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looked out the window. I can name who she saw in four notes: Char-lotte Bar-ney.
    â€œKell, there goes Charlotte. If you hurry, you can walk to the bus stop with her.”
    I rolled my eyes. “That’s okay. I’m going to walk to the other bus stop.”
    â€œDon’t be silly. That’s farther.” And that’s when she did it. She yelled out the window. “Good morning, Charlotte. Wait up, Kelly will be right there.”
    Mom and I need to have a serious chat later.
What she can’t seem to remember (ever), is that Charlotte Barney might be my next door neighbor, but she is also my archenemy. (BTW, having an archenemy isn’t as glamorous as it sounds.)
    I left the house and slammed the door behind me so that my mom would know I was mad and walked with Charlotte, whose outfit made me think twice about my favorite deep-cuffed denim capris.
    She wore a supershort plaid miniskirt that I knew was from Abercrombie & Fitch, a matching T-shirt, and a loose dangly belt. Her hair bounced with fresh blond curls, and I think I smelled perfume. Charlotte talked about her summer and being in her cousin’s wedding, wearing a dress “with organza roses at the hem.”
    All I heard was,
Blah, blah, blah
.
    â€œ. . . soccer tryouts . . .”
    Blah, blah.
    â€œMy father told the real estate developer . . .”
    BLAH!
    We boarded the bus and she “blah-ed” to me as if I didn’t already know she was awful, as if I had somehow suffered a major brain-fart causing me to forget the peak of her evilness, what she did to my ninth birthday party—which was supposedto be a surprise party. She got mad at me for something stupid (I don’t even remember what), so she told me that my surprise birthday party was the next day.
What kind of person would do that?
    She was still jabbering when Hannah and Darbie got on at the next stop. They sat on either side of me in the very back seat. Misty sat with Charlotte a few seats in front of us, and it was as if I had never been there.
    Normally, Hannah was color coordinated: purple pants and socks, purple clip in her hair (always a matching clip in her hair), and a matching striped shirt. But apparently she had changed her style for seventh grade.
    Her hair was down. It had grown very long and blond over the summer. And it looked like it had been straightened or shined. She wore skinny jeans that showed off her long legs, which had grown longer and skinnier. But what I noticed most was her shirt. Big white letters spelled LUCKYBRAND . Hannah had gone from fashionable to majorly trendy.
    I diverted my stare from Hannah’s outfit and stacked our backpacks up on the seat in front of us.
    I whispered, “My mom says we can meet at my house, starting today.” Darbie gave me a fist bump. Hannah smiled, but I sensed she was more interested in the Rusamano boys who were getting on the bus, because she was looking at them, not us.
    There was a universal, “Frankkkayayayayay!” from theboys. Frankie high-fived everyone he passed. He and his brother Tony sat with the boys in the middle of the bus.
    Soon, the bus chatter spilled out the double doors, into school, past the trophy case, and to the lockers. We had each brought in stuff to decorate our lockers. Hannah had pictures of that hot guy from the biggest summer movie hit,
Vampire High
, Darbie had clipped magazine pictures of extreme sports, and I’d brought an autographed picture of Felice Foudini that I’d gotten when I joined her fan club.
    I entered the Home Ec room. It didn’t take a fortune-teller to predict that Home Ec was going to be my favorite class.
    I sat in the front row. The new teacher, Mr. Douglass, walked in a few minutes late. I suspected that he could be the only person, besides Felice Foudini, who loved cooking as much as me.
    â€œGoooood morning”—he paused for dramatic effect—“future chefs of America!” Mr. Douglass used