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I THINK I
hear someone whisper my name.

It's later on Thursday and we're in English, serving out the mandatory forty-five-minute monthly reading session, “Rock-n-Read!” The only thing “rock-ish” about “Rock-n-Read!” is that you get the feeling that if you don't do what's required, you just may be stoned to death. It's basically when teachers pace the aisles like prison guards, making sure each one of us is reading something of our “choice.” It can be anything, as long as it meets the requirements (
No comic books
;
no bottles or other packaging
;
no mag
azines with faces on the cover
—which was later changed to include
or other body parts
). It's also when kids try everything to drive the teachers crazy by finding loopholes. Last year, it got so bad the list of requirements were just about narrowed down to
Must have both “Catcher” and “Rye” in title
.

Anyway, “Rock-n-Read!” is just another thing, like Sleeterball, which starts out as someone's idea of fun and ends up as a feeder program for detention.

I hear my name whispered again, I'm almost sure of it. I look up from the
Composting: The Delight of Decay
book I have been sentenced to read since I left my copy of
A Wrinkle in Time
at home, but no one seems to be looking at me—let alone whispering my name. I once heard something on the radio where someone was talking about how in cases of extreme boredom, like being isolated in prison or marooned on a desert island, the brain starts making up things for the bored person to hear. They interviewed someone who heard a whole opera! I thought that was pretty nice of the brain to do that. So I figure that what's happening here.

But then I hear it again, only a little louder. “Hey, Olivia!”

And I look up again. Max Marshall is in his seat in front of me. He's got his hand cupped over his mouth, directing his whisper in my direction.

He passes a piece of paper back to me. On it, he's written,
What's superficial mean?

I'm glad I know this.
Not deep
, I write back. I glance at his desk when I pass it back to him. He's reading
The Andromeda Strain
.

And then he scribbles something and passes it to me:
Awe
some. Thanks.
And he's drawn this little squiggly-lined happy face next to his words. And when I look back up, he's glancing over his shoulder, giving me a crooked little smile. It's a nice smile.

I try to find something interesting-like in my book, but even the pictures are outrageously mind-numbing—charts that show the different but equally disgusting phases of decay; photos of soil in varying shades of dark brown; an artist's rendition of compost machines of the future. I pray that the class will be out of its misery soon, but I do so with open eyes to avoid being jabbed with a yardstick by Mr. Renaldi. I add a few other things into that prayer too. Like about a certain someone. An astonishingly hot someone named Caleb. I decide to let the bell be my
amen
.

When I get up, Max gives me another smile, but rushes off. Janie Lindy smirks and shuffles up next to me. “You know what I heard?” she whispers. “I heard he's going to ask you to Fall Ball.”

I'm speechless. She just smiles at me, adjusts her hidden back brace, and moves on.

And you know why I'm starting to believe that I'm close to becoming an alpha dog? Because even though Max is a nice guy, and even a cute guy, I only consider it for a couple of minutes. Because you know that prayer I said? For the first time ever, it feels like it could come true.

But.

When I pass Caleb in the hall on my way to sixth period, he just smiles at me and gives me a little wave. He doesn't stop to ask me anything, like he tried to this morning. I tell myself that it's okay. First of all, he's not alone—he's hardly ever alone anymore. And second of all, I'm still hopeful that it's only a matter of
just yet
. We still have a little time before the Fall Ball, right?

JUST YET
isn't happening quickly enough.

“So, I hear the campaign's going well,” Caleb says to me on Friday morning. I am at my locker, and despite the fact that I've been waiting for this moment, he's caught me off guard.

“Oh, thanks,” I say, and smile. I stand up straight like an alpha dog, but I'm feeling a lot more like a puppy. Then my eyes meet his and I'm stuck. I can't look away—they're too deep, with the pull of heavy-duty magnets. “How's…How's it…” My mind goes blank. “How's it…” I allow my eyes to blink shut. “Going for you?” I finally continue.

He looks a little confused. Adorably confused. “Great,” he says. I nod dumbly while my eyes refocus on his. I didn't know I liked brown eyes so much, but something about my heartbeat is telling me that yes, I do. In fact, my pulse seems to believe that I
love
them.

“So—”

“So—” I repeat after him, and try to add a dazzling smile.

Just then, Carson and Ryan—now co–campaign managers—interrupt our moment and make me want to scream. Three Sudoku clubbers stand shyly at a distance behind them. “Dude,” Carson says to Caleb, “want these guys to stick up some posters or something? They said they want to help.”

“Sure,” Caleb answers. He turns back to me. “Hey, I'll just catch you later, okay? Well, good luck.”

He turns to leave, and I can almost hear my eyes thwack back into their sockets, like when I pull Corny's suction-cup soap dish off the tile above the sink. I blink several times and feel my entire head burn. My ears start to feel incredibly exposed.

And then I realize, he didn't ask me a single thing—not the whole three minutes we were alone together. Like, say, about the dance, for example.

“You okay?” Maria Trujillo, whose locker is next to mine, asks.

I turn back to my locker and pretend I
am
okay. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Don't let him get you all rattled,” she says, looking sympathetic. “You guys have my vote.”

I'm thankful for her misdiagnosis. Despite the knot in my stomach, I feel a slow smile spread across my face. “Really?”

“Well, yeah. I mean I'm not going to vote for a snob like Brynne, and who needs Mr. Rich Kid Show-Off?” She shrugs. I fight the urge to say something stupid, like
me
. “At least Mandy's like one of us,” she says. “Kind of weird, but in a good way, right?” She slams her locker shut. “Well, see ya.”

I take a deep breath. I should feel relieved. And I will, I'm sure, just as soon as my body returns to its regular boring state of being.

“Guess what?” Phoebe says at lunch. “We've got even more competition.”

“Who?” Mandy says, more with curiosity than surprise.

“Dawn Lane's running,” Phoebe tells us.

“The girl with the braid?” Delia asks. What she's referring to is the unstylish four-foot-long braided ponytail Dawn's been growing out since kindergarten. No one's really sure if she thinks it looks good or if someone, most likely a parent, has guilted her into it, but it's sort of kept her in the lower ranks of popularity. The difference between where she is in the ranks and where we used to be is this—she seems utterly unaware of her status.

Dawn Lane is the kind of girl to sign up to play “I Believe I Can Fly” on the recorder for the Spring Talent Show; the one who manages to wear flower-patterned dresses with watermelon-sized puffed sleeves and enormous lace collars, and clunky white canvas sneakers with every-color-of-the-rainbow racing stripes, all without the expected sense of shame. She's the kind of person who takes notes during school assemblies. Like I said, totally oblivious.

“Oh, her,” Mandy says. “That's okay.”

The teachers in our school always say the election isn't a popularity contest, but that's just another big fat lie that grown-ups tell you. And seeing as the training's worked and people really do seem to like us now, I'm actually starting to feel a little relieved that it is.

It's on the bus home that I realize Brynne and I have something in common.

She's standing next to Audrey Sharif, who has reluctantly agreed to share her Bazooka gum. Brynne actually looks excited about it. “Oh, this is the kind with the cartoon!” she says.

Audrey asks, “Why don't you ever seem to have your own gum? I mean,
ever
?”

“Yeah, it's getting kind of annoying,” Carolyn chimes in.

Normally this would have brought out the Wrath of Brynne. But now, she just says, “Well,
sor-ry
.”

Carolyn and Audrey exchange glances and roll their eyes, turning away from Brynne, who continues to talk, this time to the back of their heads. I may be the only one listening. “It's because of my stupid little brother,” she says, and then corrects herself. “
Half
brother. He keeps stealing my gum from me. And my mother keeps letting him get away with it.”

A half brother.

Maybe Brynne's mother practiced—and failed—on her, and then decided to try for a new-and-improved version. Just like my mom practiced and failed on me, and could one day do the same thing with that guy Darren or maybe someone else. The thought of it makes me want to curl into a ball like those little gray rolypoly bugs. I wonder how Brynne deals with it. I'm not sure I could.

I must be staring at her, because she turns in my direction and her eyes meet mine. The normal gemstone blue of her eyes looks more like a rainy-day gray, and she surprises me with something like a smile, but very heavy and sad. I know that smile. It's the kind of smile you put on your face when your world has fallen apart and all you really want to do is go home and cry about it like a big baby.

Like I said, I
know
that smile.

I blink, and breathe, and quickly turn my gaze to the window. A billboard on the side of the road advertises Floyd County. There's a picture of the courthouse and the old church, and the high school we'll all be going to next year if we don't screw up too much. Despite the fact that the sun has faded the sign and the colors are worn, Floyd County looks a whole lot prettier on that one-dimensional poster than it does in the three dimensions of reality.

Too bad life's not that simple. Or people, for that matter. It would make them a lot easier to love—and a lot less complicated to hate.