Underneath Everything by Marcy Beller Paul

late-nighttheoriesabouthowtheschoolisreallyarealityshowrunbyrobots.Stupidstuffnooneelse wouldthinkisfunny.
    “Okay,”Isayasagroupofsophomoreswalksby,dressedinvariationsofthesameoutfit.“Number one.” My temples knock out a loud beat on either side of my head. “Driving Jolene home from Bella’s party.”
    “Bullshit,”Krissays,loudenoughforafewofthesophomorestowhiptheirheadsaround,searching forthesound.
    “Trueshit,”Isay,takingaquickbreath.
    Kris narrows her eyes. I wait for her to be angry, pissed, surprised, shocked. Anything. But all she saysis:
    “Interesting.”Thenshereachesbehindmyseatandliftsherbagoutoftheback.
    “Interesting?” I repeat as I slip my backpack over my shoulders and step out onto the thin strip of grassnexttothesidewalk.“Meaning?”
    Thefirstbellrings.Krisslamsherdoorandwalksontothelawn.Ifallintostepnexttoher,butour stridesdon’tmatch.
    “Meaning,” she says, swinging the heavy school door open for me, “you’re not the reason I missed curfew,eventhoughI’dlovetoletyoukeepbelievingthat.”
    “You’retheworst,”IsayasIwalkbyher.
    “Runner-up,”shesays,lettingthedoorshutbehindus.Oureyesadjusttothefluorescentlightaswe walkdownthehall.
    “Then why’d you get grounded?” I ask. “What happened?” My hand moves to my back pocket in searchofmyto-dolist.Butthepocketistoosmall,andthelistisn’tthere.Ididn’tmakeonethismorning.
    Ishovemyfingersintothetightpocketanyway,soitdoesn’tlooklikeIhadmyhandonmyassforno reason.
    “Morelikewho,”Krissays,eyeingalineofgiggling,lip-glossed,hand-holdingfreshmenheadedin ourdirection.
    “Okay,who?”Iask.Thegirlontheendistalkingtoherfriend.Shedoesn’tevenseeus.That’show sureofherworldsheis.That’showinvisibleweare.
    “Bella,” Kris says as the girl walks into her. Kris stays stiff, knocking the girl sideways, into her friends.They’restartled,butlikebirds,theyswervebackintoformation.
    “Bella?”Iask.Thesecondbellrings.KrisandIwalkbackward,awayfromeachother.
    “Bella,”Kriscallsout,likeit’sthenameofsomemysticalcreature.
    I turn my palms up to the ceiling and hold my hands out to the side in question. Then I crash into a classroomdoor.ThefirstrowofmySpanishclasslaughs.SodoesKris,fromtheoppositeendofthehall.
    Later, shemouthsassheducksinsideadoorwaydownthehall.
    Ilowermyhead,sidestepSeñora,andshuffletomyseat.Shepullsherlipsdownintoaquestioning frownandshootsherbrowstotheceiling.Thenshebrushesherhandstogetherasifwipingthemdry.
    “Welcomeback, chicos ,”sheannounces,andshutsthedoor.
    Señoraisatherdeskgradingpapers,herthickglassesbalancedontheendofhernose.I’msittingin myassignedseat,staringintospace.Ishouldbeconjugatingirregularverbs.InsteadI’mtryingtopicture BellaandKris,andwhateverstrange,otherworldlyeventcouldhavebroughtthemtogether.
    BecausewhenKrisandIleftthemanhuntgame,wedidn’tjustleaveJolene.WeleftBella,too.And corner tables in the cafeteria, prime seating at school assemblies, underclassmen adoration, the social easeofbeingthemostsought-afterjuniors.Prettymucheverything.Wedroppedsofarfrompopularthat wecouldn’tevenseeJolene.Andthatwasthepoint.Ifnobodycaredaboutus,nobodytalkedaboutus.
    Wewerefree.AtleastthatwasKris’sreasoning.
    And I agreed. I did. That doesn’t mean I don’t pick up my cell every now and again and scroll to Bella’sname.AfterKris,Bellaismyoldestfriend.I’veneverlaughedsohardasthefirstdayIwentover to Bella’s house in fifth grade, and we made up fake names and a full-on choreographed dance with costumestothelatestTaylorSwift.Bellawaslikethat,eventhen:shecouldmakeapartyoutofanything.
    But each time my finger hovered over her picture on my screen, I heard Jolene in my head. I imagined whatshemusthavetoldBella—thestoryshespunaboutwhyKrisandIleft,completewithdetailsand dialogue,wideeyesandsurprise.Itwouldhavesoundedreal.Itwouldhave been realassoonasitleft Jolene’s lips. That’s what made Jolene so convincing: she didn’t tell stories, she believed them. Her