Mr. Gregory shakes his head, but I can tell he’s trying really hard not to smile. “I’m not that old, Lyric.”

She pats him on the shoulder. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.”

He rolls his eyes. “So, how are the drums coming along?”

She shrugs as she unzips her backpack. “Good. Although I still think I’m way better at the guitar and violin. The drums are fun, though, for letting some steam off.”

So she plays the guitar, drums, and violin. Okay, she’s not an orchestra freak, just a hardcore music freak. It makes me like her more.

While I don’t know how to play any instrument, listening to music is a huge outlet for me and got me through a lot of hard times. Plus, it drowns out screaming really well.

“And how about the lyric writing?” he asks as he veers the sedan onto the main road that centers the small, upper class neighborhood.

She retrieves a pack of gum then sets the bag aside. “Not that great, but I blame it on my parents. They’ve made my life too easy, and I have absolutely nothing to write about.”

“You could always write about the easy stuff,” he suggests, looking at me for some reason, as if he knows my not-so-easy secrets.

She pops a piece of gum into her mouth then offers one to Kale, who quickly shakes his head. “I don’t want to be that kind of a songwriter.”

Mr. Gregory glances at her through the rearview mirror. “You sound just like your dad.”

“Thanks.” She seems proud of this, something I find strange. Most kids my age would take it as an insult.

Her eyes abruptly lock on mine. “Do you play anything, shy boy?”

Great. She’s already given me a nickname.

I shake my head. “No.”

“What do you do, then?”

I shrug. “Nothing.”

She leans forward in the seat, chomping on her gum. “Now, that’s not true. I mean, clearly you’ve got a chance for the Most-One-Word-Responses championship title.” She blows a bubble, and then smiles at me, making happiness look so effortless.

“Well, obviously there’s that,” I retort, unable to help myself. “But I’m betting my chances for winning are going to go down the more time I spend with you.”

She grins as she reclines back into the seat. “Excellent comeback, shy boy.”

I’m on the verge of smiling as I face forward in the seat again, but any trace of happiness dissipates when we pull up to the school. It was clear to me yesterday, when I first saw the neighborhood the Gregorys lived in, that I was now officially part of the upper class society. I didn’t even think about what that would mean for the school district.

Instead of a rundown, graffitied building like I’m used to, the school consists of a perfectly structured building, surrounded by green grass and sparkling, crack-free windows. Half the cars in the parking lot look brand new, and the clothes everyone wear look fresh off the racks from some absurdly expensive store.

“Are you going to be okay with Lyric showing you around?” Mr. Gregory asks me as he parks the sedan in front of the drop off section. “Because I can walk you in if you need me to.”

“No way,” Lyric interrupts as she shoves the door open. “As cool as you are, Uncle Ethan, the last thing he needs is you being all awkward, like you usually are around people.”

He shakes his head, but he’s not irritated, more like mildly entertained. “All right, I’ll pick you two up after school, then.”

She nods then jumps out at the same time Kale hops out his side. They both slam their doors as I reach for my door handle, but then pause, feeling terrified. I usually like to blend in and typically do. But with my gauges, faded black clothes, and worn boots, I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb.

I open my mouth to ask Mr. Gregory if he can take me home, but my door swings open and Lyric snaps her fingers and points for me to get out.

“You’ll be just fine,” she assures me as if she’s read my mind. She slips her bag on then grabs my hand, giving my arm a tug. “I got your back, dude.”

I flinch at her touch and almost jerk back. I hate being touched almost as much as I loathe nighttime. But as I catch sight of the abundance of so-called classy people roaming around, I end up clinging on to her as I climb out of the car, oddly grateful that Lyric doesn’t let my hand go as we walk up the wide pathway toward the glass entrance centered below a brick archway.

People are staring at us. At me. At me holding Lyric’s hand. At my outfit. My piercings. It brings me back to the day we were pulled out of that house while the entire neighborhood watched the three malnourished orphans as if they were part of a freak show they couldn’t tear their eyes from.

“God, it’s like no one’s ever informed them that staring is rude,” Lyric mutters as she slams her palm against the glass door and shoves it open.

Pretty much all eyes land on us as we step inside the narrow hallway lined with lockers. Some people look interested. Others repulsed. Some utterly baffled.

Lyric waves to a lot of people and stops to chat with a couple of girls, never releasing my hand. She introduces me to a girl named Maggie, who looks at me like I’m the rebel she wants to walk on the bad side with. The look is nothing new; a lot of girls do it, except Lyric. She just looked at me like she to be my friend.

“Hey, Ayden.” Maggie offers me her hand, fluttering her eyelashes. “So, where are you from?”