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When she realized that the punks weren’t the unique, free-spirited individuals she’d assumed they were, she was disappointed. “I’ve lost all hope in people. No matter what clique you’re in, you’re still in a clique and you still have to be fake and conform,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s even worth [branching out from the preps]. Like, the punks really aren’t as nice and laid-back as I thought. If I hung out with them, I would still have the same conformity problems. Because punks conform to their things too.”

A few days later, Whitney learned that Dirk had told a punk girl that Whitney disliked her—which was true, but Whitney had hoped those sentiments would not become public. Then Dirk promised Whitney he would text her about a party, but never did. I guess punks are just as unreliable as populars sometimes, she mused, and decided to go to the movies with the populars instead.

In the midst of Whitney’s social turmoil, the boys’ basketball team qualified for the state tournament. Unfortunately the playoff game—Whitney’s last chance to cheer during her high school career—fell on the same night as a mandatory all-county band rehearsal.

Whitney found her band teacher in the hall by the band room. “Hey, um, I need to talk to you,” she said. “So I just found out that the boys play Monday night.” Whitney’s heart pounded; she was worried her teacher would be angry.

“Oh,” the teacher said. “This is a problem.”

“Yeah.”

“Let me email the all-county president and see what he says. The rules say only sickness, weather, or death in the family are excuses for missing rehearsals. But I’ll see if there can be any exceptions.”

Later that week, Whitney asked the teacher if the president had responded. Whitney was optimistic. The president knew who she was. She had always gotten her way at school functions.

“I talked to him and it doesn’t look good.”

Whitney’s heart sunk. “Oh . . . really?”

“Yes. I explained that you couldn’t have known when the game was going to be scheduled and you can’t do half-and-half since they’re at the same time. And I explained that you’re captain and you already chose band over cheerleading for another event. But he said he can’t make an exception.”

“So, I have to choose?” Whitney asked.

“Yes,” said the teacher. “I really hate giving guilt trips, but as a musician, I have to say you’re more easily replaced in cheerleading than you are in band, since now they have to find a new first chair. . . .” He trailed off as Whitney started to cry.

Whitney agonized over her decision: miss her last all-county concert, letting down the band that had rehearsed with her as first chair, or abandon her last cheerleading game of her career, letting down the squad. She asked Luke for advice. “I think you should go to the game, because it will be a better memory for you to look back on,” he said.

Whitney agreed, but for other reasons. This year alone she’d been hospitalized twice for minor injuries sustained during cheerleading stunts; if those didn’t stop her, she didn’t think a scheduling conflict should. But even more, she wanted revenge on the all-county organization for its rule. “I wanted to make them scramble to find a replacement,” she explained later. She chose the game.

EVERY YEAR IN HIGH school, the preps had been in charge of Class War, the culmination to Spirit Week. Class War was a grade-versus-grade battle of silly games, relay races, obstacle courses, and skits performed in front of most of the town. The preps planned activities and decorations and decided who would participate in each event. When they discussed who should represent the class for tug-of-war, Bobby cracked, “Basically it could just be Fern and we would win.”

“Asshole,” Whitney muttered. Since the twins had moved, Fern was the only new student left in the class. Students continued to alienate her, a fate she seemed to accept passively from her usual spot in the corner.

A few days later, the preps were in a classroom painting Class War banners along with a smattering of other students. Because