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“Well, I’m impressed again,” says Mrs. Onorato. “Two students chose Rilke? Ford, come on up.”

Ford walks to the front as my jaw falls open. I’d have expected him to use the Nike slogan, or some crappy quote about winning.

His eyes go to mine and then dart away. He doesn’t take the paper from her hands, which means he already knows the quote by heart. “If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches.”

All the breath leaves my body. Chills rise on my arms. It’s as if he’s chosen the perfect quote to speak to my resentful soul. As if he’s called me out, and at the same time offered me redemption. I don’t want to be here, and I am missing out on my old life, but maybe, maybe, there’s something here too. Something I can learn from or be grateful for.

“And why did you choose that?” Mrs. O asks him.

He shrugs. “Kids my age are always complaining about things being boring. It’s easy to start believing it’s true, but there were millions of people before us who lived without TVs and the internet and social media. If you’re bored by what’s around you, it just means you’re not looking hard enough, or you’re too busy looking at the wrong things.”

I exhale heavily. Just before he returns to his seat, I glance at my notebook. I’ve drawn a shirt with the top button undone. A strong neck and jaw above it.

They look just like Ford’s.

That afternoon, I finally get to the one class I’m really excited about: art, which will replace journalism on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It wasn’t even offered at my old school, and my father strenuously objected to me taking it here: Why would you waste a chance to learn something useful? he’d asked.

I’d argued that if he was going to make me move during my senior year of high school, I should get one thing to look forward to, so here I am, thrilled beyond belief to be sitting in Miss Pender’s Art 1. The room smells delightfully of paint and pencil lead, and the back of the class has easels stacked against the wall. A tiny spark of joy shoots through me as I glance toward them.

Miss Pender hands us each a sketchpad and tells us to draw something that means a lot to us. I close my eyes and begin to sketch my old house. It was small, like all the houses were, and so close to my aunt and uncle’s that I could throw things from my bedroom window to Mary Joyce’s.

Because Mary Joyce wasn’t always bad. For a long time, I worshipped her as only a small girl can, believing that she—five years my senior—knew more than anyone else about how the world works. She was beautiful and lively, and I wanted to be just like her when I grew up, until I saw what she did and how poorly it worked out for her.

Miss Pender passes through the room. “Oh,” she says when she reaches me. “What’s this?”

I freeze, uncertain what I’ve done wrong. “It’s...it’s my old house. I just moved.”

She leans forward and lowers her voice. “I don’t think this is the right place for you. This is very much a class for beginners.”

My stomach drops and then settles as I realize what she’s saying. “I’ve never taken art before,” I tell her. “It wasn’t offered at my old school.”

“Wasn’t offered?” she repeats. She glances at my drawing and frowns. “I can recommend you for one of the upper classes if you’d like? There’s an advanced portraits class you might enjoy.”

My stomach falls again. If she recommends me for anything and it gets back to my dad, he’ll pull me out of art entirely. I shake my head quickly. “Please just let me stay in here,” I whisper, sounding as terrified as I am. “I...don’t think that would go over well with my parents.”

She stares at my drawing for a moment and then places her hand on my shoulder, forcing a smile. “I had parents like that too. So, I’m especially glad you’re here.”

Miss Pender’s vote of confidence leaves me in a better mood. Optimistic, even. I head to my locker, ignoring the girls across the hall, who are watching me intently for some reason. When I open the door, dozens of panty liners slide to the floor.

“Welcome to Penhallow, Prairie Girl!” shouts one of them. “Enjoy taking Leila’s spot.”

Turn the other cheek. Forgive thy enemies. But heat is rushing to my face.

“Ignore them,” says the girl beside me, rolling her dark eyes as she kicks the panty liners into the middle of the hall. “Those are the Kendalls. I’m sure you read about them.”

I raise a brow. “Where would I read about them?”

“On Hallpass. You know, the school gossip app?”

I nearly laugh. There’s no way my parents would allow me to use a gossip app. “I don’t have that.”

“Download it,” she urges. “That’s where you’ll find all the deets about everyone, though a lot of it is bullshit. Anyway, those are the Kendalls. They’re not all named Kendall, but two of them are. And they’re just jealous.”

My laugh is pure misery. “I...uh...I doubt they’re jealous.”

“Sure they are. They hate competition.”

As if any of these girls see me as competition.