Free The Tori Trilogy by Alicia Danielle Voss-Guillén Page A

name.”
    â€œHi,” I say, flashing Anastasia my friendliest smile.
    â€œHello,” she replies. She squints her eyes and continues to study me. “What did you say your last name was?”
    What a weird question. “It’s Salinas,” I answer.
    â€œI thought it was something like that.”
    Shannon turns to me, her eyes wide, her hands lifted in a shrug.
    I shrug back. What is the deal with this girl?
    In the lunchroom, Anastasia and I wait in line for whatever mysterious glop they’re serving today. Shannon, who always brings a lunch from home, walks to our usual spot at our usual table, saving seats for the rest of us.
    â€œDon’t get too excited about this food,” I tell Anastasia, trying to make conversation. “I’m sure the food at your old school was much better.”
    Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. Anastasia screws up her mouth as if she’s just swallowed something sour. “Wasn’t everything,” she mutters.
    â€œWhat?” I ask.
    She shoots me a dirty look. “I said , wasn’t everything at my old school better.”
    It isn’t a question, but I am tempted to come back with, “Well, you tell me. Was it?” That’s the kind of sarcasm my brothers and I use on each other, and our parents hate it. But I hold my tongue. After all, Anastasia is brand-new at Forest Grove Elementary, brand-new in Forest Grove, period . That’s got to be hard. I decide to give her another chance.
    Pretending not to have noticed her nasty tone, I say, “At least it’s lasagna today. Out of everything they serve here, the lasagna is probably the best.”
    Anastasia tosses her head, and all that blonde hair flies past her shoulder, then settles perfectly into place against the back of her dress. She doesn’t say anything, nice or mean. Instead, she studies me again, the way she was studying me in the hallway.
    â€œWhat is it?” I ask finally. I hate feeling like a bug under a microscope. “Why do you keep staring at me?”
    She shrugs. “I don’t know, Tori. You’re just so...interesting.”
    â€œInteresting?” I don’t know whether to be pleased or upset about that. “How do you mean?”
    We have reached the lunch counter by now, and have to pause our conversation while we pick up trays and pass them over the divide to those bored-looking lunch ladies who fill them up with so-so lasagna, burned garlic bread, and soggy garden salads. At the end of the counter, we take napkins and plastic forks. I skip the refrigerated chest full of milk cartons (I can’t stand the taste, smell, or sight of milk), but Anastasia stops and pulls out a carton, then makes a face at it and drops it back into the chest.
    â€œI hate milk, too,” I tell her. “My mom makes me drink it at home, but it’s even worse here at school. She lets me bring water or juice for lunch.”
    Anastasia shrugs, looking totally uninterested.
    Which brings me back to what we were talking about before we got our food. “You said I was interesting,” I remind her. “What does that mean?”
    â€œDoes it have to mean anything?” she replies.
    I don’t know what to say to that, though I do feel a little offended. Then I remind myself that I have to be patient with the new girl. Once she feels like she fits in, maybe she’ll be friendlier. I lead the way to the table where my friends and I always sit.
    Shannon is not by herself any longer. Gina has joined her, and so has Emily, our good friend from the other fifth grade class. They are already picking through their lasagna and making faces at the bread and salad, while Shannon happily eats her lunch from home.
    I sit down, and after a short pause, so does Anastasia. I notice she’s watching Gina and Emily closely, curiously. Especially Gina.
    â€œAnastasia,” says Shannon, “these are my other best friends, Emily and