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would he chose to sit with us—the three biggest misfits?
    "Relax, he thought it was funny." Miles shrugs. "Besides, he's coming by your house tonight. I told him to stop by around eight."
    "You what?" I gape at him, suddenly remembering how all through lunch Haven was thinking about what she was going to wear, while Miles wondered if he had time for a spray tan, and now it all makes sense.
    "Well, apparently Damen hates football as much as we do, which we happened to learn during Haven's little Q and A that took place just moments before you arrived." Haven smiles and curtseys, her fishnet-covered knees bowing out to either side.
    "And since he's new, and doesn't really know anyone else, we figured we'd hog him all to ourselves and not give him the chance to make other friends."
    "But—" I stop, unsure how to continue. All I know is that I don't want Damen coming over, not tonight, not ever.
    "I'll swing by sometime after eight," Haven says. "My meeting's over by seven, which gives me just enough time to go home and change. And, by the way, I call dibs on sitting next to Damen in the Jacuzzi!"
    "You can't do that!" Miles says, shaking his head in outrage.
    "I won't allow it!"
    But she just waves over her shoulder as she skips toward class, and I turn to Miles and ask, "Which meeting is it today?"
    He opens the classroom door arid smiles. "Friday is for overeaters."
    Haven is what you'd call an anonymous-group addict. In the short time I've known her, she's attended twelve-step meetings for alcoholics, narcotics, codependents, debtors, gamblers, cyber addicts, nicotine junkies, social phobic's, pack rats, and vulgarity lovers. Though as far as I know, today is her first one for overeaters. But then again, at five foot one with the slim, lithe body of a music box ballerina, Haven is definitely not an overeater. She's also not an alcoholic, a debtor, a gambler, or any of those other things. She's just terminally ignored by her self-involved parents, which makes her seek love and approval from just about anywhere she can get it.
    Like with the whole goth thing. It's not that she's really all that into it, which is pretty obvious by the way she always skips instead of skulks, and how her Joy Division posters hang on the pastel pink walls of her not-so-long-ago ballerina phase (that came shortly after her J. Crew catalog preppy phase).
    Haven's just learned that the quickest way to stand out in a town full of Juicy-clad blondes is to dress like the Princess of Darkness. Only it's not really working as well as she hoped. The first time her mom saw her dressed like that, she just sighed, grabbed her keys, and headed off to Pilates. And her dad hasn't been home long enough to really get a good look. Her little brother, Austin, was freaked, but he adjusted pretty quickly. And since most of the kids at school have grown so used to the outrageous displays of behavior brought on by the presence of last year's MTV cameras, they usually ignore her.
    But I happen to know that beneath all the skulls, and spikes, and death-rocker makeup is a girl who just wants to be seen, heard, loved, and paid attention to—something her earlier incarnations have failed to produce. So if standing before a room full of people, creating some sob story about her tormented struggle with that day's fill-in-the-blank addiction makes her feel important, well, who am I to judge?
    In my old life I didn't hang with people like Miles and Haven. I wasn't connected with the troubled kids, or the weird kids, or the kids everyone picked on. I was part of the popular crowd, where most of us were cute, athletic, talented, smart, wealthy, well-liked, or all of the above. I went to school dances, had a best friend named Rachel (who was also a cheerleader like me), and I even had a boyfriend, Brandon, who happened to be the sixth boy I'd ever kissed (the first was Lucas, but that was only because of a dare back in sixth grade, and trust me, the ones in between are hardly