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go back home, and it’s this: apparently, living people can have ghosts. Last time I was there, I could still smell the cinnamon my mom used to put in her coffee. I swear, one time after she left, I heard her goofy laugh coming in from the back porch. It’s not like it was scary or anything—I mean, I loved her laugh—but still, it made me feel a little haunted.
    But now, on the phone, my dad won’t drop the school question. He comes right back to it and asks why I don’t want to talk about it. So I have to say something. I don’t tell him about the ketchup packet, but I do tell him about my new science teacher, Ms. Flamsteed, and how yesterday, the first day of school, she told us how proud she was of her last name because she comes from a long line of scientists, including the guy who first sighted Uranus.
    He breaks into a monstrous laugh, just like we all did in class when she said it, despite the fact that she carefully pronounced it YOUR-uh-nuss . I say it the normal way when I tell him.
    I’m glad he’s not one of those adults, like Ms. Flamsteed, to use the word inappropriate . That word might not be dirty, but it sure can make someone feel that way.
    It’s good to hear him laugh. And it’s good not to feel like crying.

IT’S BEEN LESS than twenty-four hours since the ketchup incident, but already Corny has washed and ironed the life out of the Sassie Lasses and folded them into a thick, tidy square. I’d tried to “forget” them this morning—and hopefully forever, actually—but Corny ran out to the bus stop, clutching them to her chest as if they were spun from gold or something, and made me promise to return them to Mrs. Arafata.
    I find Delia at her locker before first period. “Can you go to the clinic with me?” I ask.
    â€œWhy? What happened?” She spins me around and examines the butt of my jeans.
    â€œNothing. Except, oh, yesterday ,” I say, turning back around quickly. “And now I have to turn the old-lady pants back in.”
    â€œBut I’m supposed to get to Math five minutes early—I get extra credit for writing the warm-up on the board.”
    â€œPlease? I really don’t want to go alone. It’s like reliving the whole humiliating event,” I explain. “You’re my best friend. I need you!”
    It was just last week that these exact words were spoken, and that time, she was doing the pleading. Delia was worried she had a chronic foot-odor problem, so I had to take a whiff of three pairs of sneakers and some flip-flops and let her know if it was just her imagination. (It wasn’t.) So we both know she owes me.
    â€œOkay, you know I will.”
    We wind our way through the crowded hallways until we are close to the clinic. Then I brace myself and pick up my pace, and she follows me through the door.
    â€œOh, Olivia! Hi!” Mrs. Arafata says, way too loud, giving me the same wide-eyed, spacey smile that adults sometimes give to preschoolers.
    â€œI’m supposed to give these back,” I murmur, studying the floor tiles.
    â€œOh, honey,” she says, extra-syrupy. “You didn’t have to. Consider them a gift.” I glance up just enough to see her looking very pleased with herself.
    I try to stay polite. Maybe she’s the type of person who would offer them as a gift to anyone. Maybe she secretly knows how horrible they are, and really doesn’t want them back. Maybe. But then she lowers her voice to just above a whisper, and says, “And Olivia, you know you can let me know if you need anything else. I understand your situation .”
    My situation. That my own mom ran away from me. So it’s perfectly clear. The pants are charity. She’s judging me. It’s not just girls like Brynne who see me as a reject; it’s the whole freaking human world.
    I want to throw the pants at her and run, but my arms seem stuck to my sides and my feet