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And I sort of want to see these books for myself before I decide.

When class ends, Ford’s buddy knocks my notebook and pen on the floor as he walks out and the guy next to me—I think his name is Daniel—frowns as he leans down to grab them for me. “Don’t mind them,” he says. “The football players are dicks.”

I nod, choosing not to point out it’s only me they’re being dicks to. I gather my things and head to my locker, where the girls across from me make snide remarks about me “stealing” Leila’s scholarship and ridicule the length of my skirt. Prairie girl, they’re calling me now, when I’m only following the dress code. At my old school, you’d get sent home for wearing skirts half as short as theirs.

Resentment flares once more in my chest. My father should be enforcing it. Either enforce it or don’t hold me to it, I’d tell him if I was braver. Isn’t it bad enough that I have to be here at all without making me look like an idiot on top of everything?

I know I’m being unfair. I know he can’t change a million things at once. Baby steps, he’s said so many times since he took this job. You can’t just throw a frog in boiling water—he’ll jump out. So, you slowly raise the temperature.

He would tell me I’m setting the standard, and a better daughter would be happy to serve in this way. I’ll try harder later on—right now I’ve just got to get through the day.

I make it through my next classes, physics and calculus, shuddering any time I hear laughter—it can’t all be about me, but enough of it is—and go outside to the lawn during lunch. Meals are included in our tuition, but I’d rather go hungry than sit in the cafeteria alone, with all those eyes on me. I find a tree in a quiet corner and sit against it, grateful for a single moment of invisibility.

If I were in my school right now, I’d be sitting with friends and talking about the fall dance, most likely, which is something only seniors can attend, and our first chance to hang out with the boys we’ll be going to Bolivia with next June—the same ones many of us will come home engaged to. One of them, Sam Larkin, has dimples and a sweet smile. Every girl I know likes him, but it was me he used to look at in church. One time he even tried to talk to me afterward, though we only had a moment before our parents pulled us apart. Now he’ll talk to some other girl at the fall dance, and when the winter formal comes along, he’ll take her there. He’ll be all paired off by the time I arrive in Bolivia. Everyone will, and who’ll be left for me? Justin Hayworth, who used to pop zits in church? Nate O’Malley, whose nose runs year-round?

After lunch I head to my afternoon classes—Spanish, history, and finally journalism, which is down in the chemistry lab at the other end of the school. The bell is ringing by the time I arrive...and Ford James is already in there. The room has lab tables, and Ford, sitting with three guys nearly as big as him, meets my gaze and smirks again—only honors students were allowed in this class.

I slam my books down onto the first available table and take a seat, fuming.

My father was so adamant about me ignoring Ford and his friends, so adamant about me staying away from him. I know he doesn’t want to throw his weight around, but would it have been so hard for him to ask that my schedule and Ford’s didn’t overlap?

There’s a fair amount of chatter and shoving coming from Ford’s table, and the teacher, Mr. Scott, turns toward them. “I can already tell that this seating situation isn’t going to work,” he says, pointing at them. “JJ, you switch with Allen,” he says. “And Ford, you take the seat over here.”

The class turns to me with wide eyes, realizing something the teacher obviously has not: he’s just asked Ford to move to my table. Ford looks as unhappy about the change as I am, scowling at me as he picks up his books.

Dear God, please don’t let it be permanent, I pray as he takes the seat across from mine.

“Consider these your permanent seats,” Mr. Scott says.

It’s almost impossible to look at the teacher or the smart board without seeing Ford now. I know he’s mad about his sister—he probably believes what they’re saying about me taking her spot here and if so, I’d be mad too—but as he sits in silence, focused on the class and taking careful notes, I cannot for the life of me picture him burning down someone’s home.

Perhaps Ann was right to issue me a warning. The most dangerous sort of bad influence is the one that doesn’t appear to be bad at all.

The minute the bell rings, I’m on my feet and heading back to my locker. I ignore the dirty looks that come from every direction. I’m elbowed hard in the side by someone. I can’t tell who did it, and I suppose it barely matters—they all seem to hate me equally. The kids who aren’t being actively cruel won’t meet my eye, as if what I have is contagious.

Meanwhile, Ford is leaning against a locker, surrounded by half the football team and more girls than he could possibly have use for. They smile when he smiles and laugh when he laughs. He has hero status here, and any civility to me over the course of this year will be seen as a slight to Ford. Who’s going to risk that?

“Enjoy your first day on Leila’s scholarship, Prairie Girl?” one of them shouts. She turns to Ford, hungry for his reaction, and he gives it—a quiet laugh with a shake of the head, the kind you’d give a naughty toddler whose misbehavior you enjoy.

I grab my books and walk to the parking lot, where my mother waits inside our car.

A group of girls laughs. “Awww, Prairie Girl is being picked up by her mommy.”

They’d laugh if I took the bus too, though—from what I could tell, I’d be the only senior on there.

Faith, in back, is all smiles while Hope looks shell-shocked. I guess her day went something like mine.

“How was it?” Mom asks.

I sigh. “They’re calling me ‘Prairie Girl’ because my skirt is so long.”

“Well, you’re following the dress code,” she says. “It’ll blow over. They know they’re in the wrong.”

Except...they don’t care about being in the wrong.

I could tell her about JJ throwing paper at my head, or the way I got shoved in the hall, but it would all get the same response. It would all be some version of it’ll blow over, they’re showing their brokenness, or this is your chance to set an example.

Nothing that happened today is actually a big deal...There are seventeen-year-old girls in the world who are starving, who have to fear bombs and bullets, who were married off as children. But I’d sure like this one year where I don’t have to heal anyone but myself.