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seemed bouncier than usual, and I was optimistic as I walked toward the home ec classroom. As I breached the doorway, two things happened simultaneously: one, I caught Chrissy Hayes’s eye, and two, a thick, muscular hand grabbed my throat and squeezed, pushing me against the doorjamb. I struggled to free the hand from my throat while I attempted to twist my head to see who was choking me, both to no avail. He was stronger than me in the way ninth-grade boys are stronger than seventh-grade boys. His fingers seemed to gain strength as I struggled, tightening in a vise. My eyes whirled back, searching for Chrissy, as terror exploded inside me. I hope she’s not watching , I thought, a split second before my eyes locked with hers.
    When her expression didn’t change, I knew that this was because of the shirt.
    â€œStay the fuck away from Chrissy, you fucking puto ,” he hissed in my ear. Then he laughed—a twisting, vicious laugh—and I realized how gravely I’d miscalculated.
    â€œLittle fucking bitch,” he spat, and dropped me.
    His name was Carlos Rodriguez, Chrissy’s ninth-grade boyfriend, I learned later. A gangbanger.
    I squatted against the wall, clutching my throat. I tried to act nonchalant, as if I hadn’t just been choked out in front of the whole class, in front of Chrissy Hayes. I felt a roaring torrent of shame. Don’t show weakness , I thought to myself, as the whole world looked at it. After a moment, I stood up and walked into the silent class, jaw clenched and face burning. I walked to my table and saw that Chrissy had switched with one of the other girls from the class, and I sat down and stared straight ahead, trying desperately to hold in the tears that were soaking the backs of my eyes.

CHAPTER 3
    Camp Fox
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    B en and I were always together, but we weren’t exactly friends. He seemed more of an appendage than a separate person. There were benefits to having a constant ­companion—we’d forever excel at two-man games like Ping-Pong and racquet­ball. There were also downsides. I never had my own birthday party. We shared a bedroom.
    But I didn’t mind, because I loved being a twin. I once made Ben memorize a series of numbers, so that when people asked us if we could read each other’s mind, I’d whisper a number into their ears, and then close my eyes as if to transmit the number to Ben. When he called out, “Fifty-seven,” people would freak out.
    But Ben didn’t like being a twin. When people asked us who was born first, I’d see Ben grimace as I answered, “Me, by four minutes.”
    There was one part of being a twin that I didn’t like. Ben was smarter than me. Theoretically we had the same DNA, but on every standardized test we ever took, Ben scored higher. Not by a lot—I’d be in the ninety-seventh percentile, Ben the ninety-ninth—but enough to hurt.
    By the end of seventh grade, Ben and I had crossed the line from chubby to fat, and we got picked on. A lot. Whensomeone would get in my face or shove me in the school halls, I always backed down, too scared to fight back. Afterward, I’d berate myself for being a coward.
    School became something to survive. I couldn’t wait for summer, especially the weeklong sleepaway camp Ben and I had signed up for, where we wouldn’t know anyone. Maybe things would be different.
    In June, Ben and I walked across the gangplank onto the ferry that would transport hundreds of campers to Camp Fox on Catalina Island.
    â€œWhere do you want to stand?” I asked Ben.
    He looked around and then pointed across the room, to an empty space near a window. Ben and I stood next to each other, looking around the boat. Groups were already forming, threes and fours, newfound friends. I didn’t understand how people made friends so easily. I didn’t want people to see that I was lonely, so I stuck close to Ben. But inside, I knew that