“You’re staring, and it’s creeping me out,” she said. “Just sit, please.”

I blinked. And then I sat.

“I’m Marnie Delaine.” She nodded at the other kids next to us. “That’s Kas, Kinde, Rami, and Alana. And you’re Willa, right? Willa from Connecticut. I’m in your French class, second period. How do you like Langhorn?”

I sat primly, my legs crossed at the ankles, lunch tray balanced on my lap. “Seems all right so far.”

“Well, it’s only your first day. You’ll discover the sordid truth soon enough. Go ahead and eat.”

My appetite had vanished, but I started picking at my food anyway, because I didn’t want Marnie to think I was weird.

“Your father is Jonathan Walters, right?”

I practically spat out a bite of mashed-up sweet potato fry. “Stepfather.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. Keep your food in your mouth.” She seemed amused. “So … your stepfather’s Jonathan Walters?”

“I guess.” Now I was blushing. “I mean, yes. Why do you ask?”

“Because that’s what people do when they meet other people. They ask questions about their lives and experiences.”

Oh. Right. I guess two years of social isolation hadn’t exactly honed my people skills. “Yes, he’s Jonathan Walters. What about you? Who are your parents?”

“My dad’s a producer, and my mom dabbles in everything. Lately she’s been talking about opening a dog rescue. Except she’s afraid of dogs.” Marnie waved her hand nonchalantly. “But you know — details.”

I tried to smile.

“What’s your schedule like for the rest of the day?” she asked.

I pulled it up on my phone. “Trig, English Lit, and Chemistry.”

“Cool.” She leaned back again. “Have you met a lot of people?”

“Um …” I said. “You.”

Her laugh was loud, like she didn’t care who heard her, but it was also pleasantly musical. “Hey, you could do worse. Better no friends than the wrong friends. Take them, for instance.”

She pointed to the tables next to the window, where the sunlight made gold halos around a bunch of kids who were obviously popular. Effortless confidence radiated off of them.

“The pretty people,” Marnie said, with an exaggerated sigh. “Even I can’t deny that they’re nice to look at. But talking to them is like being sucked inside a video of a cat playing the piano. Pointless. If you’re into discussing what to wear to sorority rush two years in advance, by all means, those are your people.”

“I don’t think I’m the sorority type,” I said.

She nodded approvingly. “All right, let’s get the rest out of the way. Over there, the football players — our team is terrible, but they still get treated like minor gods…. On the left you have the Ivy League Army, who are just trying to get into a good east coast school so they can leave this California hippie-dippie nonsense in the past…. Over by the teachers’ table, those are the trust-fund kids. You see a two hundred thousand dollar car in the parking lot, guaranteed it’s one of theirs. Like half their parents should technically be in jail for fraud, and I’m not even joking. To our right we find the musicians — obsessed with local bands,” Marnie went on, her tone as dry as a desert. “A couple of them play, but they’re no good.”

I nodded. Once the bell rang and the kids scattered, I knew they’d all look the same to me again. But there was something reassuring in having it all laid out in advance.

“Finally, you have the hackers, the slackers, and the … there’s just no polite way to say this — the dumb kids.”

The so-called dumb kids looked perfectly normal. And they seemed by far like the happiest people in the whole school.

“And who are you guys?” If I was only going to have one friend, I might as well know what I was getting into.

“We’re the Hollywood kids,” Marnie said with a shrug. “Our parents run studios, write million-dollar screenplays before breakfast, and direct blockbuster movies. Hence your belonging with us. I can’t promise we’re super nice or anything, but at least you’ll never have to hear the word jeggings come out of our mouths.”

“That’s a relief,” I said. So it was no coincidence that she’d invited me to sit there? I didn’t dwell on the thought – there was too much else to think about.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” she said. “Feel free to glaze over and ignore me for a while.”

My eyes traveled to a table next to the emergency exit, where a guy sat alone with his laptop in front of him and a stack of notebooks out to the side. He had a mop of light brown hair, hipster-y plastic-framed glasses, and a solemn, focused look. I could tell that he didn’t belong to any of the groups Marnie had pointed out. He was oblivious to everyone and everything around him.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Oh,” Marnie said, arching a single eyebrow. “Wyatt. Steer clear.”

“Why?”

She gave me a wry glance. “Have I given you reason to doubt me? Just stay away from him. You’ll thank me later.”

I stared at Wyatt a second longer. You couldn’t call him “cute” — he was too serious for that. But there was something appealing about his well-defined jaw and the earnestness of his expression.

“All right, twist my arm,” Marnie said, leaning closer. “So I assume you’ve heard of the Hollywood Killer?”

I nodded. “Is it him?”

She laughed, but there was an uneasy note in her laughter. “First semester of junior year, everyone at Langhorn has to do a big project — it’s called the PRM, Personal Research Mission. It’s, like, Langhorn’s ‘thing.’ They love to brag about it on the website. Anyway, Wyatt did his on the Hollywood Killer.”

I glanced over at the bespectacled boy, rethinking his attractiveness. “What about the killer?” I asked. “Like, trying to figure out who it is?”

“Honestly, nobody knows what Wyatt’s after.” Marnie’s smile flattened. “The assignment’s been over since January, but he won’t let it drop. He’s not a detective or anything, so what difference could he possibly make? Apparently, he finds the whole thing fascinating, which … draw your own conclusions.”

“Weird,” I said. I mean, yeah, I’d found the killings a little fascinating myself — but I wouldn’t do a school project on them.

“Very weird. And with yesterday’s new victim, it’s like Santa Claus came last night.” Marnie watched Wyatt warily. “Let’s just say he doesn’t get invited to a lot of parties these days.”

“What’s he like?” I asked. “Is he nice at all, or just strange?”

“Complicated question,” she said, turning back to her lunch — a tiny bag of pretzels and a container of yogurt. “If you’re lucky, you’ll never have to find out.”

Chemistry was my last class of the day. The teacher, Mr. Hiller, was about ninety years old. He was faultlessly polite, calling all the students “Miss” and “Mister.”

“Miss Cresky, you’ll need a lab partner,” he said, glancing around the room.

There were two empty spots. One was at a table near the front, where a beautifully groomed blond girl — one of the pretty people — sat staring at her notebook. She looked up and gave me a pointedly unwelcoming smile.

“Right there in the back,” Mr. Hiller said. “Mr. Sheppard.”

Mr. Sheppard?

Ah, yes. That would be Mr. Wyatt Sheppard. Of course. Because that’s how the universe and I roll these days.

I carried my things to the back of the room and sat down next to him.

He glanced up, and his eyes settled on my Gucci backpack. Then they flashed back down at his laptop like there was nothing we needed to say to one another.

Fine with me.

As Mr. Hiller lectured, I tried to keep my eyes from slipping shut in the sleepy afternoon warmth of the classroom. I couldn’t afford to sleep now — I needed to save up my tiredness to counteract the inevitable insomnia awaiting me at night. Especially as relaxing moonlit swims were no longer an option.