When It Happens Read Free Page A

about Sara right now is the way I always want to feel.
    I’m making it happen. Tomorrow.

CHAPTER 3
    homeroom survivor
    september 2, 7:49 a.m.
    When Caitlin slams into my backpack running past me and screaming about Aruba, she doesn’t even stop to say sorry. This is the way it’s been between the princesses and the brains since forever.
    I tell myself it’ll all be over in nine months. Nine months, thirteen days, and approximately eight hours. Not that I’m counting.
    Those of us who got here early are penned up in the cafeteria until homeroom. Trying to sit like I could so not be any less concerned that I’m sitting by myself on the first day of senior year is just not working. I lean forward with my elbows on the table. Then I shift back and try to sit straight on the uncomfortable bench. I don’t know where to put my hands to make them appear unconcerned. Laila’s not here yet, and Maggie went to the bathroom. At least I have my sketchbook with me to partially calm me down.
    My sketchbook is actually a combination archive of my artwork and designs, scrapbook of important events, and collection of journal entries. But its main purpose is for me to practice my architectural sketches, so I can make a portfolio of my work for college applications. I want to be an urban planner, which means double-majoring in architecture and environmental science next year. This will hopefully occur at New York University. Which is not exactly easy to get into. Which is why I’ve been working like a maniac for the past three years. My motivation for kicking academic butt is to escape this middle-of-nowhere New Jersey small town, this realm of nothingness. Living in New York City will be the ultimate existence.
    Anyway, I take my sketchbook everywhere I go. I sketch whatever inspires me. You never know when it will happen.
    I decide that it’s important enough to document my first-day-back thoughts. I turn to the next blank page. I sneak glances at everyone around me. They’re all running around frantically, acting like they care what everyone else did over the summer. I hate myself for caring that no one comes over to my table.
    Not like I expect them to suddenly realize I’m alive. I’m used to being invisible. Why does it still bother me? Why does it even matter if Caitlin & Co. treat me like I don’t exist? I have real friends—two of them—which is more than most people get to have. I’ve been telling myself to get over it for years. And I’ll never achieve inner peace if I don’t. So I need to move on.
    But I can’t.
    Plus, how can I survive another year of the same expectations and stress? And if I see Joe Zedepski drop his calculator one more time I swear I will lose it. Just put your calculator in the middle of your desk instead of right at the edge where you know it’ll fall off. How hard is that?
    I try to visualize my future life. The place where everything feels right and good things always happen and I can be the person I want to be. I imagine my ideal, completely confident self in a pink bubble, floating into space, letting the universe make it happen.
    But my visualization skills are working at less than maximum efficiency today. Because it’s time for homeroom. And first impressions are everything.
    I’m a nervous wreck.
    I peek into the room, pretending to be waiting for someone. At least Dave’s not in here. But a lot of his friends are, like Caitlin and Alex. If I manage to come off as cool, or at least as someone with a sense of style, it’ll get back to him. Then maybe he’ll ask me out. But if I act like a dork in any way, he’ll know about it by third period. This is a small school, and word gets around fast. This school is way too small for anyone to even think they can keep anything to themselves.
    I walk in with shaky legs. I find a seat. I pretend to look for something in my bag.
    “Okay, people!” Ms. Picoult yells. “Your schedules are ready! Come on up!”
    Ten seconds later, her desk