O.’s Language Arts class, and I can hear Keisha talking with Sasha behind me. Keisha’s one of the popular girls, and I can’t remember the last time she talked to me or Sasha. Her voice is just loud enough for me to hear. “Is Ari using some new product in her hair? Or is that . . . grease?” I try hard to hear Sasha’s response. Is she sticking up for me? But how can she? What can she say? She has no idea that I no longer have to pass the Janna test every single morning before heading out the door. But this morning, Gage and I overslept, and I hardly had time to brush my hair before catching the bus back into Port City and all the way to Eastland. It seems like I have to wash it every day now to keep it clean. Plus, I had to throw on the same blouse that had the stain on it, so even though Mr. O.’s room is a furnace, I have my sweater buttoned up tight. I tuck the greasiest strand of hair, the one that falls over my forehead, behind my ear and try to focus on my work. We’re supposed to be writing book responses on books we’ve read on our own, our “independent reading”
