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CORNY IS WAITING
for me on the porch, her arms crossed over her chest, her lips pressed together in a thin line. She looks nothing like the normally sweet but very odd old lady that I've grown to love.
Nothing
. My already-troubled stomach sinks.

Even the good-natured Ferrill, who is sitting next to her, seems to be giving me the stink eye. This can't be good.

“Where were you this afternoon?” she asks, as I step off the bus. The bus moans its way down the narrow road behind me. Part of me wants to run down the road after it.

Queso pushes through the screen door. When she sees me, she starts acting like Corny Junior and launches into a yapping session. Her bark is high-pitched and nerve-racking. Finally Corny slaps her hands together and Queso snaps out of it.

“I was at school,” I say. I look down at my fingers. I've been picking at my cuticles so much, they look like a hungry rat had at them.

“Why weren't you at that game club? Delilah called from the front office, asked if you'd come home sick or something.” I don't even bother correcting Delia's name. Corny's words come too fast. Thankfully mine do too, although I'm not sure where they come from.

“I went to the library instead,” I lie.

I feel her staring at me, so I add, “I had a lot of homework.” I meet her stare, but she doesn't look satisfied.

“Is that so?”

I nod and roll my eyes. “Yes, that's so.”

“Funny. 'Cause I called the library.”

I hear the sound of a record scratch in my head. How could I be so stupid? Why didn't I think that my grandmother would call the school looking for me, especially if Delia called, worried. For a minute my mouth seems like it's moving without words, then something seems to take over. “
Oh.
You must have called the school library.” I shoot her a look that says
silly old lady
. “I went to the regular library. The
public
one.”

Her face goes blank. I start to feel like I'm winning. I walk up the steps to the porch and lean down to scratch Ferrill under the chin. He lets out a big sigh and drops his head to the floor.

“Well, it's just down the street from school. I made it back in time for the late bus, didn't I?” I feel lighter again. This is working. I open the screen door and walk inside, holding it open for Oomlot to follow. Queso runs in front of him and enters first.

Corny starts inside too, not ready to drop it. “I never gave you permission to leave school grounds,” she says, practically through her teeth.

“I know, and I'm sorry.” I stick my bottom lip out for effect. “I just didn't figure anyone would really miss me—”

“Why didn't you tell your friends? Your best friend?”

“Well, I mean, we just—I just needed my space.” A little part of me wonders why I didn't start with this. This is something Corny would probably understand. And it's pretty true—well, almost. But it's too late to undo all the other lies.

“Well, you're grounded,” she says. “You won't be going to that girl's sleepover.” She's talking about Erin Monroe's party, which is at the end of next week.

I suck in a breath. I feel slapped. My chest gets tight and the back of my eyes start to ache. “What about the dance?”

She looks at me and softens just a little. “I said the sleepover, didn't I?” I am slightly relieved. But only slightly. “Now,” she continues, “call Delilah right away. Just let her know you're safe.”

Talking to The Great Betrayer is the last thing I want to do. I start to argue, but Corny cuts me off and says, “I told her you'd call.” So I know now I have to.

“It's me.”

“Hey! What happened? Why didn't you come to the club?” Delia sounds genuinely happy to hear from me.

I say nothing. It's one of those moments where's there too many words to say, and any one of those words might mess up the nicely packed vacuum-sealed Space Bags in my brain.

“Olivia? Hey, are you mad at me or something?”

I take a breath and blurt out, “You told Brynne about my mom, didn't you?” It barely sounds like a question, and I barely want to know the answer. There's one little shred of hope that this is just a lie that Brynne made up, or maybe some stupid misunderstanding—the kind that happens in sitcoms on TV. “In fact, you told all our friends, didn't you?”

“Olivia, our friends know you don't live with your mom—that's not a secret.”

“But the fact that she went crazy and just took off is!”

“Olivia, all I did is stop rumors! And it's not like I broadcast it to the whole school, Liv. I just told our friends. They were hearing all sorts of weird things. People were saying that you were a juvenile delinquent and you were arrested in a Greyhound station! Some people were trying to say you were taken from your mom because she kept you locked in a room!”

“So then once you told them—once you all became experts about my life—you decided you'd get on speakerphone and tell Brynne all my business!”

Now she's saying nothing. Not a good sign.

“I can't believe this,” I say. “All of my friends—you, Mandy, Phoebe, even
Joey
—have been hiding the truth from me for how long? Like, more than a month! What did you have, a secret pact not to tell me what was going on?”

“I'm really sorry! I thought it would help. It was right after the ketchup thing and I was just trying to get Brynne to lay off! Remember? I was trying to help you and I didn't want to do it alone, that's all.”

“Trying to
help
me?” I yell, and let out a low, sarcastic laugh. “How?”

“I was kind of hoping she could relate. Remember, I used to be friends with her. I know how craz—I mean, unstable—
her
mom is. I thought if she knew what you were going through, she'd be decent enough to stop torturing you and the rest of us. But obviously, she's not!”

“So you wanted her to feel sorry for me? Of all people, Delia, I thought I could trust
you
! You know who's stupid?
Me!
”

“Olivia,” she pleads. “Honestly? You're not being fair.”

I start to hang up, then yank the phone back to my ear. “And you know what? You're right about something. Brynne
can
relate.”

And then I slam down the old phone, thankful for the satisfying clang that rings out for mercy when I do. And a second later, when it rings, I pick the phone right back up and get to make that clang again.

And then I call Brynne.

I tell her about how Delia nearly caused my grandmother to have a heart attack. I tell her about how I called Delia—I even make my voice all high-pitched and nasally when I imitate Delia asking me if I'm mad at her, and Brynne laughs like I knew she would, and says, “
Oh. Em. Gee.
”

And then I tell her I'm grounded this weekend, and that I can't go to Erin's party next weekend.

And she says something that changes everything. She says, “Well, then, I won't go either.”

All night, I think about the Fall Ball. I think I should probably give Max his answer soon. I'm thinking maybe it should be a yes. Maybe I was wrong about Caleb after all. I mean, he's got a bunch of prettier, more naturally likable girls helping him out on his campaign—and maybe they all feel the way I do around him. You know, special.

And—news flash!—prayers aren't always answered. You think I'd know that by now.

On Tuesday, Brynne and I sit alone at our own lunch table, and I make myself look like I'm having a grand old time. Even if Peyton Randall is sitting in my old seat next to Delia. And even if Joey is acting like Gallant, instead of Goofus, from
High
lights
magazine, and is doing polite little Gallant things like
eating chicken salad
! With his lips
closed
! And even if Erin Monroe is laughing about something Joey said, and Phoebe is joining in like she's been doing
this laughing thing
her entire life! And even if CALEB AUSTIN is stopping at the table and saying something to Mandy, who nods and smiles like she's some regular, ordinary person who always does things like smiling and nodding and not just being the HUBERT C. FROST MIDDLE SCHOOL
SHARPIE QUEEN
!!!

I take a deep breath. That's all right. It doesn't matter. I just picture myself washing my hair, and when that doesn't work, I move on to flossing. When that doesn't work, I give up. Alpha dogs don't floss anyway.

WE HAVE A
sub in English on Wednesday, so it's basically every man for himself. The sub has turned on his iPod and tuned the class—and its spirited desk-hopping contest—out. But Max is unusually quiet.

I tap him on the shoulder. “Max?”

He turns his head around slowly.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi?”

“How you doing?” I ask, buying time. I still feel nervous about saying yes. Caleb will just miss out. Like I've said before, stupid Caleb.

Max ignores the question and turns his head away from me.

“Um, hey,” I say. “About the dance—”

“Oh. It's okay,” he says.

Huh?

“It's okay. Don't worry about it. You don't have to go with me.” He seems a little annoyed.

“But—I—”

“I'm not stupid, you know,” he says. “If someone doesn't say yes, then I can figure out it's a no.”

“But that's not what—”

“I'm going with Izzy Van Norton,” he says—meaning the half-pretzel girl—and turns around, leaving me feeling completely like a lost puppy.

It's Friday, and I've successfully avoided Delia, Mandy, Phoebe, and Joey all week. I am getting my backpack out of my locker when something hits the back of my head. People around me giggle, and I turn and see Peyton Randall walking away. “Delia wanted me to give you this,” she says, in a disgusted voice. There's a small triangle-shaped note on the floor. One kid accidentally steps on it, oblivious. I reel it in with my foot before it gets crushed again.

My name, which Delia wrote in a triangular pattern to match the shape of the note, now bears a gray sneaker mark. I dust it off and hear, “What's that?”

It's Brynne. She's got her backpack over her shoulder and a slight sneer on her face, like she's hungry for something to make fun of. I'm glad it's not me, and I stuff the note into my pocket and say, “Just trash.”

On the bus, after Brynne gets off at her stop, I read the note.

Dear Olivia:


Will you please CALL ME? I'm sorry!


Delia


Then I crumple it up noisily in case anyone's watching. When I'm sure no one is, I stuff it into the side pocket of my backpack. I feel only slightly bad about the fact that I'm not going to call Delia—not just now. She needs to learn a little lesson about betrayal.

Later that night, my dad calls. It's obvious Corny called him earlier, and I can just imagine how
that
went.

Corny: She's acting so weird! I think it's happening! She's starting to crack!

Dad: But it's so early. She's barely through puberty!

Corny: I know, it's a shame. A darn shame.

My dad asks if everything is okay, but in that careful way—with tight words that sound like they could easily fall to the ground and shatter.

I try to act casual. “Everything's fine, Dad.” But I just prove that it's possible to
talk
out of tune, which sounds the opposite of casual.

“Are you sure? I can come up for a quick visit if you need me.”

I make myself breathe. “I'm really busy with school and stuff.”

“Oh.”

He sounds a little hurt, so I add, “It's just been stressful with the campaign.”

“No, I understand,” he tells me. “I'd vote for Mandy if I could.”

“Oh, great. Thanks,” I say. It makes me sad to hear him say it, especially because I'm not so sure I would say the same.