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  “Hunh.”

  “I think Birdie’s judgment is seriously impaired.”

  Finally, Mackey closes his book and looks at me. “Maybe he’s sick of being alone. Don’t you want him to have someone?”

  “He has us,” I say.

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  I stare at the giant zits on Mackey’s nose. They’re red and pussy—gross. He washes his face and uses that Clear-Skin stuff every night, but nothing works. Who does Mackey have to hang out with? The Lord of the Rings. Spock. He doesn’t have a Jules. The only person he ever brought home was Willy Grimes, who wore high-waters and ended up stealing most of Mackey’s action figures.

  Sometimes I look at my brother and think, Ouch.

  “Well,” I say now. “Let’s just hope Birdie knows what he’s doing.”

  Mackey grunts. His eyes are on the book.

  “Okay.” I walk backward, toward the door. “I guess I’ll be going, then. Off to put on some Underoos and play with my Hello Kitty dolls. You know. Thirteen-year-old stuff.”

  “Gngh,” Mackey says. Which I guess means good-bye on his planet.

  I have never tried talking to my mother from a bathroom before, lying fully clothed in a peach-colored tub, in the middle of the day. But there’s a first time for everything.

  Stella? It’s me, Evyn. The oldest living flower girl. Did you see the dress? Barforama.

  Stella smiles. It’s not so bad.

  Yes it is. Probably they will put me at the kids’ table, too, with butter shaped like Mickey Mouse ears. And later, we will do the hokey pokey. I wish you were here to talk to Birdie for me, because I bet he would listen to you. “Honey,” you could say. “Evyn’s a teenager now. Let’s not humiliate her at the wedding.” But I guess if you were here, he wouldn’t be getting married, would he?

  Stella laughs. I hope not!

  I wish you were here.

  Oh, honey, she says. Me, too.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It’s the first day of school. I am wearing an econo-sized backpack, underwear that itches, and a lampshade.

  Everyone else on the bus is wearing a lampshade, too, but that doesn’t make me feel better. First, I am not a kilt person, and even if I were, I would not choose green-and-yellow plaid that bells out at the knees. However, at the March School for Girls, you don’t get a choice.

  “The dreaded lampshade,” one of the twins said to me this morning, shuddering. “I wore that thing for eight years.” She had on jeans, a silver spangle top, and beat-up cowboy boots.

  And the other one said, “Oh, God. The lampshade.” She said this from the comfort of her suede pants, plum-colored sweater, and giant hoop earrings. “You’ll want to burn that thing in a week.”

  I just nodded. There was nothing to say except, Where do you keep the lighter fluid?

  At breakfast, only two people looked as bad as me: Ajax, in a green-and-yellow-plaid blazer with Thorne School for Boys emblazoned on the pocket, and Phoebe, wearing a mini version of my outfit.

  “I’m in the lower-school building,” she told me. “It’s yellow. You’re in the middle-school building. It’s green.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Uh-huh.”

  Eleni plopped some scrambled eggs on the table and told me, “You’re going to love the March School.” Then, “That kilt looks darling on you.”

  Darling.

  She had our lunches lined up in a row on the counter: seven brown bags with our names on them, folded down at the top.

  After breakfast, I got Birdie alone. “This is not good,” I told him. “Not good at all.”

  Birdie just hugged me and said the important thing was not the uniform but the quality of my education.

  “It’s not just the uniform,” I told him. “It’s everything.”

  “The March School is very reputable,” he said. “Eleni tells me it was ranked third in the city for—”

  I interrupted him. “I think I’m going to puke.”

  Birdie hugged me again, scruffing his chin along my scalp. “Be sure you brush your teeth afterward,” he said. “Stomach acid dissolves tooth enamel.”

  I don’t know if he was kidding or serious, but right now I really am nauseous. Every time the bus goes over a bump I can feel eggs rising in my throat.

  I am the only person sitting alone. It’s killing me, but I’m not about to ask Phoebe and her little friend Hannah if I can triple with them.

  I wish Jules was here. Or even my brother, who at this moment is riding in a car with Thalia and the sweater twins, on his way to the public high school. When I said good-bye this morning, he was pale with red eyes.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  And he said, “Ungh.”

  It’s Mackey’s first day of school, too, and I keep forgetting how bad it is for him, being zitty and geek-smart and not remotely cool. He will probably walk into the cafeteria later and not know where to go. Because no one will wave him over.

  Whereas I’m sure that at some point today, at least one person will come up to me and say, “Hey, are you the new girl?”

  She may not be Miss Popular, but that’s okay. In my old school, I was somewhere in the middle. Maybe she’ll have braces, like Jules, or a funny accent, like my friend Raquel, or her nose will be a little squooshed, like Ann’s. But she will be nice, holding out her hand and saying, “I’m So-and-so. Who are you?”

  And I will tell her, and then she will ask me to sit with her at lunch.

  That’s one thing I can be glad of right now. At least I am not my brother.

  When the bus stops and everyone gets up, I realize I’m dressed wrong. For one thing, I don’t have long hair. I don’t have long hair smoothed back in a velvet headband or pulled up in a high, shiny ponytail. Also, I’m not wearing knee socks, folded over just so. Or big black shoes with chunky heels. I have on plain white sneakers and Ped socks—the kind with the pom-pom at the ankle.

  Right this second, Jules, Raquel, and Ann have on plain white sneakers and Peds with pom-poms, as they walk into my old school together, without me.

  Now the bus driver is staring at me in the giant rearview mirror. “Sometime this month?”

  I stand up and take off my Peds and stuff them into my backpack. Like this will be enough.

  In homeroom, I’m seated between two girls who are wearing the correct hair-and-sock combo. They lean over and talk to each other like I’m not here.

  “Did you watch The E.B. last night?” the one with the ponytail asks.

  And the one with the headband says, “Natch.”

  I know what they’re talking about, this TV show Jules and I used to rag on—where the kids act like adults and the adults act like kids, and everyone is tan, even in winter.

  “Isn’t Wyatt James sooooo petute?”

  “Sooooo petute.”

  “I can’t believe Brandi dumped him for Vincent.”

  “I know!”

  “Brandi is a pita, anyway,” Ponytail says.

  “A total pita,” says Headband. And they both laugh.

  I sit absolutely still. I think about the only pita I know of, which is bread. I think about how Jules and I used to talk in code, too. She was “J-Dog.” I was “E-Pup.” A cute boy was a “Benny,” and we were “Efftees”—Friends ‘Til the End. Jules and I spoke the same language, so we understood each other.

  Here, I understand every fifth word.

  My first class is Latin, and the room is a closet. Literally. There are mops in here.

  The Latin teacher, who is bald with furry arms, looks around for a window to open, but there isn’t one. There’s no chalkboard, either. And there’s just one desk. For me. The only person in the school stupid enough to pick a dead language over Spanish.

  I can’t open my locker.

  It’s a combination lock. Three numbers—5,10,15. Simple, right? But still I can’t open it.

  At my old school we had key locks. You carried your key on a cord around your neck, so there was never any probl
em.

  I look around the hall for someone to help me, but there’s no one here. The bell already rang. Which means I am late for math.

  It’s lunch, and I am standing in the middle of the cafeteria, holding a brown bag with my name on it, looking for someone to sit next to. Anyone.

  There are clumps of girls everywhere—talking, laughing, eating. Probably they have all been friends since kindergarten, when they first ate paste together.

  I bend down and pretend to tie my shoe. When I stand, someone is waving me over. Finally! She has messy hair, a long face, and big teeth. She looks like a horse. I could be friends with this girl.

  I smile and start walking.

  “Deebo!” she squeals. “I saved you a seat!”

  Deebo?

  A girl with a lunch tray breezes past me from behind. “Beebo!” She takes the seat next to Horse Face. They start giggling for no reason.

  I am left in the dust, still holding a brown bag with my name on it. I would feel like a major loser right now, if anyone was looking at me. But nobody is.

  I am Invisi-girl.

  Stella? It’s me, Evyn. I don’t know why they call it study hall. It’s not like anyone studies around here. See that group of headbands by the windows? They’re text messaging, and cell phones aren’t even allowed in school. I can’t believe Birdie is making me go here.

  Stella smiles.

  I can’t believe it’s only sixth period. Two hours and 181 days until eighth grade is over. There’s no way I’m going to make it.

  Think positive, she says. Everything will work out fine. You’ll see.

  When I open the door, the house is silent. Apparently, I’m the only kid in Boston who had nowhere to go after school today. Phoebe has Brownies. Cleanser Boy has soccer. The sweater twins have student council. Even Mackey is going to watch Thalia try out for some dorky play.

  I have nothing. I think I will go drown my sorrows in an econo-sized bag of Doritos. But when I get to the kitchen, there she is. The future Mrs. Birdie.

  “Evyn!” she says, like she’s been waiting for me all her life. “Come on in! I was just slicing up some baklava.”

  She smiles and wipes her hands on a towel. “How was your first day?”

  I shrug. What am I going to say? Super! The bus driver is my new best friend!

  “You must be hungry,” she says, holding out a plate to me. “Have some. It’s still warm.”

  She’s right. I’m starving. It’s hard to eat lunch when you’re crouched in a bathroom stall for the entire period. But I don’t tell her this. I tell her no, thank you. I say, “I think I’ll go upstairs and start my homework.”

  She smiles wider. “Good for you. I wish everyone in this house were that motivated.”

  I’m halfway across the room when she says, “Evyn?”

  I turn. “Yeah?”

  “If you ever want to…you know, have anyone over after school or anything…well, I just want you to know that your friends are always welcome here. Anytime. You don’t even have to ask. This is your home now, honey.”

  I nod, like I believe her.

  She smiles, yet again.

  Birdie is in my room, squatting on the floor, sawdust in his hair.

  “Where were you?” I say.

  He gets up. “Hrrrf?” There are three screws poking out of his mouth and a drill in his hand.

  “When I got home from school. You’re supposed to be waiting for me. You’re always waiting for me when I get home from school. You. Not Eleni.”

  Birdie spits the screws into his hand. “I was up here. Building lofts.” He gestures to a wooden structure in the middle of the room. “Cool, huh? It was Clio’s idea. She thought if I built two—”

  “Birdie.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why is she even home? I thought she worked.”

  He puts down the drill and picks up a tape measure. “Her classes end at noon on Mondays. Mondays, she bakes.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say. “She tried to make me eat baklava.”

  Birdie’s eyes light up. “She made baklava? I love baklava.”

  “Birdie.”

  “What? You have something against baklava?”

  “No. It’s just—”

  “You have to try it. Eleni makes incredible bakla—”

  “Birdie!”

  “What?”

  “Stop saying baklava! You’re missing the point!”

  He raises his eyebrows at me. “Ouch. I used to have eardrums. What is the point?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Ev. What is it?”

  “Nothing. It’s just…she’s trying too hard. Okay? To be my buddy.”

  Birdie nods.

  “I know you two are getting married, but she needs to just calm down. Enough with the smiling.”

  Again, Birdie nods. He strolls over to a stack of wood planks and grabs one. Then another.

  “You know?” I say.

  “Mmmhmm.”

  He snaps open the tape measure with one hand, starts measuring. “Lousy first day of school?”

  “What? No! It has nothing to do with—”

  Birdie looks up. “No?”

  His eyes are warm and crinkly. I know I could tell him the truth, if I wanted to. But right now I don’t. I shake my head instead.

  “Okay.” He shrugs. “Jules called.”

  “She did?” This is the best news I’ve heard all day.

  “Yep.”

  “When? I mean, when can I call her back? When do the rates go down?”

  My father is an absolute maniac about the phone bill. We are only allowed to make calls at certain times, and then only if we dial this ridiculously long series of numbers first, so we can save two cents.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he says now. “Just call.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do I have to check with Eleni?”

  “Nope.”

  “If you say so.” I start for the door. Then I turn back. “Are we rich now or something?”

  Birdie reaches into his beard and pulls something out—a wood chip maybe. “I wouldn’t say rich.” He tosses it into the trash. “Comfortable.”

  “Comfortable,” I repeat. “Huh.”

  “Define comfortable,” Jules says. “Because my uncle’s a professor, and I can tell you they don’t make diddly-squat. So the ex must be loaded. What does he do? Investment banker? CEO? Record producer?”

  “I have no idea,” I say. “Nobody tells me anything around here.”

  “Right,” Jules says. And she knows to change the subject.

  She launches into the first day of school and how awesome everything was. They repainted the eighth-grade corridor. Purple. It looks awesome. There’s a new gym teacher, Mr. Dyer, who’s awesome. All the girls are crushing on him, and guess who got him for an advisor?

  On and on she goes until she finally remembers I’m on the other end. “So,” she says. “How was school for you?”

  I don’t even miss a beat. “Awesome,” I say. “Boston rocks.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  On Saturday we go to Cleanser Boy’s soccer game. I didn’t want to come, but Birdie insisted. He mentioned such things as Family Unity and Show of Sibling Support. Also, Lunch.

  “Eleni made us a picnic,” Birdie said this morning. “Quesadillas. And brownies!”

  I am beginning to think he’s getting married just for the food.

  At Casa Gartos, Birdie is becoming the world’s leading expert on fine cuisine. He always seems to have something in his mouth, and it always seems to be the most delicious thing ever, because Eleni Made It.

  Have you tasted this pesto? It’s unbelievable. Eleni made it.

  Try this spanakopita. Eleni made it. It’s out of this world!

  In our old life, I was the one who cooked. Chicken potpie and manicotti. Pigs in blankets. Hash. Also, I sewed buttons on Birdie’s shirts. And gave him foot rubs. I cut his hair, and I did as good a job a
s any barber.

  Now, Eleni is the boss.

  “Al,” she said last night. “I’d really love you to be cleanshaven for the wedding.”

  Two seconds later, Birdie was beardless.

  In my whole life I have never seen Birdie without a beard. Even in pictures from when my mom was alive, there it was—as much a part of him as his nose. Without it, he looks weird, just vaguely familiar, like someone I’ve met before and can’t quite place.

  Also, he’s wearing new clothes. Khakis. A shirt that requires ironing. Some stupid, preppy-looking jacket with a corduroy collar. Birdie wouldn’t be caught dead in that jacket. But Al is the ultimate prepster.

  Al eats pesto.

  Al shaves.

  And now, Al is climbing the bleachers to shake hands with a bunch of Eleni’s friends.

  “Frank,” she says, smiling like crazy. “This is Al Linney, my fiancé…Walter, Marlene. My fiancé, Al…Jane? Gus! Yoo-hoo! This is Al!”

  The bleachers are full of Eleni’s people.

  Also full of my March School classmates, sans lampshades. Today it’s all about jeans and thigh-high boots.

  “Do those girls go to March?” one of the twins asks me. “Are they in your class? Are they cool?”

  And the other one says, “Are you friends with them? What are their names? I think the one with the blond hair is Corey Ritterman’s little sister. Do you know her? Is she a Ritterman?”

  “That’s not Corey’s sister. She looks nothing like her.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “No, she doesn’t. The hair, maybe, but that’s it. Look at her face. Her face is totally different.”

  “Want to bet? How much do you want to bet that girl is a Ritterman?…Hey, do you know her? Her last name’s Ritterman, right?”

  I make myself smile and shrug. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m still trying to put names with faces.”

  It’s not exactly a lie. I just happened to leave out the fact that not one of those girls has talked to me yet. And that I have spent five consecutive lunch periods in the bathroom stall.

  The sweater twins have a million friends. They are constantly at someone’s house, or instant messaging, or on the phone. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t understand my predicament.