Manifest Read Online Free Page B

walking. Other kids either eager to get to class or just tired of the noise of the cafeteria bump into me on their way out. She calls my name again and I stop, reluctantly, that funny feeling in my stomach rising again. I turn and Sasha and Jake are still standing in the same spot where I left them at the table.
    “We need to talk,” Sasha says, all serious-looking.
    “Whatever,” I say and keep moving. Those two are weird. Weirder than me, I guess. So I vow to steer clear of them. I’ve got enough troubles.
     
    Apparently the plan is for my troubles to just keep on piling up today. World History is my last class of the day. And while I usually kind of enjoy learning about different cultures and all the events that have brought us to this point, today I’m just not feeling it.
    It isn’t really the class. Mrs. Tremble is sitting behind her desk as usual, thin silver-rimmed glasses hanging on the bulbous tip of her nose, reading her lesson plan verbatim. That’s either because she is too old—really, she’s, like, in her eighties—or too round to stand up like the other teachers and write on the chalkboard.
    The desks are in a double U shape with everyone whoselast name starts with a letter from the beginning of the alphabet in the inner U and the end of the alphabet in the outer semicircle. That puts Alyssa Turner right behind me. Her sidekick, Camy Sherwood, is sitting right beside her.
    Midway through the lesson on the Egyptian pyramids, I feel a little jolt and realize it’s somebody kicking my chair. I turn around to see Alyssa with her goddess black braids and eyeliner-etched eyes staring at me with a smirk on her face. Camy’s giggling. Her smile, which is lined with braces, catches the rays of the sun peeking through the windows, nearly blinding me.
    “Hey, new girl,” Alyssa says.
    I roll my eyes and turn back around. She kicks my chair again.
    “Not funny,” I whisper over my shoulder.
    “Yeah, you talking to Franklin’s definitely a joke. What makes you think you can just waltz into town and start taking our guys?”
    Was she serious? I mean, come on, the boy’s been following me around for weeks, looking at me and trying to talk to me. While I have been minding my own business.
    On the other hand, is she serious with that “taking our guys” comment? If I wanted to talk to a guy, which I do not, I could talk to whatever guy I wanted.
    “When I was in elementary school my mother used to label everything that belonged to me. As far as I could tell, Franklin didn’t have a name tag on.”
    Now I can’t tell if it’s my words—which I actually think are quite clever—or the fact that I had the nerve to respond at all that has Camy looking from me to Alyssa like her eyes are about to pop out of her head. Alyssa’s definitely a Richie; she’s head of the cheerleading squad and would probably be voted “Biggest Bitch” in the yearbook. Camy was like a puppet with Alyssa pulling her strings.
    “I don’t need to mark my territory. I’m not an animal,” Alyssa quips.
    Okay, she can apparently give as good as she gets. Unfortunately, I don’t even care enough to go another round with her. “Look, we talked. He walked me to my locker. End of story. Nobody’s poaching on your territory.”
    “Just make sure you don’t, new girl.”
    The clapping of Mrs. Tremble’s ruler against her desk delays my response, which is cool because out of the corner of my eye I spot something, or should I say someone, else. Someone who definitely should not be in World History class or any other class for that matter.
    Sitting on top of the file cabinet, way in the back of the room, wearing the same clothes I saw him in last night, is Ricky. Okay, well, I guess spirits don’t have a change of clothes, so they spend eternity wearing the same outfit they died in. Gross.
    His arms are crossed over his chest and he’s looking down at me, of course. But then his gaze kind of shifts behind me to Alyssa and