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There was suddenly a break in the crowd and I could finally get a glimpse of what had everyone so excited. I almost smiled when I saw it. Almost. Then I glanced around for my dad. As soon as he heard about this, he’d be here, sirens wailing. I didn’t see him yet, though, so I turned back to look at the wall. There, painted in thick black against the pale concrete, were half a dozen enormous gorillas.

“Isn’t it amazing? Carter’s going to lose it.”

I agreed that, yes, Principal Carter was definitely going to lose it. This wasn’t your everyday, hastily scribbled graffiti. The gorillas were absolutely lifelike, complete with shadows and stern expressions. They sat staring out at us with huge, watery eyes. Each gorilla was at least four feet tall, and the one in the middle had a thought bubble painted over its head. “So this is what the jungle looks like,” it read.

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Mara Purnhagen

www.miraink.co.uk

For my parents, who taught me to love books

I could offer a thousand thanks to the following people

and it would not be enough, but I’ll try anyway.

Thank you to Robert Lettrick,

“inventor” of the banana latte and diligent reader of first drafts.

Thank you to Kristi Purnhagen,

who offered a critical eye and sound suggestions.

Thank you to all the strong and supportive women in my life, including Barbara Bresock, Mary Ruth Bresock,

Abby Elliot, Barbara Lohrstorfer, Nancy McDaniel, Sayrah Namaste, Maxine Purnhagen, Christine Sagan, Jeanne Schaal, Janet Sekerak and Lillian Tupes.

Thank you to Diane Bishop,

my high school English teacher.

Thank you to the entire staff

at the Middle Tyger Library in Duncan, South Carolina.

Thank you to Henry and Quinn,

who inspired me to get serious about all this book stuff.

And finally, thank you to Joe,

who always saw me as a writer.

WHEN I GOT OFF THE BUS that crisp January morning and stepped onto the parking lot, the only thing I could see was a crowd of students gathered near the east wall of our school. It looked like some sort of outdoor rock concert, except instead of holding up lighters and swaying to a heavy guitar ballad, people were raising their cell phones to snap pictures and inching forward amid the rumbling.

I had expected the usual zombie-like trance as six hundred sleep-deprived students shuffled silently toward the back doors, carrying their withered backpacks and a deep-seated grudge at being forced to return to the narrow hallways of Cleary High School after two weeks of holiday vacation. But instead of groggy bitterness, everyone seemed filled with a strange, contagious energy. I wondered briefly if the entire student body had descended upon Something’s Brewing and consumed triple-mocha espressos. Nothing else could explain the wide smiles and whooping sounds emanating from the crowd.

I scanned the crowd, searching for my best friend, Lan, but it was nearly impossible with all the people. Everyone seemed to be standing in the same small space, squeezed in between the parked cars and cedar bushes. My cell phone rang and I set my backpack down on the pavement so I could fish it out.

“Kate, where are you?” It was Lan.

“I just got here. I can’t see you.”

“Look toward the back doors.”

I looked over and saw a hand waving from behind a cluster of ball-capped heads. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I slowly made my way through the crowd, which wasn’t easy. No one was moving. They were either talking on their phones or trying to lift each other up to see the east wall. I saw one kid try to climb on top of a car, setting off a piercing alarm.

“This better be good,” I grumbled to myself. Large crowds remind me of cattle, make me feel as if I were just one of the herd. The good part, though, was that you could blend in with everyone else.

“Kate! Over here!”

I finally made it all the way to where Lan was standing. Normally, Lan stood out in any crowd. It wasn’t just that she was the only Vietnamese student at Cleary High School (or in the entire town of Cleary, South Carolina, for that matter) or that she was exceptionally pretty, with long, jet-black hair that she liked to wear in a thick braid that trailed down her back. Lan possessed a sense of style that set her apart from everyone else. Even her name was interesting. It meant orchid in Vietnamese and, to make sure everyone knew it, Lan collected all things orchid, from the delicate jeweled pins she made herself and wore on a regular basis to the live orchids she kept in her room, each one a different color and each one occupying a small ceramic vase.

Lan was exotic without trying to be, unlike me, who was just about as average as humanly possible. Brown hair, brown eyes. Even my name was average. There were times when I wished I possessed a little of Lan’s uniqueness, but I’d learned that it was better not to stand out. I liked to fade into the background and watch people from a distance. Maybe that was why Lan and I were such good friends: we balanced each other out.

I gave her a quick hug. “Good to see you.”

She hugged me back. “It’s been forever,” she agreed.