Third period, gym — no Jessica.

Fourth period, math — no Jessica.

Fifth period was lunch. Since the hot lunch costs under a dollar, my parents make me and my brothers and sisters buy it every day (or else make our own). Mom says she has better things to do than pack eight lunches five mornings a week.

It was spaghetti day. I paid for my meal and carried my tray to a long table where a bunch of girls from my homeroom were sitting. Almost all of them looked up and said, "Hello, Mallory." That was nice, but what I was longing for was someone who would leap out of her chair squealing, "Oh! Oh, Mal! You'll never in a million years guess what happened!"

In other words, a best friend.

I sat down next to Rachel Robinson. Rachel and three others turned away and put their heads together, whispering. I was curious, but I was also starving. I opened my carton of milk.

"Mallory," whispered Rachel.

"What?" I stuffed half a meatball in my mouth.

"Can you believe that new girl?" Rachel sounded aghast.

"Who, Jessica Ramsey?" I replied.

"What do you mean 'who'? Of course I mean Jessica Ramsey. Who else?"

I shrugged. "What about her?"

"What about her?" cried Sally, this girl I've never really liked. "Are you blind? She's black."

I nearly choked. "So?"

"Well, she doesn't, you know, belong here."

"Where?" I challenged them. "She doesn't belong where?"

Sally shrugged uncomfortably. "Oh, I don't know. . . ."

"What are you so upset for, anyway?" Rachel asked me.

I tried to compose myself. I ate some spaghetti. "I am not upset," I said at last.

I wanted to change the subject, but before I could, Anita (Rachel's best friend) said, gig-