“Fine,” I say.

Really, though, my brain is on fire. I made it through Algebra on sheer luck—and a few answer prompts from Nicole. Cornball might have gotten his nickname from all the stupid jokes he makes during class, but when it comes to math he’s as serious as an 8.0 on the Richter scale.

Modern Greek had been a little easier—being a first-year language class and all—but I was the only one in the class on the downhill side of puberty. You don’t know how immature fourteenyear-olds can be until you’re stuck in a room with a bunch of them for an hour.

The only thing that made World History, my last class before lunch, bearable was hunky Mr. Sakola. He looks like some fifties movie star, with a bright white smile, perfectly combed hair, and a really cute dimple in his left cheek. He’s also as charming as Will Smith—with an equally beautiful wife, if the framed pic on his desk is any indication. The class, however, was another dumpload of information. I took enough notes to fell an entire forest.

So, by fine I mean exhaustingly rotten, but I don’t say it.

“Good.” He smiles like a principal—wide and proud, his sophisticated face cracking into sophisticated lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “Any problems or questions?”

“No . . .” I say, but even that’s not true. “Actually, there is one thing.”

He nods, encouraging me to clarify.

Though I have seriously considered not telling him this, I think it’s in my best long-term interest to be as forthright as possible. After all, I don’t want him out to make my life more miserable than it already is. So, I suck it up and say, “I, um, tweaked my schedule a little. . . .”

He nods again. “In what way?”

“Well—” I swallow, hoping he doesn’t question my prerequisites. “I traded Computer Applications and Biology for Art History and Physics II.”

More nodding. What’s with all the nodding?

“As long as you keep up with your assignments, I don’t foresee a problem. I just want to see you happy in your time here.” Now his smile is more parental, small but still reaching his eyes to crinkle up the corners. He leans across the table to Nicole and whispers, “Miss Matios, the last student who tried to zap Philosophy out of their schedule spent a week as a pile of sand.”

Then, without another word, he stands up and walks away, surveying the lunchroom like a General watching his troops.

“Man,” Nicole says when Damian’s out of earshot, “I’m glad I’m not you. I wouldn’t want Petrolas for a dad.”

“He’s not my dad,” I snap. I feel instantly guilty. It’s not her fault I’ve been tossed into this little dysfunctional family. “Sorry. My real dad died a long time ago. Damian is just my stepdad.”

She shrugs like I haven’t just bitten her head off or she could care less that I did. I’m just relieved she doesn’t make a big deal of the dead dad thing. I’m not always so touchy about it—therapist Mom head-shrank me through the whole grieving process—but I’ve been thinking about him more than usual since the whole stepdad thing started. Having a fake dad makes me miss my real one more. Great, another thing to look forward to for the next nine months.

At least Nicole doesn’t seem to care if I’m a moody psycho. Something over my shoulder catches her attention. “Travatas!” she shouts across the dining hall, waving her arm in the air to catch someone’s attention.

At the head of the lunch line is a cute boy—blond and wholesome in a Chad Michael Murray kind of way—with dark gold hair and wearing a MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE T-shirt. He looks up at Nicole’s shout and smiles.

“Hey Nicole,” he says, carrying his tray over to our table and taking the seat next to mine.

“Phoebe,” she says, pointing her fork at cute boy, “this is Troy.”

“Hi.” I wave in greeting.

He smiles, showing straight white teeth and says, “Hi back.”

“He’s pretty much the only person in this school worth knowing.” She starts to take a sip of her Dr Pepper, but then adds, “Besides me, of course.”

Nicole is not short on confidence.

“Has Nicole been showing you around?” he asks, his mouth curling up at the corners.

“Yeah.” I nod.

Nicole is way better as a guide than Stella would have been. I can just imagine my day as Stella’s puppy dog, forced to trail after her and lick her boots when she got a scuff.

Even across the crowded dining hall, I can feel her glare.

She is at a table at the opposite side of the hall—far, far away from ours—sitting with the rest of the Zeus-and-Heras. She’s sitting next to a boy with short, rusty blond hair who, from the confident way he is holding himself, is the leader of their pack. Tan, slick, and arrogant, he looks like her perfect match.

Troy must see me staring at her because he says, “I hear Stella’s your stepsister.” He takes and swallows a bite of vegetable lasagna. “Sorry.”

What, did they have a school-wide briefing about me? It seems like everyone knows who I am, where I came from, and how I got here. Right now, about half the cafeteria is looking at me while trying not to look like they’re looking. I’m like a celebrity, but not in a good way.

Don’t they have better things to talk about?

“Am I the school’s only gossip?” I ask.

“Pretty much,” Nicole says.