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clapped her hands together. “Maybe Miss Ravenwood put a curse on you when you were born. It would explain why you can’t do math.”
    “Right.” Salem rolled her eyes.
    My gaze darted from Dad, to Mom, to Miss Ravenwood. The musty yearbook smell had faded, driven away by a spicy, gypsy scent. I glanced at the door, certain I heard the distant tinkle of tiny pewter bells.
     

Chapter Eleven
     
    I slunk into Algebra, the self-esteem sucking black hole, and took my seat. Mr. Bentley was scribbling on the blackboard. His military-style buzz cut glistened beneath the fluorescent lights, and the pockets of his navy slacks were streaked with chalk.
    My stomach growled. In all the commotion, I had skipped lunch. Great. Now I’d be even dumber than usual. As I pulled out my homework, I wondered if Miss Ravenwood really had cursed me.
    Mr. Bentley wrote:
    Hardy-Weinberg Equilibrium
    p=the frequency of the dominant allele A
    q=the frequency of the recessive allele a
    The sum of the alleles must = 100%
    Mr. Bentley might as well have said, “Two trains left the station at the same time. If Train A was going x miles an hour and Train B was going…” Kill me now.
    The person in front of me handed back copies of a blank graph. I placed one of the graphs on top of my notebook and passed the remaining sheets to the stoner behind me. Chalk screeched against the blackboard. From beneath the sweat-stained brim of Dad’s cap, I watched Mr. Bentley write: p2 + 2pq = q2 + 1.
    The little squares on the graph blurred. I planted my elbows on the desk and clutched the sides of my head. Old resentment spiraled through me. I bet Jordan already knows all this. Parvani too.
    The second hand on the wall clock ticked. Twelve-fifty and one second, twelve-fifty and two seconds, twelve-fifty and three seconds…
    “Quiz on Friday, ladies and gentlemen.”
    A sinking, nauseous feeling slammed my insides. I hope Teen Wytche has a spell for improving your math grade.
    ****
    I needed a boost to face Yearbook. I needed to feel like someone other than Evie O’Reilly, loser. So I ducked into the girls’ bathroom. Guilt and excitement warred within me as I fished the tube of Nearly Nude lipstick out of my backpack. I’d once heard an anchorwoman on television say you should wear lipstick the same color as your tongue. Weird, I know, but the reds made me look like Lucille Ball. The bronzes made me look ill. No way could I show up wearing one of Salem’s black-death shades.
    The Nearly Nude lipstick had a faint petroleum smell and tasted a little yucky. Still, I could almost be mistaken for hot. Mom would so ground me for a month.
    I’ll let Jordan see me in Biology, I decided, and then wipe off the lipstick before I cross the field. Mom would never know.
    I slipped the film can necklace over my head for added confidence, and prayed I wouldn’t run into either of the Smash Heads. Hallie, my formerly ill photographer, strode up the ramp to Room 222. Relieved, I nearly kissed the plastic necklace. Maybe I had found my talisman.
    “We have lots of work to do today,” Miss Roberts announced as I took my seat. “I’d like to meet with the layout artists to discuss concept ideas. Photographers…” She eyed the room. “I see Zhù isn’t here today. Hallie, grab a camera. We need more fashion photos. Evie…”
    The wall phone rang. While Miss Roberts walked over to it, I glanced toward the door and willed Zhù to materialize.
    Miss Roberts hung up the phone and sighed. “Evie, you are wanted in the office.”
    The lipstick burned my lips. Mom knows. Had the school installed a spy camera in the bathroom? I am so dead. Then my heart splashed down somewhere in my large intestine. I’ve been called to the office once before—the day my dad had died.
    I grabbed my backpack. Heat flooded my neck and face—I was sure all eyes were on me. At least Jordan wasn’t in this class. Miss Roberts said something about caption writers. A hum like a funeral dirge