so far?”

“Pretty good, actually,” I say. And then I look away, embarrassed.

“What?” she asks, reading me.

“Nothing,” I say. “There’s just a cute guy in my English class.”

“Ooh, really?” she asks. “I want to hear all about him—but save it for the ride. We only have forty-five minutes.”

We shut our lockers and turn to leave as two girls walk by. They look at me quizzically, then offer Audrey a pair of anemic waves, like they’re being forced to say hello but aren’t feeling it. Audrey shakes her head at them and refocuses on me.

“Hungry?” she asks.

“Always.”

“Follow me.”

Audrey expertly leads us through the crowded halls and shows me a few shortcuts on the way out to the student parking lot. Soon we’re buckled into her bright yellow Mini Cooper.

“I love your car,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says. “I love it, too. I spent two summers’ worth of babysitting money on the down payment, but it was worth it.”

“You must have worked a lot,” I say.

“My parents matched what I earned.” Audrey looks a little embarrassed.

“Nice parents,” I say.

“What do you drive?” Audrey asks as she pulls out of the student lot onto the main road.

“Nothing… yet,” I say. “I won’t be sixteen until next month.”

“No way,” Audrey says, shaking her head.

“Way,” I say, and we laugh.

Audrey reaches over and turns on the radio. She pushes a couple of buttons and lands on an alterna-song. She puts her right hand back on the wheel and taps her thumbs in time with the beat.

“This okay?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say, smiling. “Hey, have you ever had Mrs. Chang?”

“Geography or art?”

“Geography. There are two Mrs. Changs?”

“Yep,” Audrey says, rolling down her window. The breeze flits through the car; I scratch at a spot where a tiny hair is tickling my forehead. “No, wait, I think maybe art is Chung, not Chang,” she says.

“Anyway,” I say, “she seems tough.”

Audrey shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never had Chang or Chung.” She gives me a funny smile and I can’t help but laugh again.

Audrey cranks up the volume when a popular song comes on and we ride without talking, bobbing our heads and tapping our fingers to the music. We arrive at a pizza place and Audrey whips the Mini into a spot like she’s racing someone for it. Inside, we both get the special: a slice of pizza and salad from the buffet. After we eat we have a little extra time to spare, so we play a quick round of lunchtime trivia and beat a trio of cocky businessmen wearing pleated Dockers that went out of style before I was born.

“I can’t believe you know that Iowa is the hawk state,” Audrey says as we walk to her car, full of pizza and giddiness.

“The Hawkeye State,” I say.

“Oh, excuse me, Iowa expert!” Audrey jokes.

“You should talk! You know Eddie Vedder’s full name!”

“Edward Louis Severson the third,” we say in unison before breaking into giggles.

“Seriously, how did you know that?” I ask. “Are you a closet grunge head or something?”

“My mom has a crush on him,” Audrey says, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “She tells us about these amazing Pearl Jam shows she went to as a kid.”

“Us?” I ask. “You have brothers and sisters?”

“Just one brother,” Audrey says. “He’s a junior at Victory. You’ll meet him sometime.”

“Oh, cool,” I say, flattered by Audrey’s assumption that I’ll meet her family.

We climb into the car and the second she turns the key, we both lose it again: An acoustic version of Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” is playing on the radio. Audrey breaks into song and I can’t help but join in; of course I know the lyrics. With the windows down, startling pedestrians walking by, we scream/shout/sing at the top of our lungs the whole way back to Victory like we’re part of the Jamily.

Like we go way back.

Not until that night, after I’ve posted on the blog an analysis of Pearl Jam’s record Ten—which is super old but still rocks—do I step back and consider the day.

I accepted the metaphorical birthday party invitation with Audrey: I went all in. And ultimately, I have to admit that it was fun. But being raised undercover, I can’t help but question my own motives. Did I make a true friend today, or was Daisy West only pretending?

My text alert chimes: it’s Megan.

Megan: All 372 of them

I smile and type:

Even when she agrees with me, Megan strives to be contrarian.

Pause. Then she asks: