Alyson Noël - Saving Zoë

“And there’s Jenay,” she says, deftly changing the subject. “Omigod, are those—? Oh man, she is so lucky! How did she talk her stepmom into buying those jeans? How?”

“Hey, you guys,” Jenay says, leaning in to give each of us a hug.

But Abby’s strictly business, determined to gather the facts. “I need details,” she says. “ How did you get those? What did you do? And will it work on my mom too?” she asks, slowly circling Jenay, her eyes coming to rest on those telltale designer back pockets, the ones with the gold embroidery that makes the whole $220 price tag seem worth it.

“Well, if you promise to get straight As, babysit my little brother every Saturday night for the rest of your life, and remain a virgin until you’re old and gray, then maybe she’ll get you a pair too.” Jenay laughs.

“Call me when you’ve got that whole potty training thing handled. The last thing I need is another squirt in the eye,” Abby says, maneuvering herself into the center, looping her arms through ours, and leading us toward school.

Since Abby, Jenay, and I don’t share any classes, this is the last time we’ll see each other until the ten-minute break between second and third periods. Which, even though technically it’s only two hours away, I have to admit that right now it feels like forever.

“Okay, so everyone remembers where to go, right?” Abby asks, having deemed herself our group leader sometime back in early elementary school, when Jenay and I were too oblivious to argue or engage in any kind of power struggle.

I nod and gaze nervously around campus, as Jenay laughs. “Yes, Mom.” She smiles.

“Okay, and remember, you can totally text me if you need anything. Because I’m leaving my cell on vibrate,” Abby adds.

And even though I’m gazing across campus at Marc — who up until last week I hadn’t seen for nearly a year — I’m fully aware of Abby’s stare and how that last part was meant for me.

If you were going to categorize us, and let’s face it, most people just naturally do, you could say that Jenay is the clumsy, funny, pretty one (even though most of the time she doesn’t know it), Abby’s the super-organized, bossy one (and yeah, most of the time she does know it), and I’m the completely tragic one. Though before last year, most people probably wouldVe said that I’m the cynical, brainy one. But that doesn’t mean that Jenay’s not smart, or that Abby’s not pretty, or that I can’t be hopeful. Those are just the things that people usually notice first. But since Abby and Jenay have been my best friends for as long as I can remember, I guess I don’t really see them that way. When I look at them I just see two people who are always there for me, who can always make me laugh, and who can sometimes even help me forget.

Clutching my schedule, I recheck my room number, even though it’s practically tattooed on my brain, ever since the “dry run” Abby subjected us to a little over a week ago, so we wouldn’t look like “your typical clueless freshmen” (even though we were) on our very first day.

“They’re here. The schedules. Check your mailbox and meet me on the corner in five,” she’d said, as I slipped on some flip-flops and fled out the door, thankful that my mom was out running errands, which spared me the usual detailed explanations.

When I got to the corner, Jenay was already waiting, her long blond hair flowing loose around her shoulders, as her fingers picked at the hems of her layered blue and white tank tops.

“Hey,” she said, gazing up and smiling, her blue eyes squinting against the sun. “Abby forgot her cell so she ran back to get it.”

“Why?” I asked.

But Jenay just shrugged. “You know Abby,” she said, reaching for my schedule. “Damn. Once again, no classes together. Well that’s what you get for being so smart.” She laughed, returning the yellow slip of paper and getting back to her double frayed hems.

I just stood there, not saying a word, since I never really know what to say when she gets all self-effacing like that. But then Abby ran up, waving her phone, as evidence of her mission accomplished, and led us on the three-and-a-half-block trek to our future home away from home for the next four years — Bella Vista High. Go Bobcats.

Having grown up in this town, it’s not like I hadn’t already been there like a zillion times before, not to mention how it’s the same school Zoë went to right up until the first month of her junior year. But still, every time I approached that concrete slab of a campus I couldn’t help but wonder just exactly what those founders were thinking when they named it Bella Vista. Because as far as beautiful views went, well, there weren’t any.

We navigated our way around, located our lockers (which thankfully weren’t all that far apart), and decided where we’d meet on our ten-minute break (Abby’s locker), and then again at lunch (Abby’s locker — until we secured a more solid place). And after we’d memorized all of our room numbers and their corresponding locations, we headed back home, with Jenay doing an impersonation of Ashlee Simpson that had me bent over laughing the entire way.

Well, until I saw Marc.

I stopped midstride, just stood there and stared. Noticing how his shoulders slumped low, how his dark eyes stayed guarded, and how each drag of his cigarette seemed filled with intent, like he was meant to be sitting on the hood of his car, just outside the Circle K, at precisely that moment. But just as he lifted his head and his eyes fixed on mine, Abby and Jenay each grabbed an arm, pulling me away from him and closer to the safety of home. But now, having just seen him again, I realize this will probably become like a daily occurrence. And I can’t believe I didn’t grasp that before. I mean, even though I don’t share the same opinion of him as most people in this town, having to go to the same school with him just totally sucks. Because now it’s like there’s no safe place, nowhere I can just be me without the constant shadow of Zoë. No place where I can start fresh and try to move on.

Even though it probably seems like Abby would’ve been the one to secure the good lunch table, it was Jenay who succeeded. Because in the world of cafeteria real estate, long blond hair, big blue eyes, a great smile, and a nicely filled out snug white T-shirt trumps the best laid plans of a future life coach every single time.

“It must be the jeans. They’re magic, that’s why they cost so damn much,” Abby says, sliding in next to Jenay and gawking at Chess Williams and the almost equally cute Parker Hendricks, who are sitting just mere inches away.

But Jenay just shakes her head and laughs. “Don’t forget that they’ve just been demoted to lowly freshmen in a sea of hot seniors. So technically, they’re lucky to be sitting by us” she whispers, smiling triumphantly.

I slide onto the end of the bench and unzip my lunch pack, curious to see what’s inside, and hoping it’s not the dreaded leftover meatloaf sandwich that only my mom could view as a logical choice. I mean, for someone with an I.Q. ranked firmly among genius, who makes her living as an academic (aka professional smart person), she just can’t seem to grasp the fact that some leftovers were never meant for cafeteria consumption or any other lunchtime scenario that doesn’t entail complete privacy, a bib, and the luxury of eating over a sink. But as I unzip the top and peek inside, I’m relieved to see the unmistakable tubelike shape of my favorite deli wrap sandwich and not a white bread monstrosity dripping with meat juice on my very first day.

Itear open my chips and fish one out, pretending not to notice how just about every single Bella Vista student sitting within a two-mile radius is totally staring at me. I mean, if I thought things were a little rough this morning in Honors English, American History, Geometry, and French, well, most of my fellow classmates went to school with me last year too, which means they’ve pretty much gotten an eyeful ever since it all began. But now, being surrounded by all of these people who used to know Zoë, who were friends with Zoë, or who, now that she’s gone,