“Do what?” Roth turned toward the girl who’d just walked up. “Stare at that conceited Morgan.” They were in the cafeteria on Monday. Roth was slouched in a metal chair, a palm-size electronic video game—strictly forbidden on school grounds—in his hands and the black hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head. “Well, just say what you think, Liza,” he retorted. Liza Sandiski sat down with a clunk in the chair next to his. “Well, it’s true,” she said huffily. Roth and Liza had been friends for years. They were both outsiders. Her short, spiky hair was cut asymmetrically and dyed coal-black with purple tips. She wore studs in her nose and tongue and a line of small silver hoops the length of one ear. She sported a small star, inked by Roth’s uncle Max, on her right cheek, just under her eye. None of her other tats showed, but Roth knew where each one was located on her body because he had explored it thoroughly. “Bad weekend?” he asked. She shot him a mean look.
