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ON MONDAY MORNING,
as I pass through the halls on my way to first period, I notice former Mandy-harasser Garrett “Glass Eye” Pearson taping up posters for Mandy's campaign. Peyton Randall, a.k.a. My Replacement, walks behind him, holding a massive bag of Jolly Ranchers.

Then Corbin Moon's voice booms behind me. “Hey, G.E., you need some more tape?” He rolls a gigantic spool of tape down the hall toward Garrett, and I almost trip trying to stay out of its way.

I head down the hall, avoiding the traffic jam of people near Mandy's locker. The mostly blank wall is decorated with a few Dawn Lane posters (she's made them as long green strips, like street signs; “Dawn Ln” is shown intersecting with “Presidential Blvd”). I notice something sticking to my shoe—it's an old yellow “Vote for B.S.” Post-it. I peel it off and throw it away so Brynne won't see it.

I go early to first period just to try and escape the halls—to escape any sign of the election. Ms. Flamsteed is writing the definition of mechanical energy on the whiteboard, which is already making me sleepy. She puts the marker down and turns around to the classroom—vacant, except for me, in my front row seat.

“Oh! Olivia,” she says, surprised. “You're early.”

And then Brynne walks into the room. She's dressed in the same sweats she was in all weekend, and her hair is wet and pulled into a ponytail. It looks just plain brown, like a bag when it's wet, nothing like its usual radiant auburn. I start to wonder if she gave me her only tube of
product
. It also doesn't seem like she's bothered with makeup since she washed it off at my house Friday night. Without it she's still pretty, just a little less colorful.

“Hi!” I say, surprised.

“Hey!” She smiles a little, then looks around and slips into the seat next to me.

“Oh, Brynne, dear—not there. Your seat will be in the back row, third desk over.”

She looks pained. “It's just that—Ms. Flamsteed? I don't know if Mrs. Vander-Pecker told you, but I can't sit back there. I'm nearsighted.”

Ms. Flamsteed exhales loudly. “Well, no, she didn't, but I guess you can stay there if you need to. As long as Maria doesn't mind moving.”

My mouth drops. “Are you in this class now?”

“Yep,” she whispers, smiling sneakily.

“But
how
?”

“Never underestimate the power of the parent,” Brynne says quietly. “I told my mom I was going through something and felt like I needed to change classes to get away from the usual people. It's
kind of
true.”

“So they just switched you? Just like that?”

She stifles a laugh with her hand. “Trial basis, but yep.”

“Wow,” I say. And I am kind of excited. Because it'll be fun to have someone to laugh with whenever we have to watch a stupid science video, like last week's
Let's Get Electric!
And it'll be nice to have an actual lab partner again, and not have to pair up with Ms. Flamsteed, which happened last week when we had to swab our filthy, bacteria-laden mouths and watch the germs swim around, confused and out of place, under the microscope. I mean, I don't need science to tell me how gross I am—I'm starting to feel that way again every time I set foot in this building. It's like when I gave up my friends, I gave up the chance to be socially acceptable altogether. And this, despite the fact that I now have socially acceptable—even brilliant and glossy—hair.

Which is further proven when Maria comes in and acts sincerely thrilled to move four seats back from me and next to Dawn Lane.

I'm on my way to Spanish. In the hallway, Erin Monroe acts very inconvenienced but does her civic duty and tells me my shoe's untied.

I make a “traffic violation”—as it's called at Hubert C. Frost—and stop to tie it. Someone runs right into me, like they were following too closely. I tumble forward onto the dirty gray tile. Even though I'm supremely mortified, I kind of hope to look up and see Caleb's face, just for a taste of the old thrill, as pathetic as that sounds. Instead I see Brynne's.

“Sorry, Liv,” she says, helping me up.

“I thought you were going to fifth period.”

“I am.” She smiles. “Mr. Chang for Spanish.”

“But that's my class,” I say, stupidly.

“Like I said, never underestimate the power of a parent.”

On our way to class, we pass by her “Win With Brynne” posters, which are worn and torn in places. She now looks completely unrecognizable from the angelic picture of her former preplan self, but it doesn't seem to bother her.

“Don't you want to put up some new posters?” I ask, because the whole thing seems so sad. It's like when I was little and someone was building a house on the land next to us, and I guess they ran out of money or lost interest, because it never got finished. It just kept standing there untouched, like a skeleton of a dream, and eventually became what my dad called “dry rot.”

“Nah,” she says. “I don't really care about the election anymore, but it's the only thing keeping me from failing Social Studies and spending another year in this hellhole.”

“I know,” I say. “But still. We could make some new ones after school.” To be honest, I don't want her to give up. Maybe because that would confirm to me that I've pretty much ruined her life. And am probably an evil person.

“No, seriously, Olivia,” she says, sounding a little upset. “Despite what everyone thinks, I'm not some ditz. Look around. I don't have a prayer. Dawn Lane will get more votes than I will.”

She doesn't get to sit next to me in Mr. Chang's class, but she does manage to pass a note up to me. The kid behind me kicks me in the anklebone to make me turn around, and then shoves the square of paper into my palm so hard it hurts.

I try to unfold it quietly, but I'm not quiet enough, because the girl next to me shoots me an annoyed look. The note says,

Don't forget to wait for me after class!!!!!

I slowly turn around and give Brynne a smile that says I think she's crazy—
good
crazy, not seriously mentally ill.
Although
. She smiles back and her face softens, like she's a little relieved.

But
I'm
not, I realize after I turn back around and it hits me. I think about Bella, and how when some dogs start to feel insecure, they begin to fixate on something. In Bella's case it was wood; in Brynne's case, well, I'm starting to think that it's me.

It's not just any Monday. It's Worm Day.

I know that sounds gross, but I love Worm Day. It's the one day of the month that the dogs get their heartworm medicine, which comes in meaty little chews. The dogs are crazy about these chews—I'm talking
nuts
. Worm Day is when the dogs pull out their best tricks—rolling over on command, turning in a circle, shaking hands, that kind of thing. I'm trying to teach Queso to high-five me (with no luck) when the phone rings. It's Moncherie.

“I can't do our session this week,” she tells me. It's good timing because I've just received another Spokane-postmarked letter, and I know how much she loves to interrogate me about them. I file it away, under my mattress, unopened, with the others. “Something came up, but I'll call as soon as I can to reschedule.”

She sounds a little excited.

I wonder if she's got a date or something. And I wonder if maybe she used the training I told her about to get that date. And then I wonder if she knows what she's getting into.

I WALK INTO
the school lobby Tuesday morning and try to squeeze past a crowd. I slide sideways, sucking in my gut, tolerating elbows and shoulders digging into my ribs, and knees bumping into my shins. I stand on my tiptoes to see what's in the center of the crowd.

It's a table, full of campaign buttons that just say, really big, mandy! Behind the table are the four of them—Mandy, beaming and looking almost glamorous with her black lips, like some oddly attractive work of art; Delia, with her caramel complexion practically glowing; Phoebe, looking polished and professional, with naked, perfect teeth that you can see really well because she is
actually smiling
; and Joey, all dressed up, with a belt and even a hint of a waistline. Hands are reaching over other hands to grab the buttons. I feel pressure at my back and I'm swooped forward. I try to turn around and swim out of the crowd, like you're supposed to do when you get sucked into a riptide, but the crowd doesn't yield. Someone behind me says, “I'm just trying to get to English. Are you trying to make life difficult?” I crane my neck. It's Caleb. He's smiling at me. I'm so flustered that I say something dazzling like “No!” I'm just
that
smart.

But the moment is gone because the crowd pushes forward again and forces me closer to the table. My arms and legs are struggling against the force. And then I hear Delia's voice.

“Olivia?” For a second, our eyes lock, and I can't remember why I'm mad. All I feel is panic and sorrow and the hollowness of missing someone pretty badly. Even if that someone betrayed you. The crowd squeezes forward again, spitting me out sideways, where I beach and catch my breath.

But my head is still swimming.

Is it possible to forgive someone who betrayed you even when it still hurts? And if it is,
how
?

In the hallway I trip over my own ankle. In Algebra I pick at my cuticles and bleed so much that I start to wonder if there's an artery in my thumb. In History I find myself glancing over at the back of Joey's head so often that I get a crick in my neck. For the first time ever, I'm dying to know what's going on in that round little head of his.

I still don't know exactly how you forgive someone, but I think I'm ready to try. Maybe I can start with Joey. I decide that I'll kick him in the butt on our way out of class. That's how guys make up after fights—some type of casual violence. I've seen it myself. Last week, Blake Edward and Nissen Gambrill got in some fight about a basketball foul. A couple of days later, Blake sneaked up on Nissen and put him in a headlock. They've been inseparable since. And wedgies. Those also work. But I decide a nice swift, but gentle, kick to the left cheek should do it this time.

But I never get the chance. I try to follow him, but the minute we get out the door, I run smack into her. Brynne.

“Hi,” she says. She's waiting for me. “Do you need to go to your locker first or you want to go straight to lunch?”

It's a little weird how things have changed. Okay, a
lot
weird.

I sit beside her on the bus, like I always do now. The popular kids that she used to hang out with in the front of the bus are still there—and still popular—but we've managed to secure our own little spot in the backseat. It's like we've been banished. Being her friend is not at all like I imagined.

I think about all the training we'd done, and I so wish I could rewind everything. I miss Delia with an almost physical pain. I want to cry—in a good way!—when I see Phoebe, for Pete's sake! I almost stopped in the hall and hugged Mandy today, and would have French-kissed Joey if I could just have him back as my friend. I miss them all so much. As mad as I've been, I
know
them. Delia did something stupid, but it's only because she was trying to protect me from something worse. They all were.

Brynne starts. “Did you see what your ex-best-friend did with her hair?” She's referring to Delia's new updo, her hair swirled up and away from her face. Knowing Delia, it probably took hours to put it up and days trying to overcome her insecurities to do it in the first place. Just thinking about her little familiar quirks makes it hard to breathe. “I think I liked her hair better down, like when she had pizza-face.”

“You're being kind of mean,” I say quietly.

“Sor-
ry
,” she says. “I thought you didn't like her anymore.”

“I just miss her,” I confess. It's got to be the understatement of the year.

She turns to look out the window, and I know I've upset her. “I'm sorry,” I say. “It's just that—I thought she was a good friend, you know? And
fun
—they all were.”

“So I guess ‘good friends' tell everyone all your secrets now?”

“I mean, sure, part of me wants to throttle her, but you know Delia—you
know
she thought she was helping. You used to be best friends with her too. You know how sweet she really is.”

“
Sweet
? Gag,” Brynne says. “I'd still be mad if I were you.”

“Yeah, but still,” I say. “I was always afraid that no one would like me if they knew the truth about what a freak I am—you know, a weird mom, therapy, that kind of thing. But you know everything about me now, and you still like me. And it turns out they've
all
known that stuff about me for a while, and it never bothered any of them.”

“What. A. Revelation,” she says flatly, and crosses her arms over her chest. The bus squeals to a stop. Her stop. She gets up and pulls her backpack on. “I'll call you later,” she grumbles. Then she gets off the bus behind Carolyn and Tamberlin. The bus pulls away, but I turn to watch them. Carolyn and Tamberlin walk together, talking with their hands and laughing with their whole bodies. Brynne walks about twenty feet behind them, with her face toward the ground.

Brynne's already called by the time I get home. Corny tells me. I
sigh. I don't really want to call her back after the way she acted on the bus. As it turns out I don't have to, because a little while later she calls again.

“I wasn't sure your grandma would remember to tell you I called,” she says.

“Oh, she did.” I don't tell her that Corny told me
Brianna
called. Or that I wasn't sure I should call her back at all.

“Anyway, have you written a love letter to Delia yet?”

“You think that would work?” I say, only half-kidding.

“I can't believe you. Someone screws you over like that and you still want to be friends?”

“But we were
best
friends,” I say.

“So? And now
we're
best friends. You don't need her.”

“I just really do miss Delia. And Mandy and Phoebe and even Joey!”

“Phoebe,” she says. “What a joke. That whole thing is just ridiculous.”

“What whole thing?” I ask.

“That thing with Brant. I know it was mean, but I really didn't think it would work out.”

“Brynne, what are you talking about?”

She sighs. “I totally dared him to do it. To ask her to the Fall Ball. Then he was supposed to dump her the night before. I told him I'd dump Danny and go with him if he did.” She makes a sound like
ugh
. “Oh yeah, like
that
worked out.”

I'm surprised at how much something like this can hurt, even when it's not done to you. “Why would you do that?”

“I don't know. I guess it was kind of fun to see how far he'd go.” She sighs again. “What an idiot I am. I never thought he'd like, totally go for her.” She mimics Brant in a girly, high-pitched voice: “
Oooh
, she's just so
exotic
. She's so
beautiful
!”

Exotic!
Exotic?
I mean,
wow
. “So he really
does
like her?”

“Well, they went to the dance together, didn't they? And that part? Was no joke.”

I'm in shock at how everything—and I mean
everything
—seems to be turned on its head.

Right now, the pressure inside my chest is rising. Brynne's acting sort of crazy—and is it any wonder? I'm starting to think her crazy gene has already kicked in. Maybe mine has too, and maybe I'm too whacked to even know it. “I have to go,” I say.

But she starts apologizing again. “Olivia, I'm sorry. I really am. But it worked out for them both, didn't it? Don't be mad, okay?” Her voice cracks, which gets me. I
so
wish I didn't feel sorry for her. The flossing in my head is accomplishing nothing—yet again.

“Brynne—” I start. I take a deep breath. I miss my friends, and enough is enough. “I really do think we need to—”

“SHUT UP! I HEARD YOU!!!!” she screams. Her brother, I remember. “Crap. I gotta go. I guess I'll see you tomorrow. Like always.”

But I'm ready for always to stop right now.

I pick up the phone and make a call.

“Dad?” I collapse in the front hall, near the old corded phone. The floor creaks. Oomlot's toenails click against the wood as he comes to find me. Then he lowers himself next to me, as if collapsing in the hall is the thing to do. I snuggle up next to him and run my hand down his back. I will be absolutely covered in yellow-white dog hair when—and if—I ever get up.