Fated

you’ve got yourself a bull’s-eye—I’m not the least bit like Jennika. I could never pull it off.
    Besides, there’s only one true bad boy here, and as it just so happens, he’s the one no one suspects. He’s too pretty, too popular, too charismatic, too athletic, and smart, and alluring. Praised by both teachers and peers, he’s pretty much the king of everything. Class president, the star quarterback, a sure thing for prom king, no doubt. As far as I can tell, I’m the only one who remains unimpressed.
    I take another glance—noting how the tables are systematically segregated. There’s the cowboy table, filled with kids wearing jeans, Western-style shirts and cowboy boots; the hippie table, where they all sport tie-dyed T-shirts, bandannas, and ripped jeans; the Native American table, where the majority wear flannel shirts and faded denim—all of them talking and laughing but clearly keeping to themselves. And after seeing all that, well, I finally understand the true meaning behind the sayings: Like seeks like.
    And: Water seeks its own level.
    They were talking about high school.
    Or maybe just life in general.
    The point is, people will always cling and conform in order to belong to something they want to be part of.
    Even the fringe group, the ones who think they’re so arty and different, so outside the mainstream—no matter how outrageously indie they strive to be, it only takes one informed glance to see that they’re all conforming to each other. Without even realizing it, they’re keeping within their own defined boundaries.
    That’s just the way it is. It’s never gonna be any different. And even though the day’s half over, I’ve yet to see anyone who’d consider sitting with me.
    Well, Cade might, judging by the way he’s smiling and waving and gesturing for me to join him, but I know he’s not serious. It’s all a big show, designed to make him look funny and make me feel awkward and bad about myself.
    As far as Xotichl goes—I can’t quite get a handle on her. Besides, I have no idea where she is. Haven’t seen her since that weirdness in the hallway this morning.
    I turn my back on it all, push through the door, and slink down the hall. In search of a nice, quiet place where I can eat my lunch in silence and wait for yet another bell to tell me where to go.
    Spotting a place at the end of a long row of lockers, I drop to the floor, reach into my bag, and smile when I discover Paloma packed one of my favorites: a small plastic container filled with goat cheese enchiladas covered with her amazing, homemade tomatillo sauce.
    With my plastic fork at the ready, I’m about to dig in when I’m stopped by a soft rustling sound that could only come from a lunch sack. Wondering who could possibly be as big an outcast as me, I scooch forward just enough to peer around the bend where I spy a pair of long legs, dark jeans, and heavy, thick-soled black shoes so large I hope they belong to a guy. Then I retreat to my corner, happy to know I’m not nearly as alone as I’d thought—that I’m not the only friendless loser who doesn’t belong in this school.

twenty-six
    The bell rings—again. That awful, shrill sound blaring through the hall, bouncing off the ugly beige walls and red metal lockers, sparking a stream of students into a flurry of movement, as I try my best to find my next classroom.
    I pause by the door, schedule in hand, taking a moment to confirm I’m in the right place, since I really don’t need to make that particular mistake yet again.
    Independent study. Right. Last class of the day—praise be, hallelujah, and more.
    I make my way inside and introduce myself to the man at the podium bearing a squinty mean gaze, a cruel slash of a mouth, a size-too-small T-shirt forced to stretch over a belly that will always arrive well before the rest of him, and a crew cut so tight it’s mostly just scalp. Pausing when he places a red checkmark next to my name and tells me to grab any seat.
    If I’ve learned anything today, it’s that it can’t be that easy. It may not be obvious at first sight, but somewhere in this deceptively innocuous classroom, territory has been staked, boundaries drawn, and an invisible wall erected, bearing an equally invisible sign that states clueless new girls like me are not welcome here.
    “Any seat,” he barks, shooting me a look that’s already pegged me as just another moron in a succession of many.
    I give the room a thorough