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“Oh, I’m fine.” She laughs, and gets up and then curtsies, like she finds the whole thing funny and isn’t embarrassed at all. I think Dina’s pretty much impossible to embarrass.

  Mr. Valakis delivers a lecture on a time he dropped a tray of food in his high school’s cafeteria and how laughing at someone is very detrimental and blah blah blah. I’m not listening because I’m reading a note from Ross.

  hey chelsers. when are we hanging out?

  It’s not a long note, but I read it over and over again trying to decipher what it means. Maybe he really wants to know when we’re hanging out? But if he really wants to hang out so much, why doesn’t he suggest a day?

  Why can’t boys just reveal what’s on their mind, and then girls would never have to wonder and stress? Or maybe boys’ brains could have some kind of ticker, like on the bottom of the TV screen when you’re watching CNN—that would be great, too.

  After Mr. Valakis’s lecture on human kindness or whatever, Dina asks, “So, get any cool footage while I was gone?”

  I shake my head. Dina’s camera’s back on her desk, but when I lean over and look at Molly’s MacBook, I see a video of Dina falling on the screen.

  Molly must’ve transferred the whole thing while Mr. Valakis was lecturing us.

  How does Molly know so much about using a video camera all of a sudden?

  “Let’s get more B-roll after school—but random people shots,” Dina says. “We’ll meet in the library and walk around and we’ll see who we find.” She waits for me to speak, but I’m still trying to not focus on what’s happening on Molly’s computer screen.

  Ross hands me another note, and I get excited, but when I look at the front of the folded piece of paper, it says for dina.

  First, he just goes up and talks to her in the cafeteria, and now he’s writing her notes.

  I hand it to Dina, and she squeals, “A note? For me?” like some kind of damsel in an old-fashioned movie.

  She doesn’t read it aloud, and she doesn’t show it to me, but a few seconds later she turns back to Ross and says, “Sure!”

  I can’t imagine what Ross would write on a note to Dina, especially after she just totally humiliated herself in front of the class. Maybe it’s some witty tip on how to walk without tripping. That’d be a very Ross thing to do.

  The bell rings, and I leave social studies with this anxious, nervous feeling, like there’s a handful of half-chewed red hots sitting in my stomach. I don’t like that there’s a video of Dina falling on Molly’s computer, and I don’t like that Ross passed her a note. And I especially don’t like that I don’t know what that note said.

  Video tip: Comedy comes in threes.

  Now that I know about Chelsea’s dad, I want her to tell me. I feel guilty knowing it, because she didn’t tell me herself. I wonder who else knows. Definitely not the Acceptables, because if they knew, they’d stop saying that she has the perfect life.

  Today at lunch they were going on and on about where she gets her hair cut and how you have to make an appointment at least three months in advance.

  “My mom went there once,” Trisha said. “It was for my cousin’s communion. It’s not like she goes there every single month, like Chelsea’s mom.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  I’m going to put the whole thing about Chelsea’s dad out of my head until she tells me. And I’m going to try to focus on the positive: Chelsea actually seems to care about this project now, or at least she did on the phone the other day.

  After school I’m sitting at the back table, our usual meeting spot in the library, when someone taps me on the shoulder. “Hey, hey,” I say, and then look up. It’s not Chelsea. It’s Ross. I immediately feel really dumb for saying “Hey, hey.” I should’ve known it would be him because he asked if he could come by and help. I can’t believe I forgot.

  He mimics me and says it right back.

  “So video me!” He sits down in the sturdy wooden library chair and rocks back, so it’s only resting on two of the legs. “Shoot.”

  I laugh. “How do you even know about this?”

  “Chelsea was talking about it the other day,” he says. “And you think I don’t notice you walking around school with that camera? Come on.”

  I laugh again. It’s interesting to know that Chelsea was talking about it. That means things are going even better than I thought. I take out the camera and zoom in on Ross’s face. He has a tiny group of freckles on the bridge of his nose but nowhere else. It seems like he has a permanent tan.

  He’s cute. No wonder the Acceptables talk about him all the time.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “I really wanted to just get candid shots,” I tell him. “Like people doing their thing.”

  “Oh, I know,” he says. “So tape me doing my thing—studying. Ha!”

  So I hit Record, and he’s just sitting here looking at a book with this stupid grin on his face. It makes me crack up. And then after a little while he just starts talking. “I’m proud to say I’ve only been chipped once, and that was when I was in sixth grade and my brother Jake was in eighth. He chipped me. Being chipped by a sibling doesn’t count.” He stops talking. I wait for him to start again but he doesn’t.

  “What was that all about?” I ask.

  “I wanted to state my case on being chipped. I am not a victim!” He laughs.

  “True. You’ve been chipped much less than I have, and I’ve only been here a month.”

  He pats my shoulder. I squirm away a little bit without meaning to.

  After Ross leaves, I’m alone in the library, and I start to think about this whole chipping concept. Who was the first person to decide it was cool to mush potato chips into someone’s bag? I wonder how long it’s been going on. Maybe if we ever find Sasha Preston, we can ask her about that.

  I push the Play button and watch Ross’s video. He has extremely straight teeth and this funny, crooked smile with one side of his mouth much higher than the other. He kind of looks like a miniature George Clooney. Well, not miniature. A younger, shorter George Clooney. A very cute miniature George Clooney.

  After the video ends, I’m about to shut the camera off when I see that there’s another video I haven’t seen. And it’s of me! When I open it, I see myself tripping in the doorway to social studies.

  I guess Chelsea left the camera on by mistake. I quickly hit Delete to get rid of it. Good thing I saw it.

  “We got our first actual good clip!” I tell Chelsea as soon as she arrives, ten minutes late.

  “Who? What? Where?” She drops her bag and sits down and looks around like she’s expecting someone else to be here. The faux fur on her coat is rubbing against her cheeks. They’re all red, like she’s been outside in the cold for hours.

  “Ross.” I lift my hand for a high five, but she denies me. But I go on anyway. “He wanted me to tape him studying, and then he just went on this rant about chipping.”

  She laughs. “You mean, being chipped? No one says chipping.”

  “Oh. Well, yeah.”

  She smears some sparkly lip gloss on her lips and takes off her coat. “Why was Ross here anyway?”

  I shrug. “He wanted to be taped. Speaking of which, we gotta shoot some more. Come on.”

  It takes Chelsea a few minutes to get ready and then agree to leave her stuff in the library. Fear of getting chipped, I guess. But Mr. Singer says he’ll watch it, so we take off through the mostly empty halls.

  “So weird that Ross came to be taped, right?” she asks.

  “It’s not that weird,” I say. “I mean, he does go to this school.”

  We walk through the halls. It seems most people who are still around really do not want to be filmed.

  “This is a violation of privacy!” one boy says. I don’t know his name. I don’t know anyone’s name.

  I don’t mean to laugh at him, but I can’t help it. “No, it’s not! You’d be on the video for the big fiftieth-anniversary event.”

  “O
h. No thanks.” He walks away with the group he’s with.

  “Who was that?” I ask Chelsea.

  “Josh Kerms. He’s one of those boys who watch the Cartoon Network all day,” she says. “I don’t know why they are being so weird.”

  “I know! I mean, it’s their school. Wouldn’t they want to be a part of it?”

  “No, not them.” Chelsea looks down at her phone and then puts it in the front pocket of her blazer. “Kendall and Molly, they’re acting all sneaky and weird. They won’t tell me where they are.”

  I almost bring up the Facebook friend request thing, but then I realize it would sound lame to be so excited about friending on Facebook. Instead, I leave Chelsea to her texting and walk a little bit away from her, over to a group of kids hanging out by the vending machine. This video project is actually kind of a good thing for me. It gives me an excuse to just go up to people and be noticed.

  The group looks down the hall at Chelsea, who’s still texting. What else is new?

  “What are you doing?” one of the girls asks me. “Why are you just filming me standing here drinking a soda?”

  I laugh. “It’s for the fiftieth anniversary. We’re trying to get random shots of kids at school.”

  “God, get people to sign a release form or something!” another girl huffs, and the group walks away.

  I look around, trying to find someone else. I didn’t think people would respond this way. It’s as if everyone expects something horrible to happen. But it’s not like we’re broadcasting this on the local news or anything.

  Chelsea yells from all the way down the hall, “I gotta go. Sorry. Will explain later.”

  She’s going to leave? Just like that? In the middle of our work?

  I walk around more, getting some shots of kids playing basketball outside, some girls studying in the hallway, other kids getting extra help.

  I even capture a chipping. I don’t care that Chelsea says you can’t call it that—I can call it what I want to call it. Some girl is walking down the hall, and then another girl just opens her backpack and pours out the crumbs all over her books.

  Just like that.

  “Oh my God!” the victim yells.

  The other girl and her friends laugh and walk away.

  “Did you just video that?” the victim asks me.

  I nod. “It’s for a project, though.”

  “Well, delete it!” she yells. “I don’t want other people to see it! I’ll be the girl who got chipped on video.”

  I don’t say anything, and the girl walks closer to me. “This school stinks!” she yells, even louder now. “And that girl you’re working with on this dumb video—it’s her fault it stinks.”

  “Chelsea?” I say. It occurs to me that I’m still taping this, and we’re basically gossiping about Chelsea behind her back, but I can edit it all out later.

  “Yeah, her and her friends. It’s their fault. They’re the reason we all feel like outsiders,” she says, and I realize now is definitely not the time to reveal the fact that I don’t know her name. That would surely make her feel even more like an outsider.

  “Um … hmm,” is all I say. “I’ll delete the video. Don’t worry.”

  She goes on and on about Chelsea, how she has the perfect life, how everyone loves her. But Chelsea isn’t the one who just chipped her. How can this be Chelsea’s fault?

  And I know the truth—Chelsea doesn’t have the perfect life. But I can’t just come out and say that.

  Is it so cheesy to want a place where all people are included and accepted? I mean, everyone doesn’t have to be BFF with everyone else, but at least no one would feel like a loser.

  My old school was kind of like that. I suppose it could happen here, too, but it doesn’t seem possible at the moment.

  It’s after five when I walk out to the car to meet my mom. It’s freezing and almost pitch-black out because the days are getting shorter. I want to walk around in a sleeping bag to keep warm. My phone makes the twinkling sound to alert me that I have a text message.

  What does Chelsea think I wouldn’t understand? That she has friends and places to be and exciting things to do? In that case, she’s probably right.

  The question is, what do Chelsea and those people feel about this place? Do they know they make so many people upset?

  The more time I spend with Chelsea, the more I realize she’s not that bad. She’s actually kind of nice. She bought me Peanut M&M’s; she can’t be that bad.

  The thing is, people just assume things about others, even if they aren’t true. I do it all the time. If I ever became friends with Chelsea and her friends, would I automatically make people miserable, too?

  And are people ever really aware about how they affect others? Do they know their role here? That’s what I need to find out.

  Sasha Preston piece of advice: You’ll be amazed

  at how much you can accomplish when you

  don’t worry about who gets the credit.

  A part of me knows I shouldn’t have bailed on Dina, but when I got a text from Molly saying that it was an emergency and they needed to talk to me, I had to go call her. It turns out it wasn’t really an emergency; they just needed to ask me a question about Ross and the note he passed Dina, which I didn’t know anything about anyway. They always jump to the word “emergency” really fast.

  And they refused to tell me where they were, because they were scared Dina and I would come meet them. They were just at Starbucks, and it’s not like I’d bring Dina to hang out with them.

  I was kind of glad to get out of school, though. I felt kind of weird walking around trying to tape kids I’ve been in school with since kindergarten. I never talk to them, so it’s weird to just go up to them now. And library boy seems to have disappeared. I have no idea why my mind keeps flopping back to him when I’m in the library, but it does. I wonder if he moved away right after I noticed him. That would be just my luck these days.

  My cell phone rings at nine thirty, and I dread answering it because I’m scared who will be on the other line: Dina, mad at me for bailing, or Kendall or Molly, saying something else about Ross that I will feel awkward about. When I look at my phone, I see that it’s Dina.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Got her agent!”

  “You did?” I guess she’s not that mad at me for bailing.

  “Yup! I just read about a million articles on Sasha Preston and found her manager’s name, and then that led me to her agent.”

  “Good job,” I tell her. I’m only half paying attention because I’m so nervous about everything else that’s going on.

  “So, we’re going to call her agent and tell her that we go to her alma mater middle school and we want to interview her for this project,” she says. “I’m sure she’ll say yes, because people always want to help kids out. And then we’ll figure out when to go meet up with her. Okay?”

  “It sounds good to me.” I actually mean that, and I’m actually excited about this—which makes me feel even worse about what happened earlier. “Sorry I bailed before,” I admit, finally. “Did you get any footage?”

  “I did,” she says, but she sounds uncertain. Another thing I’ve never heard from her. “I’m not sure it’s right, though. It seems really, like, one-sided, I guess, and boring, which is why I really think we should just focus on the Sasha part, at least for now.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I start to hear yelling coming from downstairs. This always happens at this time of night. It’s like my parents’ witching hour. I can’t stay on the phone with this going on; it’s impossible to concentrate. “I gotta go, though. My mom needs to show me something. Bye.” I hang up quickly, before Dina can say anything else.

  “You’re making me look bad. But that’s not even the worst part!” I hear my mom scream. I wonder where Alexa is. Sometimes she’ll run into my room during their fights. “You’re making yourself look bad! How can you not even care?”

  “You think I don’t care?” my da
d yells back. He can always yell louder, but my mom says the meaner stuff.

  I wish they could just come up with a game plan. Like, if this happens, then we’ll do that instead. It would make things so much easier, and then I’d know they had it all under control. I feel sad for them that things are unraveling. If I could fix everything, I would. But in the meantime, I just want to know that things won’t get any worse.

  During their fights, I always focus on the most random things. Like the ballerina figurine I got for my eighth birthday. Kendall found it in some fancy shop on Cape Cod. Her grandparents used to have a summer home there.

  My cell phone starts ringing, and I answer it without looking who it is first. It’s probably Dina calling again to complain since I basically cut her off twice in one day.

  “Chelsea.” No, it’s Molly. Even the way she says people’s names sounds mean, even when they’re supposed to be her best friends. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Yeah?” I put a million pillows up against my door and lean back on them, hoping that the pillows will block out the sound of my parents’ screaming. “Is this about Ross again? I know he spent, like, two minutes with Dina for the video. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  “It’s not about that,” she says, and then she’s quiet for a really long time. “It’s about your dad.”

  My heart starts pounding. Real, heavy pounding, like the bass at the loudest rock concert you’ve ever been to. And when I look down at my chest, I can see it thumping, almost popping out from my skin.

  I’ve never felt this intense panic before. All I want is for the world to stop. I want to hang up and pretend she never said anything.

  “What?” my voice comes out like a whisper. I can’t believe we’re having this discussion. Me and Molly. Molly with the four-car garage and the pool and the tennis court and the Burberry coat for each season. Mean Molly. Of course she’d be the one to find out and bring this up.

  “We know. We all know.”

  If life were a TV show like Sasha Says So, she’d ask me how was I doing, how my whole family was doing. She’d come over with pints of ice cream, and we’d sit and talk and she’d be a nice friend.

  “You do?”