Mid-morning break finally comes. Eighth graders sit outside, at the tables by the vending machines. These tables were—are—for eighth graders only, by unwritten rule. I didn’t know I remembered that.
“Yo, Jessica!”
It’s Ryan Morrison, sitting next to Becca Osborne, staring directly at me. Ryan was—is—the captain of the eighth-grade basketball team. He’s King s**t right now, though he fades away in high school. I don’t know what happens to him. Becca goes to UCLA, works as a model, then starts a fitness studio with a college friend. The studio gets profiled in The Wall Street Journal. They make great kale shakes, apparently.
“I’m not Jessica,” I say, moving away.
“No, you’re…” Ryan’s face opens in a smile. “You’re Amy, right? C’mere.”
Tables fall silent around us. The air hums with anti
