Manifest Read Online Free

out if I should give it to him and then ignore his calls the way I just ignored this other one. Or should I just tell him no. I’ve never had a boy call me before.
    His smile seems to grow bigger, just about all of his white teeth showing. “Can I have your number, Krystal?”
    “What do you want it for?” I’m still stalling, trying to make my mind up.
    “So I can call you. Why else?”
    “And why would you want to call me when you see me every day in school?”
    He takes a step closer to me, his smile slipping a little, his eyes glued to mine. “Because I might want to talk to you when we’re not in school—you know, in private.”
    I nod like I understand.
    “So, are you going to give me your number?”
    I take a deep breath just as the bell rings. “Hope you’ve got a good memory,” I say and then ramble off the number so fast he can’t possibly remember it. I walk away and head for class, knowing he has only five minutes to get to wherever his first-period class is or he’ll be late.
    After I sit down I begin to wonder if he’ll remember the number. Then again, why do I care? What will I say when he calls—if he calls? No, forget it. I don’t want to talk to him any more than I want to talk to anybody else.
    Except Ricky said that we’d get started today. I wonder if that means I’ll talk to him again.
     
    Lunch is like organized chaos. The cafeteria is large with its yellow-and-white speckled tile floors and painted cinder block walls. The tables aren’t like the long Formica-topped ones in elementary and middle school. Instead they are real tables with plastic chairs that are scattered about. As at most high schools, there’s a cool-students side and a not-so-cool-students side. In the left corner near the fruit juice machine, that always stays full because if given the choice kids will definitely choose a soda before something that says “100% fruit juice,” the goths, geeks and any other looks, style or financially challenged students sit.
    It’s weird, this class system here in Lincoln, Connecticut. Not weird in the sense that my school back in New York didn’t have student segregation, but in that most of these kids are segregated based on the neighborhood they live in.
    Take, for instance, Chloe Delaney. She lives right near Sea Point, which has huge houses with decks and private boat docks. She’s a Richie and she sits on the right-hand side of the cafeteria with the other jocks and cheerleaders. Then there’s Kyle Bonagan. He lives by the water, too, only it’s called Dent Creek, past the railroad tracks on the eastern side of town. He’s a Tracker and sits on the left-hand side of the cafeteria with other students who are on the debate team or play in the band. Faith Mason wears black every day—black boots laced all the way up to her knees, black tights, black skirt, black tank top, black jacket. She wears thick black eyeliner, black lipstick and nails and has a gazillion piercings starting in the center of her lower lip. Of course, she sits by the fruit juice machine.
    Then there’s another table, right by the exit doors. A group of guys sit there. I don’t know where they live but they’re wearing all the latest hip-hop gear: oversize shirts, baggy jeans, boots—brown or black—and they always wear flashy watches or chains. They aren’t really called anything and the other students keep their distance from them. I don’t know if it’s just their clothes—which would be mad stupid—or the fact that a couple of the guys are known for their bad attitudes and willingness to beat down anybody that even looks at them sideways.
    Me, I live midway between the Richies and the no-names, those are the people who are considered middle class. We don’t have too much money but we have enough. I don’t dress like a goth or a geek but I’m definitely not a part of the hip-hop crowd either. So I sit at one of the center tables, which sometimes makes me feel like I’m on display.