Free Out of Nowhere by Maria Padian

along with three Somali girls.
    “Me and Lila are thinking of skipping this workshop thing,” Cherisse had informed me the night before. Not in person. A cell phone conversation from my bedroom, where I was supposedly compiling a list of colleges I planned to apply to. Mom was making the most of my groundation: no Cherisse on the premises, progress made on the apps. “Wanna join us?”
    “Where are you going?” I asked.
    “Jake’s,” she said. Giggled. “Like, he’s really
hating
suspension. Not. The guy sleeps in, then watches ESPN all day while his parents are at work. Lila told him we’re jealous and coming over to par-tay. You in?”
    I leaned back into the pillows on my bed, crunching papers that had somehow slipped behind me. I had the Fiske, Barron’s, and
U.S. News and World Report
guides to colleges on one side, and a stack of glossy brochures and college viewbooks on the other. I had to admit: all these places looked the same. All the students looked the same, in a carefully arranged, casually diversified way, with just the right number of Asians and brown people sitting next to athletic blondes and frat boys. Everybody smiling and appearing intellectually engaged.
    “Love to, but I’m a leader, remember? I even had to miss practice today for my ‘training.’ ”
    “Oh,
screw
that, Tommy. What a joke. C’mon.” She slipped into her pouty-little-girl voice. “What would you rather do: talk about civil rights with Liz Pain-in-the-ass, or spend time with me in Jake’s big, empty house?”
    “Yeah, I think you know the answer to that one,” I said.
    “So …?” she said.
    “No can do. I’m already in the penalty box. Skipping school—and you
know
Liz will narc—isn’t in the cards for Tom Bouchard right now.”
    She made this annoyed, feline sound, like someone was squeezing a cat.
    “Lame. Lame lame lame,” she said. “I’ve got a
lame
boyfriend.”
    “I know, right? Where’d you dig up such a loser?” She didn’t laugh.
    “Uh … that was a joke?” I said. Still nothing. The girl was seriously pouting.
    “If I were you, I’d come to school tomorrow.”
    “Right. Give me one good reason,” she said grouchily.
    “Because from what I hear from Jake, you’ll be a third wheel if you and Lila go over to his house. Meaning they’ll be in a room and you’ll spend the afternoon on his couch watching soaps.”
    “That’s why you have to come with me!” she whined. A real fingernails-on-the-blackboard sound. We ended the call pretty much after that.
    Next day, Liz and I were in our assigned classroom, going over the plan for our workshop, when Cherisse sauntered in. There were a dozen students and two leaders in each group, and I’d already seen the list for ours. Cherisse wasn’t on it.
    “Hey, boyfriend,” she said, sliding up against me and hooking a finger into one of the belt loops of my jeans. She stared frankly at Liz. “That is a
great
sweater, Liz. You have to tell me where you got it!”
    Liz glanced down at her own chest, as if she were tryingto remember what she’d worn to school that day. It was a tan turtleneck.
    “I … uh, couldn’t tell you, Cherisse. Are you in this group?”
    Cherisse rested her head on my shoulder.
    “Nooooo … I’m next door. But I asked them if I could switch. They said it’s up to you guys.”
    Liz’s eyes widened. Other kids were starting to come in. Liz looked at me.
    “These groups were carefully put together with gender and racial balance in mind,” she said.
    “Oh, c’mon, Liz. One more in our group won’t matter.” I wasn’t in the mood to tangle with Cherisse.
    Liz shook her head slowly from side to side. I could read her mind.
You are pathetic, Bouchard
, it said.
    “Whatever, Tom. Just let me tell them next door that she’s in here.” She turned on her heel and walked away from us.
    “Such a dweeb,” Cherisse muttered in my ear. “Remind me why we’re heeeeeere?” Semi-agonized tone.
    “I thought