I yawn my way through dinner, feeling more like myself after having some of my mom’s lasagna.

Mom and Dad try to send me to bed early, but since it’s Saturday night and I’m a sixth grader, I inform them I am “Yawn. Planning on staying up a bit. Yawn.” I finally relent when Dad starts counting my molars every time I yawn. “One, two, three … ”

“Stay out of my mouth!” I tell him, before bidding them good night.

I grab the paper shopping bag from where I left it at the bottom of the stairs and drag myself up to my room. I summon the strength of champions and manage to brush my teeth, wash my face, and put on pj’s before I snuggle under the covers. It’s then that I peek into the shopping bag, a flood of memories coming back as I take out first one and then another object.

A narrow column of photo-booth pictures. Fee, Piper, Celeste, and me, goofing off, being “serious,” being “mature.” I remember the feel of Piper’s scrawny arm around my shoulders, the light way that Fee perched on my lap when I patted my knee, the soft tickle of Celeste’s hair on my cheek. Piper smiled with her mouth closed in the first three, but just before the last one, Fee said, “Let’s hurry so we don’t miss Peanut!” and I gave Piper a good hard ffftttt with my fingertips right in her tickle spot and she burst out laughing. That picture is the best, all of us laughing, Piper’s braces glinting, Fee’s dimples dimpling, Celeste’s chin pointing right at my smile. I set the picture on my nightstand. I’ll tuck it in the frame of my mirror tomorrow. Next I pull out a small white waxed bag taped shut with a heart sticker. I slide my finger under the seal and tip the bag, letting a small silver ring slip out into my palm. It is thin as thread, sold as a set of four. We all pitched in, handing our folded bills to Celeste so she could count them and hand them to the man at the booth. I slip it on my pinkie finger. My stomach does a sickly flip-flop when I pull out the last thing. It’s a blue ribbon, with printing in gold in its center that reads PIE-EATING CONTEST CHAMPION. JUNIOR DIVISION. I try to focus on how good Mom’s dinner tasted tonight as I remember the taste of SO MUCH APPLE PIE.

As I sleep, I’m vaguely aware of the first few clatter-splats of rain against my window, and when I wake up Sunday morning, the rain is still going, the world grayed and blurred through a thick forest of never-ending bead-ball strands clattering from the sky.

It’s a long, cozy day. We turn on the heat and high-five when it doesn’t screech and rattle like the radiators we had back in Brooklyn. I do my homework, avoid washing my field hockey uniform, watch nineties action movies with my parents, and eventually give up on texting my friends, who are apparently too busy to text back. I tell myself Celeste will be on the ice all day, and Piper will be with Bruce, but not on the Boat, and then at her dad’s. And Fee … Well, Fee will be at the farm stand, cleaning up after a day of busloads of tourists coming through. I do get ahold of Rae, but I think she’s mad I didn’t text her back yesterday. We chat a little, but my last text to her goes unanswered.

The rain stops during the night but leaves the air damp and cold. Dad is bringing me to school early for my doughnut date with the girls, and I wait for him out front to avoid him and Mom telling me I’m going to be too cold in just my stripy sweatshirt.

I spend my wait gingerly picking up waterlogged worms from the sidewalk, their bodies pale and stretched thin, and placing them back in the leaf-covered grass.

Dad gets me to school so early that I’m the first kid in the soaked courtyard, so early that when I glance through the cafeteria window, I see the dark ceiling lights flicker and snap to life, illuminating one of the cafeteria ladies as she walks in, yawns, and takes off her coat. I wipe the wet leaves from a bench with my sweatshirt sleeve and sit on the very edge, listening to the sounds of the chairs being taken off the tables in the cafeteria and slid into place.

I wait a few minutes and then decide to get the tea ready for when Piper, Fee, and Celeste get here. I set my backpack on the bench and open it, pulling out the little tin cups from the tea set I had as a kid. The pink and white flowers painted along the rims are flaked and fading, but I don’t care, I still love it. I set the teacups on the bench, all in a row.

Another car comes up the driveway just as I’m pouring steaming hot water from my thermos into the teacups, but it turns out to be a couple of random eighth graders getting dropped off by their dads. Being eighth graders, they barely glance at me as they walk by. I put a tea bag in each cup and glance up to see the cafeteria lady watching me from the window. I look back down, pretending to be interested in the darkening water of the teacups, and wish my friends would get here already.

More cars come, a few with kids from my class. I smile and say hi to them as they pass or as they stake claim on the edges of their own damp benches. Then the buses come and the courtyard becomes flooded with kids. I try to smile as a few girls from class coo, “Oh, those are so cute!” when they see my teacups, and I just gulp and try not to disintegrate when Teagan and Tess scoff in unison, “Aren’t we a little old for tea parties?”

First bell rings and the courtyard starts to empty, and the tea has steeped so long that the water is now a dark, muddy brown. Second bell rings, and the courtyard really empties. I nod in reply to the kids who ask, “You coming, Hattie?” And then I’m alone in the courtyard again. Where are they?!

I end up chugging all four cups of tea because the lunch lady is glaring at me out the window and what if she considers tea dumping littering? I drink it so quickly that some of it dribbles down my chin and soaks the collar of my shirt with apple-scented heat. I hurry into school, my stomach a hot ocean full of sloshing tea.

The locker hall is pretty much empty by the time I dump in my backpack, teacups, and thermos and grab my stuff for first period, language arts with Ms. Lyle. I skid around the corner just as she is about to shut the classroom door. “Watch the clock, please, Ms. Maletti!” she says, her wind-through-dry-leaves voice sharper than usual. She closes the door behind me and walks slowly over to her desk.

“Hey!” I whisper breathlessly, dropping into my seat at the double desk I share with Celeste. “Where were you guys?”

Celeste turns and looks at me, pulling out an earbud from beneath her curls. “Excuse me?” Then she wrinkles her nose. “No offense, but you smell very apple-y.”

“I know I smell apple-y!” I lay my arm across the smooth, cool wood of the desk, and lay my head on my elbows, trying to catch my breath. “Where were you this morning?”

“Um … on the ice? And then here.” She taps her fingers on the desk. “At this desk.” So that’s why I didn’t see her! Her practice must have run late. But still …

“We were supposed to meet!” I say.

Her brow furrows. “Wait, what? Are you new here?” The fact that she says our little inside joke softens the blow just a bit.

A moment later, a shadow falls over our desk. I look up. “Fee!” I say, but she doesn’t answer; she just looks at Celeste.

“You cut your bangs!” Celeste and I say at the same time, gaping at the newly shorn, jagged tufts that have replaced the demi-curtain of hair that used to hang over Fee’s eyes.

“They’re kind of short,” Celeste says, almost wincing.

“I did them myself!” Fee says, breaking into a wide, goofy smile.

“So that’s what you were doing yesterday,” Celeste says, a little icily. I guess I’m not the only person Fee didn’t text back. I watch as Fee glances across the room to where Teagan and Tess are. They don’t return her gaze. Fee’s lips twitch into a tiny, quick pout. Then she looks hard at me. “Friend of yours, Celeste?”

I gasp, stung by the edge in Fee’s voice, and Celeste gives me a puzzled look. Then she shrugs and says to Fee, “I think she’s new here.”

Fee doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, newbie, this is my seat. And I’d like to sit in it.”

“You guys … ” I say, a surprised, hurt tone thinning my voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Ms. Lyle’s wavery voice manages to quiet the room, and she pushes her thick green-framed glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “Please take your seats. I want you all to reread the next chapter before we start our close examination of the first paragraph.”

“That paragraph is, like, twenty sentences long!” Fee says with a groan, dropping her books in front of me. “Newbie, out of my seat.”

“Be polite at least!” Celeste says to Fee. Then to me, “It’s her seat. There’s a place in the back row.”

I stand, but look desperately at Fee and Celeste. “But … ”

“Thanks,” Fee says, moving around me and sitting down. She keeps her eyes forward.

A terrible shudder sends pinpricks over my skin. “Are … are you guys mad at me?”

They exchange a befuddled look but don’t answer.

“You guys … ” My voice cracks, I raise my hands lamely, like I might reach out and touch them to make sure they’re real.

They completely ignore me. Ms. Lyle doesn’t, and asks me to take my seat.

A lump blooms in my throat, and my breath can’t move around it. I move clumsily to the only empty seat in class, in the back, clutching my books to my pounding chest.

This has to be a joke, right?

I sit on the edge of my chair, my books still pressed against me, and stare at the backs of their heads as if I could send my brain waves into their skulls and ask them, Why are you doing this? What did I do? How could we go from having the best day of our entire lives at the festival to … this?

They don’t even turn their heads to sneak a peek at me. Like they’ve just forgotten I was even here. How could they not even, you know, check to see if being mean to me had crumbled me to rubble? Isn’t that the whole point of being a jerk? To see what damage you can do? I mean, isn’t that why Zooey just stands there staring at you while you try not to cry after a drive-by Zooey and the Ts insult attack?

I need to talk to Piper.

And what’s worse, we have a double period with Ms. Lyle, which means we go straight from me having to pretend to pay attention to a close examination of The Giver to second-period social studies, which means fifty more minutes of being ignored by my friends and feeling like I’m going to literally BURST into tears and blow salt water and snot all over everyone.

It is positively endless.

This is what I hear as I stare at the illustration of a woman in a pioneer bonnet hanging a black pot over a blazing fire and will myself not to cry. Blah blah blah colonials blah blah blah Pilgrims blah blah blah quarter projects blah blah blah Zooey and Hattie.

Wait. What?!

I look up to see Ms. Lyle staring at me, and the rest of the class, even Celeste and Fee, swinging around to stare. Apparently, I said that out loud. “Is there a problem, Hattie?” Ms. Lyle asks in a newspaper-rustle voice.

I shake my head, stealing a glance at Zooey. She looks like a Disney starlet playing a sixth-grade mean girl who is crabby over the fact that she’s just been partnered with a total dork. We lock eyes and I sit up straighter, hoping for the sort of posture that sends the message: Back off, Queen Bee. She rolls her eyes and then actually flips her hair, like, at me, like a weapon, and turns back toward the front. Darren, the gap-toothed kid who’s sitting in front of me, turns to hand me a copy of the assignment that’s being passed out. He gives me a sorry half smile to go with it. “No, there’s no problem, Ms. Lyle,” I say softly.

“Good.” Ms. Lyle walks back behind her desk. “You all see on the handout that this research paper is worth one-third”—she says this again—“one-third of your grade. I want citations. I want footnotes. I want appendices. Most of all, I want you to move me, make me remember why it is I chose to return to Trepan’s Grove, the town of my youth, and teach you all social studies. You’ll need me to approve your topics. Again, check the handout for the specifics—one page, three paragraphs, on what your topic is, why you’ve chosen it, and how you plan to research. Topic proposals are due on November first. That is two weeks from this Wednesday, ladies and gentlemen.”

And to think I was actually excited about this assignment when I saw it on the syllabus at the beginning of the year. I was going to do Food and Dental Care in Colonial Times. Dad was going to help me make a set of colonial dentistry instruments, which would have been basically a saw and a pair of pliers.

I was secretly hoping I’d get partnered with Jacob, the soccer-playing superstar who has a way of chewing on the white cord of his hooded sweatshirt that makes me swoon. Once, I had to look away really quick because he caught me watching as he accidentally bit off the little plastic part on the end. I didn’t look away fast enough, because he saw me and then shrugged like that was weird and then he pulled the little plastic bit off the tip of his tongue with his pointer finger and flicked it on the ground. It was the most romantic thing I have ever seen. And I could feel my eyes get really big and I just stared at the little shiny wet spot on the tip of his finger until he wiped it on the side of his soccer shorts.

I reenacted the whole thing for Piper in the orange bathroom in the science wing, and we squealed a bunch and then basically died because OH MY GOD HE LOOKED AT ME WHILE HE TOUCHED HIS TONGUE. “That’s, like, basically kissing from a distance,” Piper informed me breathlessly before we cracked up and died all over again.

But now … Jacob is partnered with Darren, Fee and Celeste are ignoring me, and my stomach is in knots.

I watch the second hand tick around and around, the minute hand in deathly slow pursuit, but when class is finally over, I don’t get up. I make myself stay at my desk as the whole class files out, not wanting to go anywhere near Fee and Celeste when they’re acting this way. I wait until everyone leaves, even Zooey, who actually pauses to look at me before walking out of the room, like now she’s done flipping her hair in my general direction and actually wants to talk about the project. Well, she can’t just decide to talk to me after giving me the stink eye from afar all year.

Fee would be ecstatic if she was the one partnered with Zooey. In fact, she kind of lost it at the beginning of the year when the two of them were partnered for this project. Celeste and I were teamed up for the same project, and we both assumed that we’d meet with Fee and Zooey and all work together. But Fee was like no, we need to work just with our teams. Which left Celeste and me in that weird situation where you hang out with someone you’re not usually alone with. I thought it might bond us, but Celeste remained as nice-but-not-too-nice as she’s always been.

But Fee was so excited, she even made cupcakes. You know, in case she’s hungry, she explained. But the next day when we saw her, Fee reluctantly admitted that the Ts had shown up with Zooey, and Zooey spent the whole time talking to them. Fee ended up doing most of the work herself while they ate all her cupcakes. But they were really nice! Fee said. They didn’t make fun of me at all. I mean, Zooey’s mom and my mom have known each other since childhood, so we go, like, way back. Zooey and the Ts called Fee Cupcake after that, and she would dimple up like it was some kind of compliment. It wasn’t. Because the first time Zooey called her Cupcake, Teagan muttered, “As in, have another.”

Once the coast is clear, I go straight to the lunchroom, not even grabbing my lunch bag. Piper’s teacher always lets her out a few minutes earlier than Ms. Lyle does, so she’s always there waiting for us, the ONLY NUT ALLOWED sign propped up in place.

“Oh my gosh,” I say, tears already choking my voice as I sit down next to Piper. I take a shuddering breath, ready to tell her all about what happened, when she turns and looks at me.

Her blank face takes my breath away.

“Pipes?” I croak.

She smiles. “Have we met? Are you new here?”

I suck in my lips and stand up, almost tipping the bench out from under Piper as I do. “Please don’t do this,” I say.

She looks honestly confused. “Do what?”

“Piper … ” I say, my voice choked, pleading.

“Oh, wait, please don’t cry!” she says, her eyes welling up with tears. “I have contagious—”

“Contagious crying syndrome, I know!” I practically wail. “Piper, what is going on?”

“I don’t know how you know my … ” She falters, then seems to regroup. “It’s going to be okay!” Piper says, swallowing back tears. “I think maybe you just came to the wrong lunch period or something. Can you go to the front office? They’ll look at your schedule.”

I back away, scanning the cafeteria, horrified when I see that other people have turned their attention to me. I turn quickly and focus on the entrance at the far end of the cafeteria. I don’t look at anybody when I walk, not even Dr. Schroeder, who must have seen what happened because she’s holding out a hall pass for me as I hurry by.

Mr. Zubki, the school librarian, stares down the hawkish slope of his nose as I stammer out my request to eat in the school library. I liked Mr. Zubki from the start, at first just because he wore old-man clothes even though he’s young, and then because he wouldn’t comment when you asked him to help you find books about growing up, like, um, getting older and more, um, mature when obviously you were hoping for books that have titles like Where Are My Boobs? and First, Create a Distraction: Tips for Smuggling Lady Products into the Bathroom So No One Knows You Have Your Period. He would just tell you what section to look in.

I am hot-faced and nodding and trying not to cry as Mr. Zubki says, “Sure, Hattie. Everything okay?” He takes my almost frantic nod for a positive answer and says I can stay. I turn on my heel and rush away. I know it’s rude not to say thank you, but I also know that I don’t want to sob all over his desk.

I head straight for the Big Comfy Chair, the cartoonish poufy chair that sits facing a long picture window along the back wall of the library. In front of the chair is a shaggy rug and about a dozen floppy pillows, making it the perfect nook for after-school study sessions before field hockey practice. And now it’s going to be the perfect place for me to flop facedown and quietly cry my eyes out and maybe consider calling my mom to come pick me up, because what happened today has to be just as bad as throwing up at school.

But when I come up to the back of the chair, a sob finally squeaking from my throat, I see it’s already occupied. Someone’s combat boots are slung over one arm, and I manage to veer away into the stacks before whoever it is can sit up and catch a glimpse of me. The chair cushions make their singular sigh sound as whoever it is lies back down.

I wander around the library for a couple of minutes, annoyed that when they built this bright, beautiful place, they didn’t consider the bookish kids who might need a place to hide and cry. It’s not until I settle into the very last computer carrel that I realize I don’t even have my lunch.

I don’t call mom to come pick me up. I just power through the rest of the day.

She’s in our little front yard when I get home, her long, curly hair tucked under a red bandanna tied at the nape of her neck. “Hey, Hattie,” she says, sitting back on the heels of her work boots to greet me. Her cheeks are flushed from the chilly air and her hard work. “I’m putting in some bulbs before the first frost. Want to help?”

I force a smile. “Hi, Mom. No, I have homework.”

“No field hockey today?” she asks, leaning a little so she can watch me trudge up the front steps.

My shoulders drop as I realize I just left school without even telling Ms. Thackary I wasn’t coming to field hockey practice. Now I’m going to be in trouble with her, too. “Too much homework,” I say again as I open the door. “Academics first, remember?” I say, echoing Mom and Dad’s condition for me signing up for the field hockey team with my friends.

I don’t hear her response because I close the door behind me.

In my room, I dump my backpack and sweatshirt on the floor and flop onto my bed. Champ rolls off my pillow, stretching his full length on his back, reaching his nose over to touch mine.

“Oh, Champ,” I say, fat tears rolling down my face. I’m not really a cry-your-eyes-out type person. I usually start to get bored after a few minutes, and then I start to worry about dehydration.

But this time I cry until all I have left are hiccups, and then I sniffle and hiccup my way through a snack of Skittles I had hidden under my bed for emergencies like this.

I know I should go outside and tell Mom what happened, but the thought of admitting what just happened—I can’t. I can’t bear to hear my mom gently say, Hattie, we told you that the friendship was moving a little fast. Because they did. They did tell me.

I turn over on my stomach and then squirm as something presses against me. I reach into my pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper. The corners have rounded and softened, and when I unfold it, the creases stay. I put it on my bed in front of me and smooth it with my palm to get it to lay flat.

The Friendship Pact.

I bet this is the reason my friends are acting so awful. They’re mad I came up with this, mad I made them sign it. Why did I ever think it was a good idea? I would have never asked Rae to sign something like that. I glance down at my backpack, thinking about how I could get out my phone and text Rae right now. Tell her how everything is going wrong, and ask her what I should do. But I realize I kind of blew off her texts during the Harvest Festival, and she really didn’t seem to want to talk yesterday. I don’t think I could handle reaching out to her and having her ignore me. I can’t totally fail at all my friendships in one day.

Do Piper and the others think I did something to break the pact? My stomach lurches at the thought.

“But I didn’t DO anything!” I say desperately to Champ, who flicks his tail at me. At least, I don’t think I did. The Harvest Festival is a total blur. I hold the paper limply in my hand, the last few days running through my mind like a movie.

Did I lie? No.

Gossip? No.

All I did, I think tearfully, was get my best friends to sign a piece of paper saying that we would always be best friends and that we would never do something exactly like what they’re doing today. We promised. And now they are acting like they’ve forgotten me.

Wait.

Forgotten. Promised. Forgotten. Promised. What is it about those words? Promise, promise …

I leap off the bed. “MAKE A PROMISE BEFORE YOU THINK, AND YOU COULD GET A HARVEST JINX!”