Surviving High School

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    “Just don’t let it go to your head—you’ve got a good oneon your shoulders,” said Alicia, “as this latest progress report indicates.” She pulled a piece of paper out of a binder and put it on Emily’s desk. “All A’s so far. Including the only one at the school in Honors History. Very impressive.”
    “Thanks,” said Emily.
    “Just remember me when you’re a megastar,” said Alicia. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go kick a few butts.” She patted the binder full of progress reports. “Not everyone can be an honor student.”
    At lunch, Kimi wouldn’t let Emily sit in their usual corner spot.
    “You’re a celebrity now,” Kimi insisted. “Act like it.”
    She took Emily’s hand and dragged her toward the center table, each step forward filling Emily with increasing dread. She waited for the security alarms to go off and the guard dogs to attack. They were trespassing here. They didn’t belong.
    This was just like last summer: Kimi had persuaded her to sneak out to Red Bear Lake after the park closed for the night, and they’d had to hide in the bushes from a park ranger for almost an hour. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except that the bushes turned out to be poison oak. Emily had the same feeling now, like she’d regret this intrusion for several itchy weeks to come.
    The girls had been among the first to arrive at lunch, and the center table stood vacant. Emily looked down to find its surface heavily decorated in Sharpied graffiti, much of it consistingof hearts containing couples’ names. Several of the hearts, though, had been filled in with black.
    Breakups , thought Emily. Ouch.
    “Okay,” said Kimi, taking a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”
    She put one leg over the bench.
    “Kimi!” said Emily in a loud whisper. “Have you completely lost it? You can’t just sit there. You don’t have—you know—permission.”
    “That’s not how being popular works,” said Kimi, swinging the other leg over the bench. “No one gives you permission. You give it to yourself.”
    “Kimi—” started Emily, but it was too late. Kimi sat.
    No sirens blared. No flashing lights filled the room.
    “Well?” Kimi said. “Come on. Don’t make me eat alone.”
    Emily looked around the cafeteria, checking to make sure the coast was clear. No sign of Lindsay or Dominique anywhere. She tried to imagine Ben sitting at the table, the warmth of his body right next to her.
    Okay , she thought. You can do this.
    She took a deep breath, then put her backpack down and sat next to Kimi, who was already beaming.
    “Look at us,” said Kimi. “Just two cool kids, sitting at the cool table, doing cool stuff. Maybe later we’ll head to the mall and buy clothes at the cool-kids store, and then after that we’ll go to a cool-kids party.”
    “Okay,” said Emily, still nervous. “I get it, I get it. We’re very cool.”
    “I knew it,” said a voice from behind her. “You have gone completely delusional.”
    Emily looked over her shoulder to see Dominique settling in next to her. Dominique’s blond ponytail was pulled back especially tight, giving her face the pinched look of an actress with a fresh Botox injection, and her nose was wrinkled in displeasure like a wet cat’s. Dominique set down a massive tub of chicken wings before leaning over and speaking in an angry whisper. “Are you two lost or something? Your kind isn’t welcome here.”
    “I don’t know,” said Kimi. She looked up at the big skylight. “I kind of like it here. It’s nice and sunny. Hey—don’t you think that cloud looks like a pterodactyl?”
    Dominique refused to look up. She kept her eyes trained directly on Kimi’s throat as if planning ways to strangle her.
    “Oh, I almost forgot,” said Kimi. “Did you get a chance to read that article about Emily in Swimmer’s Monthly ? I think there were even a few sentences about you —somewhere near the end.”
    Dominique pulled the top off her tub of wings, took one out, and brandished it at Emily and Kimi like a knife.
    “If you think one stupid article means you’re suddenly qualified to sit at my table, you’d better think again. You may have fooled that stupid reporter into thinking you’re some kind of tragic hero, but I know exactly who you are. Swimbot, a little machine that eats and sleeps and does the butterfly stroke. And everyone else knows it, too.” She brought the chicken wing to her lips, consumed it in threebites, and set