[1] It didn’t take me long to figure out that I wasn’t invited to the party. I got off the bus and saw my friends huddled under the tree where we all stood every morning before the first bell. There were six of us: Theresa, Becky, Barbara, Carol, Kim, and me. I can’t even say that we were close friends. We had come from different elementary schools and never fit with the predictable middle school jocks, pops, or nerds. We were flotsam and jetsam that washed under a tree in 1 front of the library and became an entity by default and by simply standing 2 together. [2] The circle seemed tighter as I approached; the flittering of small white envelopes being hastily stuffed into backpacks and binders gave it away. I knew as well as the entire universe that Bridget’s party was this weekend. Bridget was one of the pops, the popular ones and the antithesis of me. She was thin and wore 3 clothes that looked like they came straight from the pages of magazines. She had that hair — red, and cut into a perfect page, smoothed into a bowl around her face, and every shade of shoes to match even her wildest outfits. She had a select group of followers who squealed and hugged each other between every class, as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. We all wanted to be like her or them and being invited to her party meant elevation in the school pecking order. To not be invited meant standing in stagnant water. 4 [3] My stomach churned, and I hoped that Bridget was still holding an envelope with my name on it to be delivered later. But my friends’ shuffling feet and furtive glances guaranteed my fate. Their too-eager hellos told me that everyone already knew who was invited and who wasn’t. [4] “Hi,” I responded, but that one word already sounded hollow with disappointment. [5] Becky, always the diffuser of uncomfortable moments, said, “Hey, did you get all the algebra homework done?” [6] “Everything but the last problem,” I mumbled. [7] “Here, want to see the answer?” Eagerly, maybe out of guilt, she gratuitously flipped op