I could hardly believe it. I’d never been one to make friends easily; I was always the one that my peers derided as Stuck-Up Girl, Miss Prissy Face, Full-of-Herself Frances. My clothes were weirdly formal for someone my age, little blouses and cardigans, skirts, perfectly-shined shoes; never for me the blue jeans or T-shirts or sneakers of other kids. I rarely spoke to anyone, and when I did I was aware of a tone in my voice that was remote, almost cold, though I didn’t mean it to be. At my old school, in my old life hundreds of miles from Soames Elementary, I was in the habit of spending my recesses and lunch periods entirely alone, sitting under a familiar oak tree with my latest book from the library, often Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys or Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators, books I was always careful with, never underlining or dog-earing a page. I was so fastidious that sometimes I couldn’t begin reading at all if I found that I didn’t have a proper bookmark with me.
