The Inside of Out Read Free Page A

“Everyone says that to really become fluent in a language, you have to live there. So I’m going to become conversational in every language and then travel the world and become fluent that way.”
    Hannah was conversational in German, so we had that covered.
    â€œThat’s a very . . . interesting plan, Dizzy.”
    I’d heard the word “interesting” enough in my sixteen years to know what it really meant. I sighed, said
“Merci,”
and headed out the door before she could correct my pronunciation.
    As I navigated to next period, I scanned my schedule. Yep—one class with Hannah, AP bio. I despised lab reports, and my B-minus average in physics last year had been agony to maintain. But I knew she’d be taking it, so I’d signed up. I only wished we had more classes together, that I didn’t have to go through so much of my day alone.

    I spotted her on the way to the gym, headed down to our annual first-day-of-school Club Fair.
    She nodded soberly as we took to the stairs. “So what’s it going to be?”
    For a serial hobbyist like myself, club life made school life bearable. If you’d asked me last week, I’d have declared for the Palmetto Foodies. But now I had other ideas.
    â€œDrama?” Hannah suggested. “Parapsychology?”
    I waved my hand at the mere mention of last year’s club. “They were just a bunch of debunkers.”
    â€œStill have the gear?”
    â€œThe EMF meter’s in the garage somewhere.”
    â€œI’ll hunt ghosts with you anytime.”
    I smiled at her lie. The idea of preppy Hannah holed up in an abandoned mental institution for two minutes, let alone an entire night, was ludicrous. Frankly, it didn’t sound that great to me anymore, either.
    â€œIt’s the Foodies, then.” Hannah whapped my shoulder. “You know how I knew? Every time you came over for dinner this summer, you asked my mom what restaurant the meal was from and tried to guess what spices the chef—”
    â€œActually . . .” I interrupted gently, watching her from the corner of my eye. “I was thinking the Alliance?”
    â€œWhich Alliance?”
    â€œThe Rebel Alliance.” Hannah looked blank. I smiled, nudging her. “Is there more than one Alliance in this school?”
    â€œNo, I . . .” Hannah shook her head. “Wait, I’m legit confused now.”
    â€œI was thinking maybe
both
of us could check it out?”
    â€œ
Oh,
” she said, her face going pale. “Right.”
    At the doorway to the gym, a bustling mecca of booths, banners, and bored kids, I stopped to whisper, “Are you not out, Han? Am I reading this wrong?”
    She scanned the room. Tugged peevishly at her hair. “No, I’m out. It’s . . . yeah. Let’s go say hi to the Rebel Alliance.”
    With arms looped, we sauntered past 4H, Green Thumbs, and the Football Boosters. When we passed the Homecoming Committee table, Natalie Beck peered up at us, eyes darkening as if we owed her a goat for crossing her bridge. Hannah tensed, but I lifted my chin and tightened my grip, marching us straight to the gayest booth in the room.
    Not that it was all that gay. The Alliance’s folding table was festooned with a miniscule rainbow banner and a laminated sheet of paper bearing the name of their club that you couldn’t read until you were standing right in front of it. At the table were two girls dressed so differently and sitting so far apart that I wondered whether the school had stuck two groups together to save space.
    I knew the girl on the left, a senior. Raina Moore. She was one of the few black kids in my World History class last year, where she’d entertained everyone by picking fights with the teacher whenever he voiced the mildest opinion about
anything,
from U.S.-Saudi relations to where he was planning to take his kids for spring