“Yes, you accepted me, but I’m still trying to figure out why,” I say to Wendy. “I think you must be some kind of a freak. Either that or you’re trying to convert me to your secret horse religion.”

“Darn, you got me,” she says theatrically. “You thwarted my evil plan.”

“I knew it!”

I like Wendy. She’s quirky and kind, and just solidly good people. And she’s saved me from being labeled as a freak or a loner, as well as from the sting of missing my friends back in Cali. When I call them, already it feels like we don’t have much to talk about now that I’m out of the loop. It’s obvious that they’re moving on with their lives without me.

But I can’t think about that or whether I’m a Have or Have-Not. My real problem has nothing to do with being rich or poor but instead with the fact that most of the students at Jackson Hole High have known each other since kindergarten. They formed all their cliques years ago. Even though my natural inclination is to stick with the more modest crowd, Christian is one of the pretty people, so that’s where I need to be. But there are obstacles. Huge, glaring obstacles. The first being lunch. The popular crowd usually goes off campus. Of course. If you have money, and a car, would you stay on campus and dine on chicken-fried steak? I think not. I have money, and a car, but the first week of class I did a 180 on the icy roads on the way to school. Jeffrey said it was better than Six Flags, that little spin we took in the middle of the highway. Now we ride the bus, which means I can’t go off campus for lunch unless someone gives me a ride, and people aren’t exactly lining up with offers. Which leads me to obstacle number two: Apparently I’m shy, at least around people who don’t pay much attention to me. I never noticed this in California. I never needed to be outgoing at my old school; my friends there kind of naturally gravitated to me. Here it’s a whole different story, though, largely because of obstacle number three: Kay Patterson. It’s hard to make a lot of friends when the most popular girl in school is giving you the stink-eye.

The next morning Jeffrey wanders into the kitchen wearing his IF IDIOTS COULD FLY, THIS PLACE WOULD LOOK LIKE AN AIRPORT shirt. I know that everyone at school will think it’s funny and not be at all offended, because they like him. Things are so easy for him.

“Hey, you feel like driving today?” he asks. “I don’t want to walk to the bus stop. It’s too cold.”

“You feel like dying today?”

“Sure. I like risking my life. Keeps things in perspective.”

I chuck my bagel at him and he catches it in midair. I look at the closed door to Mom’s office. He smiles hopefully.

“Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll go warm up the car.”

“See,” he says as we slowly make our way down the long road to school. “You can handle this driving-on-snow thing. Pretty soon you’ll be like a pro.”

He’s being suspiciously nice.

“Okay, what’s up with you?” I ask. “What do you want?”

“I got on the wrestling team.”

“How’d you pull that off if tryouts were back in November?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I challenged the best wrestler on the team to a match. I won. It’s a small school. They need contenders.”

“Does Mom know?”

“I told her I’m on the team. She wasn’t thrilled. But she can’t forbid us from all school activities, right? I’m tired of this ‘we better lay low, or someone will figure out we’re different’ crap. I mean, it’s not like if I win a match people are going to say, who’s that kid, he’s a really good wrestler, he must be an angel.”

“Right,” I agree uneasily. But then Mom isn’t the type to make rules simply because she can. There has to be an explanation for her cautiousness.

“The thing is, I need a ride to some of the practices,” he says, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. “Like, all of them.”

For a minute it’s quiet, the only sound the heater blowing across our legs.

“When?” I ask finally. I brace myself for bad news.

“Five thirty a.m.”

“Ha.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Get Mom to drive you.”

“She said that if I was going to insist on being on the wrestling team, I’d have to find my own ride. Take responsibility for myself.”

“Well, good luck with that,” I laugh.

“Please. It’ll just be for a few weeks. Then my buddy Darrin will turn sixteen and he can pick me up.”

“I’m sure Mom will love that.”

“Come on, Clara. You owe me,” he says quietly.

I do owe him. It’s because of me that his life is upside down. Not that he seems to be suffering much.

“I don’t owe you squat,” I say. “But . . . okay. For like six weeks, tops, and then you’ll have to get someone else to be your chauffeur.”

He looks genuinely happy. We might be on some kind of road to recovery, he and I, like it used to be. Redemption, isn’t that what they call it? Six weeks of early mornings doesn’t seem like too big a price to pay for him not hating me anymore.

“There’s one condition though,” I tell him.

“What?”

I put in my Kelly Clarkson CD. “We get to listen to my tunes.”

Wendy’s wearing a shirt that reads, HORSES ATE MY HOMEWORK.

“You’re adorkable,” I whisper as we slip into our seats for Honors English. Her current crush, Jason Lovett, is staring in our direction from across the room. “Don’t look now, but Prince Charming is totally checking you out.”

“Shut up.”

“I hope he can ride a horse, since you’re supposed to ride off into the sunset together.”

The bell rings and Mr. Phibbs hurries to the front of the classroom.

“Ten extra credit points to the first student who can correctly identify the quotation on my shirt,” he announces. He stands up straight and rolls his shoulders back so we can read the words written across his chest. We all lean forward to squint at the tiny print: IF SCIENCE TEACHES ANYTHING, IT TEACHES US TO ACCEPT OUR FAILURES, AS WELL AS OUR SUCCESSES, WITH QUIET DIGNITY AND GRACE.

Easy. We only finished the book last week. I look around, but there are no raised hands. Wendy’s trying not to make eye contact with Mr. Phibbs so he won’t call on her. Jason Lovett is trying to make eye contact with Wendy. Angela Zerbino, who can usually be counted on to chime in with the right answer, is scribbling away in her notebook, probably composing some twisted epic poem about the injustice of her life. Someone in the back of the room blows his nose, and another girl starts to click her fingernails on the top of her desk, but nobody says anything.