“Fine.” I sat down hard in the chair, biting back the ouch. Maybe it was because I was mad, or maybe it was because I really wanted to leave the house, but I finished the rest of my independent study homework faster than any I had before. Half the answers were probably wrong, but that wasn’t the point. The point was I was free from my prison guard.

School had been in session for over four weeks. But I, personally, hadn’t been on a high school campus since before summer break. And I had never been on this high school campus. It felt different than my old school. Bigger, for one. But in some ways it felt exactly the same.

I stopped in the middle of the walkway and took a deep breath. High school. I couldn’t decide if I missed it.

One day I’d walk around a place like this and people would recognize me. That thought made me smile. Today wasn’t that day. The late bell had just rung, so there were only a few students walking the halls, but nobody gave me a second glance. I wondered if even Donavan would recognize me today without my zombie makeup on. I’d washed my hair the night before too, something I hadn’t done in a while per instructions and I couldn’t help pulling on the silky ends.

I’d parked in a visitor spot and was now trying to find the office. Shouldn’t it be clearly marked? There were four buildings surrounding me, each multiple stories, none with the words This is the office on them.

“Excuse me,” I said, quickening my pace and catching up to a long-haired guy walking in front of me. “Can you tell me where the office is?”

He started to point when he caught my eye. “Do I know you?”

“No.” Was it possible he’d seen the negative posts online?

“I’ve seen you somewhere before,” he said.

“Probably here. Office?”

He snapped his finger, and his eyes lit up. “Zits.”

Oh. I was almost relieved. When people did recognize me it was for one reason and one reason only—the zit-cream commercial I’d done. Why had my agent let me do that commercial? It was decent money, but it was always on. Even still, two years later, I could turn on the television and that commercial would be playing.

“Yes. You caught me.”

“Don’t worry, I’d say half this campus has been in embarrassing commercials.”

“Half?”

“Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but sometimes it feels like half the people here are aspiring actors.”

“Oh.” I wanted to say I wasn’t aspiring. I was in an actual movie. With Grant James. But I had a feeling he wouldn’t believe me. “Office?” I tried once more.

“Right.” He pointed. “Follow this path between these two buildings. It will be on your left.”

“Thank you.” I took the path he indicated down a flower-lined walkway and past a big hand-painted Homecoming Dance sign and found the office. When I stepped inside, a blast of cold air hit me in the face. It felt nice after the heat from outside. I walked up to the counter.

“Hi, I guess I need a visitor’s pass. I’m here to see Mrs. Case. She’s my mentor teacher for independent study.” My dad had told me this was her free hour, and I hoped he was right, because I didn’t want to disrupt her teaching.

A girl sat behind the counter. A white sticker on her shirt read: My name is with Taylor written in green beneath it. She looked like a student. “Sign in there, take a badge from the basket. Mrs. Case is in the C building, room 303.”

I signed my name on the sign-in sheet and took a badge. “Which one is the C building?”

“The big one on the right.”

“On the right of what?” Every building was big. “Can I get a guide?”

“A guide?”

“Someone to show me around?” We did that with new students at my school back home. I’d given at least a dozen people a tour of the campus, which usually started with an extensive list of where to find the best food.

“Do you need to see the whole campus?” Taylor asked. “Or just the one teacher?”

I only needed to see the one teacher, but apparently this wasn’t a good enough excuse for Taylor, so I put on my best persuasive smile and said, “This might be my future school. Can I request a tour guide? I actually know a student who goes here who would probably do it.”

“Why not,” she said, obviously bored with me. She picked up the headset of a corded phone on the counter. “What’s the student’s name?”

“Donavan.” I had given myself a mission: bring a little fun into his life. I imagined school was where he was most serious, if I could loosen him up here, I’d consider myself a miracle worker.

“Donavan . . .” Taylor trailed off, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

I pursed my lips. “I don’t know his last name. Is there more than one Donavan?”

“I personally know three Donavans.”

I stared at her for a long moment, trying to decide if she was kidding. If she was, it didn’t show. Maybe she was an aspiring actress, the star in a million embarrassing commercials. “Really?” I finally asked.

She hung up the phone. “Donavan Lake, Donovan O’Neil, and Donavan Ritter.”

“Wow. You really do. I’m not sure which one of those he is. I wouldn’t be opposed to an all-the-Donavans tour. I can assess which one should be used again for future tours.” When she didn’t laugh I said, “No?”

“Does he play football?”

I couldn’t imagine my tutor playing football. He seemed too . . . cynical for that, but I had no idea. “I don’t know.”

“Does he have a younger sister? Or play the guitar?”

“Maybe?” He was listening to rock music in the car, so that was possible. “He’s a tutor.”

She shook her head as if that detail didn’t help. “Does he write?”

“Does he?” I asked, surprised.

She continued to stare at me blankly.

“He has dark hair and is about this tall.” I held my hand up and then moved it higher and then lower again when I realized I wasn’t exactly sure how tall he was.

“So when you said you knew him . . .” She trailed off.

“Yes, apparently I don’t. Where did you say Mrs. Case’s room was again?” I asked, giving up.

She gave me directions, and I left the building. “I can’t believe there are three Donavans who go here,” I mumbled to myself. How big was this school?

Mrs. Case was writing on a whiteboard when I walked into her very empty classroom. She was a tall, athletic woman, and I wondered if she coached the volleyball team here. I almost asked her but decided that was rude. Heightist . . . or something. Did tall people get asked if they played sports all the time? Tall people didn’t have to play sports.

“Hi,” I said instead. “I’m Lacey Barnes.” I presented her with my finished packet.

“Lacey, we finally meet. Come in, come in. Have a seat.” She pointed to the chair on the opposite side of her desk, then she sat down across from me. She started flipping through my packet. “How have you been faring? Too hard? Too easy?”

“Just right,” I said.

“Does that mean too easy? You answered that very quickly.”