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it into my bag, and headed toward Spanish. Zoe, who takes French, was outside Madame F’s door, hanging out chatting with Olivia.
    “Is your hip hurting?” Olivia asked me.
    “My what?”
    “Your hip,” she repeated. “You’re rubbing it.”
    “Oh,” I said, realizing I was still searching for a nonexistent pocket. “Um, a little. But, I mean, no.” Olivia’s mother and mine are number one on each other’s speed dial, so everything gets back, fast.
    “That’s good,” Olivia said, twirling one of her pigtails.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    Tommy passed us, going to Spanish. On his way, he said, sort of in my direction, “Hi.”
    Zoe and I looked at each other. I could feel myself blushing so I covered my face with my hands.
    Olivia asked, “What?”
    I expected Zoe to explain, but when I looked up, she was staring at her friendship ring, readjusting it. So I told Olivia, “Tommy asked me out.”
    “Oh,” Olivia said. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. She’s really sweet in some ways, but she has strong opinions. I think I let her down sometimes. “When?” she asked.
    “Friday,” I said.
    “Congratulations.” She opened her folder holder and flipped through.
    “Thanks,” I said again. We’re more cousins than friends, Olivia and I. In fact, I call her mom Aunt Betsy. She’s one of the few not-totally-white kids around, because her father is half-black and her mother is half-Filipino. Over the summer some kids at the Swim Club whispered, “Kung Fu,” right in front of us at the snack bar. Olivia said, “So what, they’re showing their ignorance,” but I wanted to punch their ignorant teeth in. Mom said I had good instincts; she didn’t blame me. When I was in The Nutcracker last year, Olivia gave me a good-luck flip book she made herself of a ballerina doing a leap and then a pirouette, which was amazing and obviously took her forever to make no matter how talented she is. But even though we really do care about each other, we’re very different—she still wants to invent board games together and send them to be patented. I’m ready to talk about boys. She’s much more of a brain so I feel stupid, sometimes, like when I bring home a test with an 87 and my dad says that’s great, what did Olivia get, 101? It’s a joke, but still, sometimes it’s hard to figure out how to act toward her.
    She slid her permission slip into one of her folders and asked me, “So you can’t go on the trip, huh?”
    “What?” Zoe asked. “Why?”
    Morgan was just passing us, going to Spanish, but she said, “Dance.”
    “Hey, wait up,” I called to her. We usually walk together.
    Zoe and Olivia followed us. “What is she talking about?” Zoe asked me.
    “I can’t go apple picking,” I said.
    “Why not?” Zoe asked. Her voice is so loud.
    “We don’t get back until six thirty,” Olivia told her.
    “Yeah? So?”
    “So,” said Morgan, stopping outside Spanish. I almost bumped into her. “CJ has dance at four on Mondays. Not that she even likes ballet anymore, but . . .”
    Olivia looked at me. “You don’t?”
    “It’s complicated,” I answered. I dropped my book bag and checked my French twist. It was holding, of course—my mom is so good at hair she does everybody’s for performances.
    “You like it or you don’t,” Morgan said, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. “How complicated is that?”
    “You can’t miss one day?” Zoe asked me quietly.
    I shook my head. “Something could happen, some casting director could come to watch. You can’t. And especially, my mother?”
    Morgan blew her long, dark bangs out of her eyes again and explained, “CJ’s mother says it’s important to devote yourself to something so you’ll stand out from the crowd.” She used a high voice like my mother’s. Morgan is a good actress so it really did sound like Mom.
    “Really?” Zoe asked me. “She says that?”
    “All the time,” Morgan answered. “Makes me feel great.”
    “She