The reason that we were best friends two months later was quite simple.

Five minutes after she walked into the cafeteria that day she nearly choked to death on a honey-mustard pretzel.

I was clued in that something was wrong when everyone around her started to freak out and I turned, curious to see what was happening.

Melinda had her hands around her throat and she was making odd little noises. Everyone thinks that when you choke on something you cough, but when you're choking, no air is getting down your throat so, actually, no coughing. Her face was quickly turning blue. Her perfectly smooth long hair was messy from tossing her head back and forth. Her model-pretty face wore an expression of terror. And everyone in her general vicinity had taken one rather large step away from her.

No one knew how to save her. No one was even willing to try.

Well, except for me. Thanks to being forced by my mother to take a CPR class the previous summer, I knew the Heimlich maneuver. When I approached, Melinda stared up at me with wide, watery eyes. Her lips had quickly developed a distinctive purple tinge.

Without saying anything first-it wasn't exactly the time for friendly introductions-I grabbed her designer shirt, spun her around, and tried my best not to break any of her ribs. The offending piece of honey-mustard pretzel flew out of her mouth and hit a guy named George Rodriguez, who I'd later learn was the president of the chess team, squarely in the forehead.

George wasn't too thrilled about the situation. But Melinda was grateful. Very grateful.

"You are my guardian angel," she said very seriously, with her hand against her throat. "Uh. . who are you?"

"I'm Nikki," I said nervously. "Nikki Donovan."

"You saved my life."

"It's no big deal."

"It is a big deal. Huge." She took a drink of water with shaking hands. "You're new here?" "Brand new. This is my first day."