Flatso gives me a look like I’m insane. “I know because I have a subscription to Celeb Newz Weekly and also because he’s wearing a name tag.”

Hmm. Aside from the fact that he’s extremely handsome, this man could be anybody. He could just be a really, really, extremely, almost painfully good-looking substitute teacher, or a janitor, or something.

I’m actually a little weirded out by the thought that Johnny Depp is just a regular guy. I guess I don’t want him to be. I want him to be the kind of artistic weirdo who never leaves home without an elaborate headdress and/or eyeliner. I wonder if I should offer to lend him some, but he seems busy.

“What’s he doing here?” I ask.

Flatso explains, “He’s researching a role,” at which point Zitsy hoots his Pod Person laugh again.

I turn to Zitsy. “Why are you laughing like that?”

“Is he looking over this way?” Zitsy’s speaking without moving his lips.

I check. “No.”

Mr. Depp is, in fact, still engrossed in the math book. But I realize that everyone around him is doing a very, very quiet version of going completely batshit.

Students and teachers are desperately trying to act cool yet somehow make Johnny Depp notice them. It’s an interesting dynamic. The Thespians are singing in four-part harmony, as if they always hang out in the hallway doing that. The Twinkies are staring at Mr. Depp with flesh-melting intensity from behind their thick curtains of hair, so the effect is kind of lost. And the Goths seem to have added extra metal: on their necklaces, belts, wallets, ears, noses, lips, and eyebrows. Probably other places we don’t need to mention, too.

For a moment, I think maybe I’ll go over and say hello to Mr. Depp. He’s a normal person, right? And so am I. I even have paperwork that says so.

But something holds me back. Even the thought of walking over to him makes me let out a creepy, nervous giggle.

It’s weird, because a part of me thinks that Johnny Depp and I could really get along.

I wonder why he chose to come to North Plains High School instead of someplace closer to LA. Is it because we’re more “normal” than LA kids? Maybe he’s dying to meet normal people.

So part of me really believes that he’d like to talk to me, but another, bigger part of me doesn’t dare say hello. He’s an adult. And a celebrity. And I’m just… whoever I am. So even if he’s dying to meet me but just doesn’t know it, he isn’t going to.

It’s funny. He’s here to observe us as normal high school students, but his being here has made everyone act bizarre. I have the strange feeling that Winnie Quinn was trying to tell us something about this the other day—that you can change something merely by observing it. Here it is, happening right before my eyes.

I love science.