As I walk home from school, I can’t stop feeling all worried inside, my body nervously tingling, head to toe.

The last time I felt this worried was last year, when this really cute pair of brown leather riding boots were out of stock at all the online stores and I didn’t know when I would get them.

But this feels even more worrisome, and it’s all about school. School has never bothered me before, either. I mean, sure, Ms. Bryce bothered me a little. But I would stop feeling bothered after the bell rang and I was home.

So why do I feel like everything matters a whole lot? Why do I care what happens? Why do I want everything to turn out for the best—not just for me, but for Emmy and Jade and everyone?

As I walk, I clutch Emmy’s party invitation in my hand. I didn’t want it to get crushed in my backpack. The paper is light blue colored, and it calms me.

In class, I’m supposed to design and build sets for the play, but working is hard and I chipped a nail. Everyone thinks I’ve been goofing off, reading my fashion magazines instead.

Nope.

I’ve been reading the script. I’ve got the whole thing practically memorized.

I like to imagine it’s me on that stage, in the starring role. Me!

But I don’t want anyone to know I’m reading the play. I have my reputation to consider, and besides, it would set a bad example for the other girls.

It’s not fashionable to care.

“Top of the afternoon, Franny!” shouts Mr. Wolcott from his lawn chair.

I smile and walk over to his chair, holding tightly on to my invitation and remembering my conversation with Eric. I’m a little nervous, but I brush those concerns aside and return his big grin. I have a good deed to do. “I’m Samantha, remember?”

“Of course I know who you are! A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Are you in need of Mr. Chips again?” he asks. “You know, the Times once called me ‘a captivating, rising star of the stage’! Although their most lavish praise was for the impeccable Franny Bree, of course.”

I look for a trace of sadness in his eyes as he mentions Franny Bree’s name, but I don’t see it. Not today, anyway. But then again, Mr. Wolcott is an exceptional actor.

“No, I don’t need Mr. Chips,” I say with a slight roll of my eyes. “But I have another favor to ask you.”

He peers in closer. “Yes?”

“Mr. Chips can’t help us this time. But you can.”