A boy who’d been assembling really ugly centerpieces out of fake flowers and wicker baskets reluctantly picked up a medium-size cardboard box and started toward us.

No way. I would wear a dancing banana fruit basket on my head before I would let one of those disgusting things touch my scalp.

Jeremy tripped and dropped the box. Hats went flying everywhere.

Nice.

“How thoughtful of you, Mrs. Anderson,” Mrs. Ames said, as Jeremy crawled around gathering up

baseball caps and colorful sombreros. “But I don’t think Alexis is the Hat Day type.”

Case closed. Mrs. Ames headed out of the gym.

Mrs. Anderson turned to me, all the peppy rah-rah gone from her voice. “What to do with dear Alexis?” she asked, scanning the room. “Why don’t you…”

As long as I was far away from Mrs. Anderson, I’d be fine.

“…go help Pepper.”

Pepper?!

“She’s not even in this class,” I protested.

Mrs. Anderson looked triumphant. “Well, Alexis, all of the cheerleaders are helping out today. So why don’t you check in with Pepper and tell her you’ll be thrilled to do anything she needs.”

Thrilled is not the word I would choose.

“It’s not straight!” Pepper said. Her flaming orange hair was mostly tucked under a ridiculous floppy magenta beret, but one stray lock looped down and covered her left eye. She glared at me with the right eye.

I heaved a huge sigh. “Pepper. I swear. The banner. Is straight.”

We’d been on opposite sides of a plastic WELCOME HOME, ALUMNI! banner for probably five minutes, and every time we had it in place, Pepper backtracked

and decided it wasn’t good enough.

“It doesn’t look right,” she whined.

“That’s because you’re looking at it with only one eye,” I said. “You have no depth perception.”

She sniffed and rolled her eye.

Let’s get something clear: Pepper Laird is a cheerleader. As such, she is used to bouncing in place and holding her arms in the air for long periods of time.

I, Alexis, am not a cheerleader. In fact, I’m sort of an anti-cheerleader. So while Pepper is out there working on her biceps and triceps and glutes, I am slumping under the bleachers with the rest of the outcasts.

But no way was I going to admit to Pepper that I couldn’t take it. I dropped my half of the banner. “Forget it,” I said. My arms burned as blood poured back through the veins. “This is moronic. I’m not going to do this.”

“We have to!” Pepper said. “And you have to help, or I’ll tell Mrs. Anderson.”

Oh, she definitely would. And then I’d have to face Mrs. Ames for the second time that day. And her goodwill and ability to see a shred of potential in me would probably be all used up.

I settled for doing some arm stretches and making a very angry noise in Pepper’s direction.

“You freak” she said.

This was not a new concept to me.

“You and your stupid pink hair”—not new either— “and your whole freaky family.” That part was new.

Because whatever forces separated Pepper and me in the suffocating world of Surrey High School, one thing bound us together, and that was family. Sisters, to be specific. Kasey had been best friends with Pepper’s sister, Mimi, since fourth grade. They were the kind of friends who argue more often than they don’t, but they were still glued together.

“Grow up,” I said. “Leave my family alone.”

Pepper stood up straighter. “As long as your schizoid sister leaves Mimi alone, I’m fine with that arrangement.”

Confusion must have overtaken annoyance in my expression.

“Her arm,” Pepper said.

Mimi had broken her arm at our house, about a month before, but it was an accident. She’d been running down the hall and slipped on a rug as she turned into Kasey’s room. That kind of thing just happens.

Although, come to think of it, we hadn’t seen much of Mimi lately.

“Yeah, so?”

“Your sister broke my sister’s arm,” Pepper said. “Oh, please.”

“Mimi told me the whole story. She won’t tell our

mom because she says she feels bad for Kasey. But I think she’s afraid because your little sister is a violent maniac.”

Okay, so I’m not popular and friendly and I don’t have any friends. But I wasn’t about to let someone stand there and talk smack about my baby sister—who, yes, is sensitive, but, no, is not a violent maniac.

I took a step toward Pepper. She flinched, but she didn’t back away.

“Face it, Alexis. Kasey is a whack job.” She narrowed her eyes. “All my sister tried to do was touch one of her stupid dolls….”

Pepper went on ranting, but I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t back down, but suddenly I didn’t feel like fighting about it either.

Because that one word— dolls —seemed too right.

A lot of people are avid collectors of things you or I would consider stupid, or at least silly—rocks with googly eyes glued to them and seashells for feet. Candles shaped like animals or mythical creatures.

For Kasey, it was dolls.

I don’t even remember when it started. Years ago. Long enough for Kasey, using her meager allowance, every dime of birthday or Christmas money, and who knows what else, to amass dozens of dolls.

And if my sister were ever capable of hurting someone, it would be to protect her precious collection.

Pepper grabbed her end of the banner. “Let’s just do this so I can get away from you,” she said.

“The feeling is mutual,” I said.

We hoisted the banner once again.

“Stop—it’s perfect,” said a voice. I turned to see who had spoken.

Oh, great.

Megan Wiley, poised, self-assured, cocaptain of varsity cheerleading, even though she’s just a sophomore— oh, and my own personal nemesis, more on that in a sec—studied our sign, then sauntered over with a hammer and nails. She hammered both sides into the wall without another word.

Here’s the deal:

I speak up in class, I get sent to the office. Megan speaks up in class, she’s a “strong, assertive model student.” I post a few flyers saying that the vending machines on school property are a sign that our school district has sold out to the corporate-industrial establishment, I get (what else?) Saturday detention. Megan starts a campaign to serve local foods in the lunchroom (oh, and could we pleeeeeease maybe get rid of the soda machines?) and the local newspaper does a write-up about her.

She’s like me, only not. Not like me at all. She’s the golden girl and I’m…tarnished.

So forgive me if I hate her a little.

Pepper stalked off while I scanned the gym for a seat that would hide me from the roving eye of Mrs. Anderson, then paused and turned back around to look at the sign (which was, mercifully, straight).

“HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS.”

SURREY ALUMNI

HOMECOMING SCHOLARSHIP BANQUET

WELCOME HOME, ALUMNI!

A few feet away, Megan was looking at it too. Our eyes met.

“I’m not sure I’d give money at a fund-raiser if they couldn’t bother to have it someplace nicer than a high school gym,” she said, turning away before I could answer. Her gaze lingered on the canvas, and I suddenly noticed that she was almost not even wearing a hat. Just a devil-horn headband left over from last Halloween.

“Mm,” I said, and walked away.

I guess, in her own way, Megan really is different from the rest of them.

But I still hate her.

3

Once upon a time , I had a best friend. Her name was Beth Goldberg. Beth and I got in lots of trouble together, but back then, people called it “mischief” and went a little easy on us. Apparently, when it’s two people, it’s quirky and funny, but when it’s a person doing the same stuff on her own, it’s rebellious and antisocial.

I’d always assumed that Beth and I would be friends forever. But then in the middle of eighth grade, the Goldbergs went through the World’s Nastiest Divorce.