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THAT EVENING,
Delia calls me at home. Corny answers and comes to get me. “I think it's the one who used to have all those pimples,” she says. She doesn't mean to be rude, it's just that in the dog world, people use words like roach-backed or dish-faced to describe a characteristic, and it's a perfectly acceptable practice.

“Guess what I just got?” Delia says, her voice full of exclamation points. “An Evite to Erin Monroe's party!”

“Really?” I say.
Oh
. “Wow. Congrats.”

“You
too
, you goof. We all got invited—you, me, Mandy, and Phoebe. Obviously not Joey, since it's a sleepover.”

“Wow,” I say again, feeling a little shocked. It's the first non– Bored Game Club sleepover I've been invited to in the year I've lived here, and I'm having visions of my eyebrows being shaved off while I sleep.

“It's the night before the Fall Ball, so everyone's probably going to practice makeup and show off their dresses and stuff,” she tells me.

“Well, then, what the heck are
we
going to do?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, none of us is going to that dance. Well, Phoebe thinks she is, but by then—”

“Don't say that,” Delia says. “You don't know what's going to happen between now and then. I mean, a month ago you would never have believed we'd be invited to this.”

“True,” I sigh. Okay, I'll give her that. But it makes me nervous because I don't want to get my hopes up that much. Caleb Austin's face pops into my head, and I close my eyes and forcefully bury it in the thought-free trunk of my brain. That part is getting so filled with things that if I ever have a problem with balance—or is it vision?—I'll know why.

“So you want to go to Erin's sleepover?” I say.

“Of course I want to go! Are you
crazy
?”

“Mandy and Phoebe do too?”

“I'm sure they do,” she says. “Come on, Liv. Aren't you excited?”

“Well, yeah, sure,” I say. Because I am. And I'm also terrified. It's amazing—we're getting what we wanted, and it's great, but all of a sudden there's a lot to lose. “Just don't freak out with your response and act like we're lucky to be invited.”

“I
know
that. I'm not going to even respond for a little while.”

Right away, I go check my e-mail. Sure enough, there's the Evite in my inbox. Brynne, of course, is on the list. She's already RSVP'd, which isn't something I'd have expected from someone like her, who should be WAY too busy for a stupid Evite. But the strangest thing is her response—OMG I'M SO THERE, ILY BFF!!!!!!!!!! There's like twenty zillion exclamation points—so many that it takes up an additional five lines.

I feel weird, because her response sounds more than a little desperate. And also because that gives me a little thrill.

“DO YOU REMEMBER
your class elections?” I ask Moncherie during my Wednesday afternoon psycho session, after I've given her an update on how the campaign's gearing up.

“Hey, don't worry, okay?” she says, giving me one of those wincing smiles. “I know it's rough, but it'll be over before you know it. One day, middle school will just be a distant memory.” I guess she thinks she's comforting me.

“But I actually think we might have a shot,” I tell her, feeling frustrated. “I mean, things are going pretty well in general.”

“Well, good,” she says, but in a way that makes me think she doesn't believe me. Not really. “But remember, you don't want to set yourself up for disappointment.”

“I'm not,” I say, a little hurt. I don't bother telling her how much we've already done so far. She just doesn't need to know that—or anything about the plan.

She taps her pencil against her palm and looks down at her notebook. “So, how are you feeling today?”

“Like I said. Things are actually going okay for once.”

“That's not a feeling,” she says. “That's just a…statement. A speculation. I need to write down—I mean, I need you to tell me how you're
feeling
.”

“I'm feeling
good
,” I say quietly.

She exhales loudly. “
Good
is not an emotion.” She leans forward and starts making little round cartoon faces on the back of the manila file for my case. “This is happy,” she says, drawing a smiley face. She draws another, almost identical, but the smile is upside down. “This is sad.” Then she draws upside-down arches over the eyes on the next. “This is disappointed. Now, do you see ‘good' anywhere on here? Good is—I don't know—a three-bedroom ranch house with a fenced yard, or a, uh, spacious city condo. Or maybe a small cottage on the beach where you can hear the waves lapping the shore—no, actually, that would be
great
. But good is not an
emotion
!”

I'm sure I give her a strange look, because she says, “Sorry, got carried away, but you know what I mean.” She opens a bottle of water and takes a sip. “Look, Olivia, I'm sorry. I don't mean to force you—” She stops talking and shakes her head. “It's just—well, if you don't want to talk about the issues with your mother, can you just think about
why
you don't want to talk about it?”

My throat starts to feel tight. I clear it as quietly as I can, and say, “But I thought you were interested in what happens at school.”

“I am!” she says loudly. “Look, if it were up to me, we'd sit back and drink sodas and eat popcorn and talk about all those terrible—
girls
at school. But the fact of the matter is that I care about helping you. I'm your therapist. And you're my head case.”

I'm sure she means this as, like, “lead case,” or maybe “most difficult/challenging/troubling case,” but because she's totally not aware that she's just called me a
head case
, it strikes me as funny. Very funny. And I start to laugh like a seriously sick-in-the-head, put-me-in-a-straitjacket-and-haul-me-away kind of crazy person. And the more I laugh, the more I feel like I might start to cry—and I start to worry that my brain-trunk might just fly right open.

Uh-oh
. I think my gene is showing.

“Olivia, I know you've got some emotions going on there.” Moncherie says this with lots of pity and stuff, but also with a little enthusiasm. I guess when therapists smell tears forming, they get excited.

I've got to distract her. I blink back the wetness in my eyes and say, “I should probably tell you something.”

“Yes, please,” she says, looking like she might have just struck gold. She sits up straight and positions her pen above her notepad.

“Now, you can't tell a soul,” I say.

“Olivia, I'm a therapist. I'm
sworn
to secrecy,” she says, holding her hand up to emphasize the swearing-in part. Her foot bounces around with impatience.

“My friends and I…”

“Yes?”

It's my last opportunity to bail on telling her. But I don't. I ignore my bathroom wall fears and take a breath. “We're dog-training the entire school so that Mandy can win the election.”

There, I think. That'll keep her busy. Too busy to make me talk about my mother.

She squints her eyes and cocks her head. “You're doing
what
?”

I say it again. Her face tightens, and I'm starting to get nervous she might bail on the secrecy thing, so I add, “I thought you'd be proud of me. It's like dog psychology, but we're using it on people. So we're kind of like junior therapists.”

Moncherie still looks worried. She walks over to her desk, rummages through the top drawer, and pulls out a laminated rectangular piece of paper. “Is this,” she asks, then reads from the paper, “‘a danger or risk of danger to yourself or others'?”

“No, no, nothing like that, not at all,” I say, wishing now that I had kept my mouth shut. What if she decides to shut down the whole project? I add, “It's totally legal. And mostly just for fun.”

She still stands there stiffly. “Does your grandmother know about this?”

“No,” I say. “And you can't tell her. You already swore on it. And I'm telling you things, aren't I? Secret things. I would never have told you a secret like that a month ago.”

She starts rubbing her temples. “No.” She exhales loudly and sits down. “No, I guess you're right.”

“This is supposed to be a
safe environment
,” I say, using the words on her that she's used many times before on me.

“Yes, yes, Olivia. You're right. Of
course
you should feel free to talk to me about anything,” she says, and gives me a weary smile. “I'm proud of you for opening up.”

I smile back. I wonder what I'll end up confessing next time she starts up with the mother issues again. I'm going to run out of material soon. Watch me pour my heart out about Caleb Austin and the freakish effect he's been having on me lately. Ugh.

The dollar-store timer dings, and Moncherie stands up, still with that droopy smile. “Well, it's been a productive session, wouldn't you say?” She looks down at the notepad in her hands and makes a large check mark across something on the page, which seems to make her happy. Very happy.

I'm glad to see this therapy thing is working for
one
of us.

ON THURSDAY,
right before lunch, I pass Caleb in the hall and he says my name. “Hey, Olivia.”

I like the way he says it. He slows down and smiles at me.

I slow down and smile too. And then I say, “Hi, Caleb.” Except I don't just say it. I
spray
it, and I'm pretty sure I douse his nice sky-blue shirt.

That blasted hard C! Why couldn't his name be Neal? I think it's virtually impossible to spit when saying
Neal
. Or John. Or Rob, even.

But he doesn't seem to notice. “Wanted to ask you something,” he says.

I dare to raise my eyes. My heart starts to float a little, like a helium balloon. “You did?”

“Yeah.” He does this little embarrassed laugh that's adorable. “This is a little awkward—”

“Hey.” The back of Ryan Stoles's big fat head pops in between us. “No fraternizing with the enemy,” he says. He lets out an obnoxious wail of a laugh. “Dude, what are you doing?”

Caleb smiles. “Hang on, Ryan.”

Just then Phoebe appears at my side. “Coming to lunch?”

Caleb and I exchange glances. “I'll just talk to you soon, all right?”

“Yeah, okay,” I say.

“What was that about?” Phoebe asks.

“No idea,” I say. “But I spit on him.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Is that really a question? I didn't mean to!”

“Oh.”

We're the last ones to get to our lunch table. When we sit down, Delia's explaining something to Mandy and Joey. “I swear it's true,” she is saying.

“Danny, as in Daniel Pritchard?” Mandy says, eyes growing wide. “Isn't he Brynne's?”

“Maybe not so much anymore,” Delia says. Delia's locker is three doors down from Danny's, and two days ago, he was there with Brynne. He went to kiss Brynne good-bye, but she said, “
Oh. Em. Gee
. Did you just eat a turd or something?” And Danny slammed his locker shut and said, “I think I'd rather eat a turd than kiss
you
!” And when Brynne stormed off, Delia—in true freedom fighter fashion—handed him a cookie. Apparently, he's been following her around like a puppy dog ever since.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“Danny asked me to the dance,” Delia says, with something between a smile and a look of concern on her face.

“Danny Pritchard asked you to the Fall Ball?” Phoebe can hardly contain her excitement. “Let's double-date!” she adds, eyes wide and hopeful.

My mouth drops open. “Because of that cookie?”

“No, it was later. We were just talking and he said he never thought Brynne was all
that
anyway. So I told him he looked like he was going to be tall one day. You know, a compliment, sort of. I just needed some type of reward. I guess he thought I was hitting on him, and he asked me to go.”

“Too bad he's such used goods,” Mandy says.

“I know—but I kind of
do
want to go.” She glances down at her Tofurky sandwich, which Delia's mom credits for her smoothing skin. “I've never been to one of these things. Plus, I mean, he was Brynne Shawnson's boyfriend. It's like, what if Zac Efron asked you out?”

“I don't like Zac Efron,” Mandy reminds her.

“I
know
that,” she says. “But still—on one level, it would be like, wow! You know how there are different pedigrees of dogs? Like different classes of dogs? Well, it's like he's in a higher class than us. I mean, you can't help but be flattered in a strange sort of way.”

I don't want to admit it, but I know exactly what she's talking about. I mean, look at Brynne. I would never say this out loud, but I do sort of want her to like me. To admire me in some way, at least. I mean, until recently—like a-couple-of-weeks-ago kind of recently—it always seemed like people would run in the opposite direction from me. My own mother ran away, didn't she? So the thought that someone like Brynne could like me—someone who likes practically
no one
—well, in some twisted way, it could mean that maybe I'm not such a freak after all.

I still can't believe the plan is actually working—it's working! But just for a second I start to wonder if this growing power we have is good or evil.

Because I look over at Brynne's table. She's quiet, contemplating her veggie pack. The people at her table are all laughing at something. She's the last one to join in—it's like she pushes out a few giggles and then, completely unnoticed, she's back to staring at her baby carrots. She bites into one, chews, and swallows. Just like anyone else. Chewing and swallowing, the simple act of eating, just trying to stay alive in this insane world.

For a second, it makes me feel kind of sad and melty inside.

Which is
ridiculous
. So ridiculous that when Phoebe says she thinks she saw Brynne standing alone at her locker today, wiping her eyes with a clump of toilet paper—which would make sense if puny little Danny dumped her—I make myself laugh out loud, as loud as everyone else.

Okay, maybe even louder.