whoâd been talking to Clifford before class had started. Maybe, just maybe, her last name would be between Ric- and Rid-.
âALEXANDRA RIDGEMONT.â
Damn.
Everyone turned to look at me as I sat down behind Miles. If they hadnât noticed me before, they did nowâand the hair. Oh, the hair . . .
Stop it, idiot! Itâs fine, theyâre not looking at you. Okay, they are looking at you. But theyâre not coming after you. Youâre okay. Everythingâs okay.
âAlex is fine,â I said weakly.
âMARIA WOLF.â
âRia!â the last girl said, almost skipping to her spot behind me. Her strawberry blond ponytail jumped happily as she went.
Mr. Gunthrie tossed the class list back onto his desk and stood at the front of the room, hands clasped behind his back, square jaw high.
âTODAY WE WILL HAVE PAIR DISCUSSIONS OF YOUR SUMMER READING. I WILL PICK THE PAIRS. THERE WILL BE NO SWITCHING, TRADING, OR COMPLAINING. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?â
âYES, SIR!â
âGOOD.â
As if he remembered all of our names after only seeing them once, Mr. Gunthrie pulled pairs out of thin air.
Being stuck in the seat behind Miles was my payment for getting to be partners with Tucker, I guess.
âI didnât know youâd be in my class!â I said when I raced out of my seat and slid into the chair behind his. He was the one person in this room who didnât give me the creeps. âAnd you werenât lying about this place.â
âPeople around these parts donât lie about a thing like that.â Tucker tipped an imaginary ten-gallon hat. âAnd you didnât tell me you were going to be in AP English. I couldâve told you. Mr. Gunthrie teaches the only one in the school.â He held up the papers heâd scribbled on. âI already finished the discussion. He does the same first assignment every year. Hope you donât mind.â He paused, frowning over my shoulder. âGod. Hendricks is doing that thing again. I donât even see why she likes him.â
Celia Hendricks, whoâd returned wearing a baggy pair of black sweatpants, was leaning over her chair and doingsome weird flips with her hair and whisper-calling Miles, who had his back to her. When he ignored her, she began launching balled-up pieces of notebook paper at his head.
âWhy do you hate him so much?â I asked Tucker.
âI donât know if âhateâ is the right word,â he replied. ââAm afraid of him,â âwish heâd stop staring,â and âthink heâs a lunaticâ are more accurate.â
âAfraid of him?â
âThe whole school is.â
âWhy?â
âBecause itâs impossible to know whatâs going on in his head.â Tucker looked back to me. âHave you ever seen a person completely change? Like, completely completely? So much that they donât even have the same facial expressions they used to? Thatâs what happened to him.â
I hesitated at Tuckerâs sudden seriousness. âSounds creepy.â
âIt was creepy.â Tucker concentrated on a design someone had etched into his desktop. âAnd then, he, you know. Had to be the best . . .â
âYou . . . wait a minute . . . heâs the valedictorian?â
I knew Tucker didnât like the valedictorian, but during his rants at work heâd never said who it was. Just that the kid didnât deserve it.
âItâs not even that heâs beating me!â Tucker hissed, casting a quick look back at Miles. âItâs that he doesnât try . He doesnât even have to read the book! He just knows everything! I mean, he was sort of like that in middle school, but he was never the best. Half the time he didnât do his work because he thought it was pointless.â
I looked back at Miles. He and Claude had apparently finished their discussion, and heâd