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designer wedge heels, and feel a little nauseous when I realize how she totally fits in. She looks like a combination of the Olsen twins, the Simpson sisters, and that spoiled blond chick on
The Real OC.
Seriously, she looks
just like one of them.
    While I, with my stupid, edgy hair, cheap knockoff clothes, and junior-high pop star fragrance with a name so embarrassing I’ll lie if anyone asks what it is, am like some pathetic outsider on the wrong side of the velvet rope. It’s like, I was aiming for cool and stylish, but somehow I ended up looking like the world’s biggest wanna-be. I shake my head and wonder which is worse, being invisible, or being visible in the
wrong way?
    “Besides, you have to find your own unique look,” Sloane says, using perfectly manicured nails to flick at a stray scone crumb.
    “Unique is bad. Edgy is bad. I’m so not cut out for this,” I say, filled with a massive amount of despair and self-loathing.
    But Sloane just shakes her head, grabs her bag, and pushes away from the table. “Come on, time for us to get noticed,” she says, as I reluctantly follow behind.
    As usual, Sloane and I don’t have any classes together, so I’m pretty much living for the ten-minute break between second and third period when we’ll meet at my locker as planned, so we can swap stories of our social conquests, even though I really don’t have anything to share. I mean, maybe I haven’t had my toe stepped on or my books knocked out of my arms, but it’s notlike Cash Davis has asked me to go to the prom, either.
    Hurrying out of my AP English class, I head for my locker, keeping an eye out for Sloane as I toss my copy of
Catcher in the Rye
inside, knowing it’ll probably live there for the next three weeks since I’ve already read it twice before, and yes, both times by choice. And even though I realize I’ve just revealed what a major dork I truly am, the truth is, I love to read. And even worse than that, I like most of the books they make us read in school.
    “Winter!” I look up to see Sloane coming toward me, with a huge, fake smile spread across her face.
    “Sloane!” I say, all overanimated, making a big show of hugging her even though we just saw each other less than two hours ago. But let’s face it, if you wanna be popular, then you have to do as they do. And I’ve seen Jaci and her posse go through this same lame routine like twice a day for as long as I can remember.
    “Omigod,” Sloane whispers, leaning in and glancing around to make sure no one’s listening. “You won’t even believe this. But in Algebra, Mr. Jansen goes by this alphabetical seating chart, which puts me like smack in the middle of Jaci and Claire. So when he was at the chalkboard writing all kinds of crap on it, Jaci turned to say something to Claire, but since I’m sitting right between them she looked at me and went, ‘Oh, hey.’ So I said, ‘Yeah, hey.’ And then she looked me over and went, ‘Nice shoes.’ So I just smiled and said, ‘Thanks.’ And then like, two more times after that she turned in her seat to smile at me. And then, when class was over, she looked at me and went, ‘Bye’!”
    I just stare at Sloane, standing before me, and she’s so excited and happy, and even though I’m happy and excited for her, I suddenly feel pressured to report something too. So I smile and go, “Get this, when I passed Cole Sawyer on the way to English, he kinda bumped into me, and then he looked back and went, ‘Oh, sorry bro.’ ”
    But Sloane just stares at me with her nose all scrunched- up. “He called you ‘bro’?”
    “Well, yeah. But remember how last year he didn’t even say sorry?” I remind her, knowing deep down inside that was hardly what you’d call progress.
    But she just shrugs, and then the bell rings and she goes, “Okay, well, see you at lunch.”
    And as I watch her walk away, I can’t help but notice how easily she blends into the crowd, and I get this awful feeling in