I rolled my eyes. “I mean, the weather.”

Outside, thunder rolled. Strands of weeping willows slapped the windows, and the sophomores whined and pulled on their hair in unison. It was embarrassing, watching them all wig out over a few insignificant flyaways before a pep rally. How did they expect to cut it in two years when there were legitimate things to stress about? I sighed and pulled a bottle of my secret weapon hair gloss, courtesy of Mom, from my purple backpack. I didn’t need to court votes from these girls, but around here, you could catch a lot of flies with really good hair products.

“Promise to share?” I asked the sophomores, waving the bottle in the air.

The Human Blemish held out her hands as if I’d just spun gold. “Oh my God, thank you,” Darla blinked. “We’ll each take just one spritz.”

“Right,” I said, heading for the door. “Don’t go too crazy.”

“Nat.” Kate’s throaty voice stood out among the other girls’ chirps. She tugged on the strap of my bag. “Wait up.”

“Talk to me.” I turned around to straighten the collar of her white oxford shirt so that it lay smoothly under her pale-pink cashmere.

“Tracy Lampert wants to see you,” she said, flashing the silver tongue ring she hardly ever let show on school grounds. “Junior bathroom,” Kate directed. “Before the bell.”

Hmm. . Tracy Lampert was the self-appointed junior-class guru. She held perpetual court in their bathroom, to the point where some wondered if she ever went to class.

“That’s convenient,” I said, wondering briefly about the odds. Tracy and I were cool, but I couldn’t remember the last time we’d sought out each other’s company — simultaneously. “I was on my way up there, anyway,” I said, shrugging good-bye to the rest of the Bambies. “Later, girls.”

As I slipped up the stairs toward Tracy’s Den of Zen, I was surprised to see how suddenly inundated the halls were with my running mates’ Palmetto Ball Court posters.