The first day of school is fine when you're starting along with everyone else. But when you waltz in a couple weeks before Thanksgiving, you are The New Kid. People stare at you in class and speculate about who you are and where you come from. Everybody hates going through this, but no one hates it more than I do. Because I can actually hear their quiet speculations and chittering remarks.

I nervously tug the beanie down to my ears, take a deep breath, and walk into my first period European History class.

I blink at the disarray of classroom desks turned in random directions, likely for team discussions. The teacher—Mrs. Dinatto, according to my schedule—is youngish, with straight brown hair, a round face, and kind eyes. The previously noisy room quiets some as half the students stare at me.

Just once, I would like the main office staff to get in early enough so that whatever stupid procedures they have for a new student's first day could be finished before the first class actually started.

I look away from the sea of curious glances and silently hand the form to the teacher. I study the laces of my work boots while she reads the form. Already I can hear the whispers.

"Who's that?"

"I don't know. She's kinda hot."

"Those shoes are so tragic."

They come from all over the room, and I make no attempt to match whispers to faces.

Mrs. Dinatto finally looks up from the form and addresses the class. "Well, it looks like we have a new student joining us today. Please give a warm European History welcome to Miss Madlyn Gallows."

Random, half-hearted murmurs of "hello" circulate around the room. I give a quick, self-conscious wave to the class, then jam my hand back into my pocket.

"Now, Madlyn, you've picked the right day of the week to arrive. In addition to the regular coursework, you'll also be participating in a team project, as you can probably see." She gestures to the disorganized desks.

I groan inwardly, but my face must be showing my lack of excitement.

"I know," she says. "Team projects may not be your favorite thing, but I find that it engages the students more when they interact with each other."

"I'll 'interact' with her!" some guy shouts from the back of the class.

The room vibrates with chuckles at his innuendo.

I really hope my face isn't turning pink. My eyes dart to him. He's got sandy, close-cropped hair, and he's leering at me. It makes my skin crawl.

"Trevor, settle down!" Mrs. Dinatto says sharply before turning back to me. "I've allotted Mondays for the entire class to confer with their project partners and with me as well. The class has already been paired up into teams of two. One lucky pair will get to have you as a third team member. Now, who would like to volunteer opening their group to Madlyn?"

Trevor's hand immediately shoots into the air.

Please, no.

"Anyone else?" the teacher prompts, noting my discomfort.

The air is thick with silence as people look from me to the smirking boy. This can't be happening. My first day—no my first class—and already there's going to be a problem. Why can't she just assign me to some random group like a normal teacher?

I usually make it a point to stay away from troublemakers like Trevor. I can handle them, but I don't want to have to handle them. If I'm going to be teamed up with a Neanderthal, I can't be held responsible if his nose ends up being smashed by a stapler.

Another agonizing moment ticks by. Then, hesitantly, another hand lifts into the air. It belongs to a dark-skinned girl with amazing curly hair that hangs in ringlets around her face. She isn't smiling, but at least she isn't an overcompensating lunk-head.

"Thank you, Samar," Mrs. Dinatto says, looking as relieved as I felt. Then she turns to me. "Well, take your pick."

"You're kidding, right?" I snort. I don't think a lobotomized chimp would choose Trevor.

The corner of her mouth quirks, but she simply says, "Then go ahead and take your seat."

I find an empty desk and drag it to where Samar and another girl sit. Some discussions resume, but most people are still watching me.

"Thank you so much," I say to Samar. To the other girl I say, "I hope you don't mind me crashing your party."

"Don't worry about it," the girl replies, tossing her blond ponytail over her shoulder. "Trevor's a creep. No one should ever be stuck with that guy. I'm Lydia by the way. And you're... Madlyn?"

"I prefer Maddie. And thanks again. You guys saved me." I look at Samar, who's quietly watching me. "I love your hair, by the way." The compliment just flies out of my mouth. It's something my mom might have said.

She raises her eyebrows, but her mouth curves into a small smile. "You do?" She tugs at one of the curls.

"Yeah, they look so springy and soft, I just want to curl up and take a nap in them." I don't know why I'm saying these weird things. Maybe I'm trying to be funny because I'm afraid they'll change their minds, and then I'd be stuck with the Neanderthal. I smile, hoping they don't think I'm an idiot.

The two girls laugh, and the tension leaves my shoulders. They proceed to fill me in on the project details. We're supposed to each pick a notable figure from European history and write about them. The tricky group part is combining all three into one paper and, in a cohesive manner, explaining how they might have reacted to or interacted with each other, even if they're from different time periods.

Apparently Mrs. Dinatto majored in English, but got stuck teaching history instead.

"I chose Queen Elizabeth the first," Lydia proclaims proudly. "She was a badass."

"I'm researching Marie Curie," Samar says. "Who do you think you might choose?"

"Hmm." My brows knit in thought. "I have no idea."

"It's okay," Samar replies. "You can take the rest of the week to decide. Next week we have to start outlines."

From the corner of my eye I see it flying in my direction. I quickly jerk my head to one side, and the spitball flies harmlessly past my ear. I seek out the perpetrator and find Trevor grinning from two desk clusters over. I shoot him a withering stare, then return my attention to the girls.

"Wow, you are fast!" Lydia says as she peers at the spitball stuck to the back of someone else's chair. "You should try out for something."

"What, like cheerleading?" I don't bother hiding the disdain in my voice.

"No, like volleyball." She's tall, and I can imagine her as a volleyball star.

"Huh." A lot of wolves join sports. But I'm not a wolf. Not really. "I'll think about it."

"You just moved here?" Samar asks.

"Yeah, from Arizona."

"How do you like Brookfall so far?"

"My parents love it." I intentionally skirt the answer, but she doesn't let me.

"And you?"

I inhale slowly, thinking of a tactful answer. "I'm... reserving judgment until I have more facts."

"Fair enough," she replies.

I can't believe it. Another spitball comes flying in my direction. Is this guy still in fourth grade or what? This time I catch it and fire it right back at Trevor. It hits his eye, causing him to grunt and clap a hand over it. His friends begin laughing uproariously. "Oh man, I wish I could've recorded that!" one of them says.

"Shut up!" Trevor barks back.

I turn away from them, wiping my hand on my pants. The class volume goes from quiet discussions to boisterous questions about what happened.

The sharp clap of a ruler slapping against the teacher's desk three times silences everyone. "Mondays are for project discussion, not horseplay." Mrs. Dinatto's previously kind face is now drawn into a stern frown.

"She threw a spitball at me!" Trevor's voice is thin and whiny.

She levels an unamused stare at him. "Trevor, we both know that, if we were to analyze this supposed spitball in a lab, it would probably have your DNA all over it."

He slinks back down into his chair and continues furiously wiping his eye.

"Oh my god, Maddie, you are so awesome!" Lydia whispers excitedly.

I shrug with a half-smile.

The rest of class is spent talking about the ideas they have about the actual assignment. Lydia thinks our historical icons could all be on the same basketball team. It's a weird idea, but I stay quiet and let Samar talk her out of it.

At the end of class, the students push their desks back into rows and head out. Trevor bumps my shoulder hard as he passes meand mutters, "You'll regret what you did, Gallows."

"I doubt it," I shoot back. What a goon.

My next class is Precalculus. Fifteen minutes into it and I start to wonder if maybe I should have intentionally flunked Trig last year. I manage to keep my eyes open until third period, then begin finding my way to Spanish.

I'm rotating the map I have, trying to get my bearings, when a familiar voice says, "Hey, it's you."