Still, her rejection is like a knife in my back. Just because she pulled the knife out doesn’t mean the wound isn’t aching.

I slide into my usual seat, back of the classroom, beside Carly, behind Dee. Kelley’s in front of Carly. I’m more of a front-of-the-room kind of girl, but since this is the only class I have with all of them, I sit where they sit. Right now, I’m tempted to put in my earbuds, stay quiet, and ignore Dee’s and Kelley’s questioning looks. But that’s the coward’s way out.

Carly stares at me for what feels like an hour. Then she offers a small smile. “We’re discussing costumes.”

It takes me a second to catch up and realize she’s talking about the Halloween dance.

“Are you in or out?” she asks.

“Ummm . . .” I’m hesitant to commit until I hear what she has in mind.

“I’m going as mustard, Dee’s gonna be ketchup, and Kelley’s relish. We came up with it last night.”

The fact that they decided without me and I’m the last to know sort of smarts.

“What are you planning to make the bottles out of?” I ask, surprised that they’re going this route. All the other costumes they’d been considering involved very high heels and very short skirts.

Carly offers a cat-got-the-cream smile. “No bottles. Too bulky. We’re thinking spandex. Mine’ll be yellow. Dee’s will be red.”

“And Kelley’s will be green.” I get the picture. “I’m not sure people will know exactly what you’re dressed as. Colored spandex doesn’t exactly scream condiments, you know? Are you all going to wear pop-top lids on your heads?” The second I say it, I feel a wave of unease, the memory of how Jackson popped the shell’s skull like the lid of a shampoo bottle freaking me out a little.

Carly laughs, and I force myself to let go of the memory. “Maybe,” she says. “But I’m thinking colored wigs to match the spandex. And maybe little labels drawn on our tummies or something. So . . .” She lifts a brow. “You in or out?”

A minute ago I was upset that they hadn’t invited me to join in. Now, I’m trying to think of a graceful way to decline. Before I can come up with something, Carly says, “No . . . wait . . . there’s three of us and, well, mustard, ketchup, and relish? That’s kind of a trio thing. Guess you’re on your own.”

“Guess so.” I duck my head and reach into my bag for my copy of Lord of the Flies, hiding my expression. By the time I lift my head again, I have my hurt hidden. I actually feel insulted and slighted and pissed that my friends made this plan without me. How’s that for confusion? I don’t know whether I’m upset that I’m upset, or glad that I’m upset because I’m feeling something more than the usual anger or pain. I can’t help it. I laugh. My friends all look at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“It’s all good,” I say. The truth is, wearing skintight, reveal-all, red, yellow, or green spandex with a matching wig or a pop-top lid on my head isn’t my idea of fun. Inspiration hits. “I might go as a ninja.” If I go at all. Dress all in black—or if I wear my kendo outfit, navy blue—wear a mask, and strap my wooden kendo practice sword across my back. That could work. I catch Carly’s eye and lower my voice. “Oh, and Carly? Don’t do the bitch thing. Either we’re okay or we’re not.”

I’m stunned by how calm I sound. Her eyes widen.

“A ninja,” Carly says, ignoring my last comment completely, which tells me she’d rather be okay than not. “Black spandex. Nice. And you’re hair’s already dark, so you won’t need a wig.” She nods and turns back to Kelley and Dee, who are watching us with avid attention. They both look relieved to see that Carly and I are talking, and wary because they can sense something’s still off.

At that second, Mr. Shomper walks in pushing an old TV set on a metal rolling cart. Relief is sweet as syrup. The cart gets stuck in the doorway and Mr. Shomper struggles a little, wheezing. He’s seventy if he’s a day, rumpled and stooped. He’s organized and meticulous, always handing out a detailed description and rubric for every assignment. I like him even though pretty much no one else does. With a grinding rumble, the cart slides into the room. Mr. Shomper reaches back and closes the door behind him.

“Movie day. Nice,” Kelley says. “I didn’t read the chapter.”

“Me neither.” Dee rolls her eyes. “Actually, I haven’t read a word of it yet. I was planning to just watch the movie. Guess Mr. Shomper has that covered.”

“Good thing,” I say. “Because I didn’t read the chapter, either, and I was thinking it’d be just my luck if we had a pop quiz.”

Dee and Kelley stare at me.

“You didn’t read the chapter?”

“You always read the chapter.”

“I had stuff on my mind.”

They both look at Carly, who looks pensive, and it’s easy to guess that they all think I’m talking about her and the fact that we had a fight. Which is true, to an extent. But as I lay in the dark last night listening to the house shift and settle before I fell asleep, I wasn’t just thinking about how much I hate fighting with Carly. I was thinking about Luka and Tyrone. About Richelle. I was thinking about the aliens, the shells we shut down, the girl in the cold room.

But mostly, I was thinking about—

The door to the classroom opens. I look up and my chest locks down. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.