Walking into school on Monday morning was like tightroping across power lines. Every step buzzed with a palpable current, one that was, to my great relief, harmless.

“Let me guess,” I said, joining Penny at the back of the shifting crowd. “The Homecoming ballots are being handed out.”

“Yep,” she replied.

She looked down at my attire, a belted blouse over jeans tucked into boots, and asked, “Why are you dressed?”

I laughed; it was a pretty strange question. “I forgot,” I said, swiveling my head to take in the various interpretations of Jammies Day, the first in a full week of Homecoming dress-up assignments. Penny in her fleecy two-piece PJs was at least decent. There was a girl standing not far from us in a frilly baby-doll number who, I guessed, would be sent home to change.

“What’s the word on the court?” I asked. “Who are the front-runners?”

“Abby for queen and John Gilbert for king, though I’ve heard talk of Marik, too.”

“Marik?” My voice broke like some puberty-struck thirteen-year-old boy. “But he’s only been here a couple of weeks.”

“People like him. He’s different.”

If only she knew just how different. I could see, though, as his date, this was a source of great satisfaction to her. I could also appreciate it as a shake-up to tradition. Most everyone around here had lived in Norse Falls their whole lives. The pecking order probably dated back to kindergarten and was probably decided over Red Rover and cuts in line rather than merit or character.

“So where is he?” I was curious about his Jammies Day garb and half expected giant bunny slippers to charge us at any moment.

“He’s still not feeling all that great, according to Jinky.”

“Weird,” I said. It was. What ailed a merman?

At the front of the throng, I spotted Abby and Shauna, dressed in matching knee-length white nighties, grasping their ballots like winning lottery tickets. Abby seemed to have rebounded from the Asking Fire scene. Rumor had it she was back together with Gabe, the basketball player she had thrown over in her brazen pursuit of Marik. Nor did there seem to be any lasting effects of the frenzy and ugliness that had affected the crowd on Saturday night. Still, I wasn’t about to belt out a “Beat Pinewood” cheer or ask anyone for a light.

Janie, a girl Penny and I knew from Design, retreated from the press of bodies with a fistful of ballots. “Here,” she said, handing us one each. “I grabbed a few extras.” She paused for a moment and then prodded Penny with her elbow. “You and Marik, huh?”

“Yeah.” Penny tucked a band of hair behind an ear. As they had been for some time now, her curls were sleek and serpentine, falling in cascades over her shoulders.

“Congrats and good luck,” Janie said, thumbing the corner of her ballot.

Penny dipped her head and shoulders, revealing a peek of cleavage.

Good luck? As in Penny was a contender? A puff of pure, clean air filled my lungs. Penny was a contender?

Despite everything going on in my life, this kernel of possibility bumped itself to the top of my do-now list. And with the overwhelming sense of futility and frustration I was feeling in my quest to thwart Marik’s mission and even my attempt to manipulate a placement for Jaelle, this felt like something actionable.

And why not Penny for Homecoming Queen? A year ago, I’d have conceded it as some kind of cruel Mean Girls’ prank. But now, the Penny before me had serious potential. While the best of her qualities — intelligence, kindness, enthusiasm — were intact, other character traits had developed: confidence and poise. Not to mention that she was morphing into a stone-cold fox. With cleavage.

“When are these things due?” I asked Penny.

“By the end of the day.”

“And when do they announce the court?”

“Tomorrow.” Penny gave me a you’re-losing-it look. I probably should have remembered the announcement of the court from last year; Jack had, after all, been one of the royals. In my defense, I had been a little busy, what with him going AWOL days before our first date and the whole see-a-raven-and-nearly-get-flattened-by-a-logging-truck incident. I did, at any rate, remember the Friday pep rally, the one at which — should I prove successful — Penny would be crowned this year’s queen.

“Gotta go,” I said, kicking up do-good dust and leaving our potential monarch looking puzzled.

In every class that day, I campaigned for Penny. “Wouldn’t she and Marik make the cutest king and queen ever?” “Wouldn’t it be nice to reward someone based on merit: like an editor of the paper or the chair of every committee, not to mention a whip-smart honor student?” “And isn’t it refreshing that Penny is nice and pretty and totally not expecting it?”

I know I planted a seed in some people’s minds and outright changed a few on the spot. But the best part of the whole thing, by far, was that people told me they had already voted for her. Guys and girls both. Were it only that this regime overthrow and underdog crusade represented the utmost of my challenges. Regardless, it was a distraction that carried me through to the final bell.

Leaving school that day, I was preoccupied by thoughts of how great it would be for something to finally go my way, when I almost plowed into my dad as he bounded up the front steps.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Reporting to the lovely Sage Bryant for a chaperone meeting.” My dad fingered the collar of his crisply laundered black-and-white checked shirt with rolled, contrasting paisley French cuffs. It was an awesome shirt that looked both new and expensive. I begrudged him neither and had always liked his sense of style, but he had clearly made an effort.

“Oh. Is this something I’m supposed to attend as well?” I asked.

“No, no. Chaperones only.” My dad brushed a bit of lint from his black dress pants.

“Have fun, then,” I said, watching him enter the building.

It was nice to casually throw around the word “fun,” but something about the way he said “lovely” had me a little worried. Ms. Bryant was my teacher, and I depended on her for a good grade, especially if a design college was in my future. Though, with Marik and Safira and Brigid posing bigger-picture threats, it was yet another relief to worry about something else, something as trivial as transcripts, something with future significance, something with a future period.