CHAPTER 1

I took a short detour on my way to Mrs. Abrams’s classroom after school. I wanted to do something I was too embarrassed to be seen doing during regular school hours. As I approached the trophy case, I glanced around. Just five minutes after last bell and the hall was quiet. I stopped in front of the glass case. At last, I was alone with my pretties. The sports awards weren’t really my bag, though I could appreciate the happy little statue-people poised mid-athletic feat. What I wanted to see was the Valedictorian Award. The names etched on little gold plaques had reached legendary status in my mind: Ava Matheson, Charles Ling, Adam Goldstein. They were all scholarship winners whose futures were as shiny as the trophies in this case. My name would be next; I just knew it: Alison Green, written in Copperplate Gothic on its own plaque (yes, I knew what font they used—the trophy store was surprisingly open about such things if you called them).

I pressed my palm and splayed fingers against the glass case. Which is when Charlotte Russell turned the corner at the end of the hall. I jerked my hand back, but I’m pretty sure Charlotte had already seen me petting the trophy case. I mean, we were the only two people in the hall, so I was hard to miss. I could not believe my luck. Of all people, Charlotte Russell, the very coolest person in our school, had just seen me at my geekiest. Charlotte wore her wavy, dark-brown hair short in what I was pretty sure was called an undercut. Her T-shirt sleeves were rolled up, and you could see the suggestion of a tattoo peeking out underneath her right sleeve. Two small black spacers stood out in stark contrast to the fair white skin of her earlobes. She didn’t exactly fit into a school full of girls with long hair who all loved to wear leggings and the latest trends. Me? I was a sad compromise of the two. My mousey hair hung mid-length, and I wore jeans with Converse sneakers. I was Average Teenager from any high-school movie produced in the past five decades. Charlotte was badass. And she had seen me petting a trophy case.

I started preparing a series of excuses for what she’d witnessed. “Hi, Charlotte. I was just killing a spider. I’m tough like that.” “Oh, hey, Charlotte, I was thinking how lame awards are. I’m planning to vandalize the trophy case. Just doing some recon now.” Obviously, I had nothing. So I was mostly relieved when Charlotte turned the other way. Mostly. Another part of me was disappointed not to have an excuse, even an embarrassing one, to talk to her.

I glanced at the Valedictorian Award one last time, then headed to the stairway. I couldn’t let my shameful little moment in front of Charlotte distract me. I had a plan, and this meeting was a big part of it. Mrs. Abrams had told me at lunch that she wanted to talk to me. She said she had a favor to ask. Whatever that favor was—walk her dog, clean her car, donate a kidney—I was going to say yes, because that yes would get me one step closer to seeing my name on that plaque. I knew this would be a pivotal moment that I would remember in years to come.

I took long, purposeful strides into the room. The chairs were up on the desks and the whiteboard was wiped clean. The only sign the room had played host to teenagers all day was an overflowing garbage can beside the door. Mrs. Abrams, her gray hair swept up in a messy bun, motioned me over to her desk. I took a deep breath before approaching.

“Alison, I wanted to talk to you about the school play.”

“What about the school play, Mrs. Abrams?”

“I’ve helped produce the school play for the past fourteen years now, and I thought it might be time to let someone new learn from my experience. Your teachers speak highly of you.”

I could feel myself blushing. “Thanks.”

“Not many young people could take on the responsibilities of being a coproducer, but I think you can. I could use your help.”

“I’d be happy to help out.” I was worried I sounded a little too enthusiastic, a little too much like a brownnoser.

“Excellent!” Mrs. Abrams didn’t seem to find my enthusiasm off-putting. Instead, she plopped a giant red binder overflowing with loose papers on the desk in front of me. “Here’s the production book with all the information from last year’s show. You should read it through tonight. I know the show is four months away, but there’s a lot for you to do. You need to get started right away.”

I picked up the Red Binder and some papers slipped out. I bent down to gather them and looked up at Mrs. Abrams as she spoke. It felt a bit like I was kneeling to her. I had to get ahold of myself. I straightened. “Ah, Mrs. Abrams, I was hoping that maybe you could put a word in for me when the time comes for the teachers to start discussing valedictorians. I know I haven’t done anything yet, but I promise you, I will be a great coproducer and I’d—”

“Sure, sure. Anything you want, Alison. Now remember to read through that binder tonight.”

Mrs. Abrams shooed me out the door. I left, clutching the binder to my chest, some loose papers gripped in my right hand. I could feel the tight smile I’d plastered on start to slip, just a little.