I was right. The picnic was only the beginning. By the second week of school, a petition is going around. It says:

If you agree that according to the First Amendment of the United States of America we have a right to wear shirts that say whatever we want (not including swear words) sign here:

Everyone signs their names. Shocker. They don’t sign because of the First Amendment. Everyone signs because Sophie and Amelia, and sometimes Caroline and Molly, walk around school and shove the petition in their faces. By the time Sophie gets to me at the end of the day, there are already ninety-seven names. I watch as Sophie flips through four pages on her clipboard, then uncaps the pen that is tied on with a rope of colorful strings knotted like a friendship bracelet.

“Here,” she says.

I pretend to be confused.

“Um, Rover, the petition? You have to sign it. You must have heard. We’re fighting for the right to freedom.”

Freedom? They aren’t fighting for freedom. They aren’t fighting for anything except the right to wear mean shirts. I’ve watched Mom and her friends fight against all kinds of things. Big things like war, racism, and sexism. And smaller things like using lawn chemicals on the new eighteen-hole golf course in West Tisbury. But no matter the cause, their protests work the same way. They make signs with big letters. They meet somewhere where lots of cars drive by. They chant: “No More War!” “Smash the Glass Ceiling!” “Save Our Island!” Even if the protestors are just going to support a friend, they all get really into it. One person starts chanting, then the others join in, and pretty soon they’re all yelling and waving signs, and I end up sitting by the side of the road looking for four-leaf clovers.

If there’s a petition, they don’t decorate it with flowers and hearts and butterflies. They don’t tell people to hurry up and sign because the bell’s about to ring and they have to change for field hockey practice. They don’t roll their eyes like Sophie when I ask, “What do you mean ‘freedom’?”

“Like freedom freedom,” says Sophie. “Don’t you remember what Mr. Gabers taught us last year in social studies? The Founding Fathers and all that. We have rights.”

“I don’t know if that’s what the Founding—”

“Oh, come on, Cove. Just sign. We’re fighting for you, too. FYI.”

“Me?” I almost look over my shoulder, that’s how confused I am. “But I don’t have one of those shirts.”

“Obvs,” says Sophie. “I’m pretty sure they don’t come in dog sizes. But that’s not the point. The point is you dress different. Like, different from everyone else. And no one tells you that you can’t walk around dressed like a weirdo. We let you do it even though it’s totally depressing to look at. So I’m just saying, you get it, right?”

Here’s what I wish happens: I take her stupid clipboard and shove it in her stupid face. Or slam it on top of her stupid head.

Here’s what actually happens: I nod, because if I don’t move my head I’m worried Sophie will see the tears building in my eyes. I try to breathe, but it feels like my lungs are shrinking into tiny rocks. I reach for her pen even though my hands are shaking. Because I want to get away from Sophie as fast as I can, and that means signing the petition.

I hear words in my head. Words like wrong. And mean. And bully. But I don’t say them out loud. Because it’s suddenly easy to see myself exactly as Sophie sees me. As a weirdo. Someone who dresses differently because she’s not allowed to wear neon shirts with black swooshes or interlocking Us. Someone who doesn’t own a sweatshirt printed with the name of a vacation place because she’s never been anywhere on vacation. Someone whose best friend moved far away and now has a super-pretty new friend named Minnie and a phone.

After I scrawl my name, I turn and walk away.

I try to look like I have somewhere to be.

Or someone to meet.

But I don’t.

I pass posters for the robotics club and the a cappella singing group. The improv group. All the construction paper is still bright and clean; the corners are crisp and sharp. A happy sparkling rainbow of afternoon activities just waiting for happy hands to write down happy names. Names like Grace and Alexandra. Kate. Isabelle. Chloe.

Not Cove.

Not Rover.

I promised Mom that today I would finally sign up for something to do after school. But I don’t want to stay at school a minute longer than I have to. And besides, there’s somewhere else where I can learn a lot more.

I keep walking.

I’m almost at the end of the hall that leads to the cafeteria when I see Molly sitting on the floor, her back against a metal locker, her pink Converse splayed out in front of her. “My dad keeps packing me stuff with nuts,” she says, holding up a half-eaten pack of peanut butter crackers. “I got kicked out of the cafeteria. I’m not even supposed to be eating in the hallway, but these crackers are just so good. You want one?”

I almost sit down next to her. It would be so nice to sit and talk about something as normal as peanut butter crackers and their salty sweet deliciousness. But then I see what’s next to Molly. A clipboard. It’s turned over to face the floor, but it has string knotted like a friendship bracelet tied on to its metal clip.

And then I don’t want to sit anywhere near her after all.