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Phoebe is trying to grasp what's just happened. “My hair?” she's saying, touching it, this time lightly, and looking bewildered. “Really?” She stops and gives us a questioning look. “Thanks, I guess, Joey.”

And then I see that, despite being the color of a stop sign, Joey is smiling. Just a little bit.

And then Phoebe does, kind of, too.

ON WEDNESDAY,
I run into Mandy between first and second period. She's so excited she is practically violating the Emo Code of Ethics. If you get past the scabbed-over eyebrow piercing and black lips, her face looks like a kid in a Disney World commercial. Her eyes are like little green Christmas lights, and she is smiling. Beaming, actually. And bouncing toward me.

“What's going on?” I ask. I try to smile, but she's acting so different from her normal self that I'm sure I just look constipated or something.

It doesn't seem to bother her. “It works!” she says, nearly glowing.

“What happened?”

“Okay, so I was in the bathroom putting on my lips, and I hear this flush, and Tamberlin Ziff comes out of the stall. I thought for sure she was going to start with that ‘Bubo' thing, you know like she used to? Like
bubonic
?” Her head is bobbing with excitement and she is talking very fast. “So I go, ‘Cool necklace,' you know. To distract her. And she was like, ‘Thanks.' And then she was like, ‘Is that really a Sharpie?'” Mandy's eyes are wide. Practically innocent.

I smile. But there's a little part of me that holds back—the part that's full of doubt and stuff. “Okay?”

“She said she'd never really thought of using a marker.”

I'm still smiling, but I say, “Most people”—I fight the urge to add
outside of the asylum
—“don't.” I remind myself that I still haven't talked to her about the clog.

“I know it's not exactly normal,” she says, “but, personally, and I told her this, I like the fact that it stays on and doesn't feel greasy. She said she was going to try it, but that her mom would probably make her use the nontoxic washable kind. And that she'd probably go red. And so I gave her a treat!”

When I don't say anything, she says, “You know, a reward. Like we talked about?
Hello
? What's wrong?”

I sigh. “Are you sure it's not just something for one of their Spiritleader Dress-Up Days? Like a Wacky-Tacky theme or something?”

“What?” Mandy looks injured. “No! I don't—I don't think so. You know, I'm not like Phoebe, Olivia. I can usually tell when someone's trying to make fun of me.”

Which is why I'm surprised right now. I just say, “I know. I guess it's just kind of hard to imagine that Tamberlin's going to start putting marker on her lips because some Marcie—in
her
eyes, I mean—gave her a piece of gum in the bathroom.”

“Life Saver,” she corrects me, her mood crumbling a little. “Pep-O-Mint. Olivia, she listened to me. It worked,” she says again, and walks away.

I feel like a real dolt when I see Tamberlin at lunch later. Not only does she have bright red lips—quite possibly a primary-colored Crayola washable marker “borrowed” from the arts alcove—but when she sees me, our eyes meet, and then she just looks away. Like we were just two normal strangers who, for just a second, were accidentally caught in each other's eye-lock. That would never have happened a week ago.

Mandy was right.

Then I think about what Mandy said when she saw me in my new clothes, how she told me she wasn't going “mainstream.” Well, maybe she won't have to. Maybe she is changing the definition of cool. Could we all be wearing clogs by the time this year is over?

And it gets weirder.

Because I'm almost to my fourth period classroom when I hear
“ICICLE STORM!”
And then the Spirit leaders are whirling through the scampering crowd, coming right smack toward me. They are jumping, twisting, kicking, and flailing, in their interpretation of a natural disaster of which I, being immobile with terror, am about to become the first victim.

But just then I become aware of a hand on my upper arm pulling me through a doorway. And then I am standing in front of a urinal, facing cute Jell-O fan and English classmate Max Marshall, who is trying to catch his breath. “You okay?” he asks, panting.

“I think so,” I say. “Are you?”

He nods. “Sorry about pulling you in here—it was the safest place.”

“No, that's okay,” I tell him. I mean, I'm safe. I'm alive. And I'm in forbidden territory—the boy's bathroom. I just always expected something a little more interesting than this. It's disappointing—you can practically map out the social hierarchy of Hubert C. Frost Middle School by reading the girls' bathroom graffiti. But in here, the most fascinating thing is the urinal. There's a puck-looking thing sitting in the bottom of it. “What
is
that?”

“That's a little something they call a urinal cake.
Not
edible, though.” He smiles. “Just in case you were tempted. Come on, let's get to English before we get detention.”

We walk to our classroom together. Max takes his seat in front of me, and I look at the back of his honey-brown head and wonder if he would've just let me fend for myself two weeks ago, or even just two days ago.

But then he passes a little slip of paper back to me. I open it up. He's drawn me a cartoon—a urinal cake with candles in it. Next to it he's written, “Make a wish!”

It makes me laugh. What's weird is that this whole thing feels like one big fat wish. And what's even weirder is that I feel a glimmer of hope that it could actually come true.

And before I forget, I pass a stick of Freedent up to him.

There's no more barking on the bus these days. In fact, lately, when I get on board, Brynne just turns and looks away. She doesn't even try to insult me anymore, at least not to my face.

But today, as I pass through the aisle by her seat, I hear her quietly mumble, “Granny panties.” To which Carolyn just sighs and says, “God, Brynne, move
on
already.”

Yes, this wish. It could possibly be coming true.

IT'S FRIDAY
after school, and we're setting up for Monopoly. Joey has gone to, quote-unquote, “puke his lungs out” because he complimented Corinne d'Abo on her small nostrils. “It was either that or her bra size, and I panicked and didn't want to get expelled,” he'd told us, before suffering an attack of dry heaves. Ms. Greenwood had taken the opportunity to make it perfectly clear that there would be no vomiting permitted in her room.

Phoebe unfolds the board and eyes the game pieces. “I think I deserve the shoe today,” she announces. “Especially after what I had to endure.”

“Yeah, maybe you do,” Joey says, coming back into the room. And then he smirks and adds, “To the back of your pants!”

“Shut up, Joey,” she says.

“Your
mom
shuts up!”

The rest of us look at each other and sigh.

“So, Phoebe,” I say. “I vote you get the shoe if you tell us what happened.”

She looks down at the table. “Okay, so I was standing in line at the vision screenings, and Brynne and Danny Pritchard were behind me. And Brynne said, ‘I'm getting an attack of the Phoebe-Jeebies.'” She gives me a slightly tortured glance. “The
Phoebe-Jeebies
! I thought that was behind us. Especially after all the mini-staplers I've gone through.”

My heart drops. “I'm sorry, Pheeb. Maybe it's just a minor setback.”

“And don't forget—it's Brynne we're talking about. She's the worst, so she's going to be the hardest,” Delia adds.

It's true. I wish there was some special supplemental training just for her.

Mandy adds, “And Danny. Jeez. What a butt-crack he is.”

“Actually, Danny wasn't
awful
. In a way, he stuck up for me,” Phoebe says.

“Oh, first Brant's in love with you, now
Danny
,” Joey says in a mocking tone.

“I didn't say that—not about Danny!” Phoebe says, her pale skin turning pink.

“Pheeb,” I say, trying to get her to refocus. “Explain. How did he stick up for you?”

“Well, first he groaned, and then he rolled his eyes. And then”—she looks at me—“he
shushed
her!”

“Big deal,” Joey says.

“Actually, Joey, it
is
a big deal,” I say. “For him to be shushing her is
huge
.”

“Yeah,” Mandy adds. “Danny's like her slave boy.”

Then an idea hits me. “Okay, listen, you guys,” I tell them. “Next time something like that happens—next time one of Brynne's minions stands up to her or says or does something mean to her—you're giving them some sort of reward.”

They all sort of stare at me. “I don't get it,” Phoebe said. “I thought we were rewarding
good
behavior.”

Delia looks uneasy. “Yeah, so now we're supposed to reward mean things?”

“It's more like we reward anti-Brynne behavior. Look, Delia already said that Brynne's the hardest to train. And Mandy—you just called Danny her slave boy, right?”

They both nod slowly.

“So we're just going to help a little with the revolt. Think of yourselves as abolitionists,” I say. “Freedom fighters.”

Delia looks at me sideways.

“Like Sojourner Truth,” I add.

“Sojourner Truth was a hero,” Delia says. “I don't know, Liv. That might be a stretch.”

“Or like, what was that lady's name? The one who wrote that book about Uncle Somebody's cabin?” Mandy says.

“Harriet Beecher Stowe,” Phoebe says. “But as far as abolitionists go, I much prefer Francis Ellen Watkins Harper.”

“And I much prefer
your mom
,” Joey says. Then his smug face morphs into a blotchy panicked one, and he starts apologizing.
Apologizing!
I mean, this is Joey we're talking about! “Uh, sorry, guys, but—” he stammers. It's awkward—and not the funny kind of awkward, just the squirmy, uncomfortable kind.

Mandy tries to put him out of his misery. “That's okay, Joey. You say stupid things all the time.”

“Oh,” he says. “I'm not sorry for that. I'm sorry because I'm about to cut one.”

Ms. Greenwood yells out in disgust. Mandy quickly jumps up and pulls Joey out of his seat. She pushes him out into the hall and closes the door. A minute later we hear a gaggle of laughs and a guy's voice saying, “Nice one, Spagnoli.”

Joey opens the door and comes back in, wide-eyed with excitement. “Holy crap! Corbin Moon just high-fived me,” he says. “Man, this plan
rocks
!”

I hear a squeak come out of Phoebe—it's the same squeak I heard the day of the office supplies. But now it's followed by a strange howl-cackle. Phoebe sounds like she's in great pain. It takes a moment for me to realize it's a laugh. She's
actually
laughing. We all look at her, surprised. “What?” she asks, when she realizes we're staring at her. “It was
funny
.”

Joey looks stunned—seriously, I've never seen him look this way. Nothing shocks this kid. Mandy's blackened mouth is hanging open.

Phoebe turns a deeper shade of pink.
“What?”
she asks again.

So, even though part of me wants to bury my head in shame for Joey, I laugh. We all laugh. Loud. Ms. Greenwood yells at us, but we are laughing too hard to hear her. Even Phoebe is laughing. Especially Phoebe.

While we were so busy being amused by Joey's bodily functions, Brynne was busy getting an illegally early start on her campaign, plastering the school with her face. It's only been an hour and seven minutes, but her campaign flyers have been jammed up the vent of every locker, and the halls and stairwells are now lined with “Win With Brynne!” posters, featuring her larger-than-life-size headshot, which looks like it was taken at Glamorland. In the photo, she has this sort of dreamy look. Her hair is wavy like a mermaid's, and the scar on her chin is nonexistent. If I didn't know better, her picture might convince me that she's some sort of superhuman creature, maybe even an angel.

Two things become clear. One, it's time for us to go public with our campaign. And two, anyone who says pictures don't lie is most likely a moron.