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said, smiling this wholesome smile like a kid on a cereal box. “My name is Gabriella, and I’m a bright, assertive, and capable young woman.”
    Mrs. Carlyle practically nodded her head off. She would have probably given Gabriella some kind of self-esteem standing ovation, too, except that just then, we heard loud voices in the hallway.
    â€œI’m not!” It was a girl who sounded about my age. If anyone answered her, I couldn’t make out what they were saying. “I don’t care! I’m not!” she shouted again.
    â€œExcuse me a moment, girls.” The teacher stood up, smoothing out her skirt.
    â€œI don’t have time for this,” answered a woman in an annoyed voice. Then she changed her tone completely, obviously talking on her cell. “Dario? Debbie. I’m so sorry, don’t hang up.” Her tone switched again, and she hissed something I couldn’t make out.
    â€œYou must be Emily,” Mrs. Carlyle said, cautiously sticking her head out the door. “We’ve been waiting for you. Won’t you come join the group?” I craned my neck, trying to get a look at what was going on, but Mrs. Carlyle was blocking my view.
    There was a tense silence followed by the sound of high heels clicking up the stairs.
    Mrs. Carlyle smiled as she opened the door wider and the girl came inside. She was wearing tight jeans with a long sweater. Her hair was short and bleached blond, but growing in with darker roots. She was definitely at least as old as me, maybe older. And she was at least as miserable to be there as I was, maybe miserabler. She didn’t look anyone in the eye.
    â€œI’d like you all to say hello to Emily,” Goat Lady said as she motioned to the empty seat beside me. The girl dropped her canvas backpack on the floor with a thud and nudged it under her chair with one foot. “Emily, before you arrived, we were going around the circle introducing ourselves—sharing who we are. Would you like to go next?”
    The girl tipped her head back for a few seconds and stared at the ceiling. “Fine. I guess,” she said. “My name is Em.”
    â€œAnd? What can you tell us about yourself?”
    Em lowered her gaze. “I’ll be thirteen on November twenty-fourth.” The teacher nodded for her to go on, but Em gave her a puzzled look. “Which makes me a Sagittarius.”
    I could tell Mrs. Carlyle was trying hard not to look heartbroken. I, on the other hand, was feeling much better. At least two of us were so bad at self-esteem that we couldn’t even introduce ourselves right.
    Mrs. Carlyle went around the rest of the circle, forcing the other girls to stumble through their introductions, mumbling embarrassing stuff they knew she wanted to hear—mostly about how bright and creative and special they thought they were. When she was done, she put on a brave face. “All right, girls, let’s move on to some written work. I’d like you all to get out a piece of paper and list three qualities that describe you.”
    As everyone dug through their bags for pens and papers, I leaned over. “I’m a Sagittarius too,” I whispered to Em, but she barely smiled.
    Three qualities that describe me
    (Margot Button, age almost-13):
Not photogenic
Not very popular
Talkative/Sarcastic
    The first one is especially true. I’ve never known anyone who looks worse in pictures than I do. The all-time most terrible one made it into the sixth grade yearbook. It’s of me in family studies class, eating bad soup. Andrew put in two and a half cups instead of two and a half tablespoons of salt, so my lips are all puckered and my eyes are all squinty.
    Which reminds me that I’ve forgotten to mention Andrew. He’s my friend. He’s a boy. But he isn’t my boyfriend. He’s just a boy friend. We’ve known each other since first grade, when Erika and I used to chase him around the school