If I asked him, would he agree to help me or would he just rub it in that my potential was still a massive unshaped blob?

Monday at school things were worse than I expected. I'd known a lot of people had heard Rick's songs, but I hadn't expected so many people to be singing them in the hallway. Really. I caught snatches of it every time I switched classes. Naomi and her friends broke into, "She'll wink at you, but only if you're cool," whenever they saw me.

I tried to laugh it off and tell them, "You notice I'm not winking at you. You obviously didn't make the cool list." But it still bothered me. I mean, how far could a person's social standing slide in one weekend? It was like anyone who I'd ever slighted, every guy I'd ever turned down, and all the girls who tried out but didn't make it on the cheerleading squad went out of the way to rub it in.

From what I gathered—from those who were only too eager to tell me—Rick sang a couple more cheerleader songs after we left. There was "How to Feed Your Cheerleader (On Gossip and Lies)" and "This Skirt Means I'm Too Good for You." Apparently they were catchy tunes because several people had them almost memorized.

The other girls in my squad weren't nearly as bothered by it as I was. Samantha had a lot of noncheerleading friends and a boyfriend. Every time Logan passed Rick in the hallway he called out, "Heck yeah, she's too good for you! That's why she's dating me."

Rachel had come to school looking so forlorn that currently half a dozen guys from the football team trailed her around to cheer her up and snarl in Rick's direction.

Aubrie, eternally optimistic, actually enjoyed the extra attention. "There is no bad press," she said. I didn't point out that this only applied to movie stars, not high school students. At high school—oh yeah, there's bad press.

By lunchtime I knew I could no longer avoid it. I went to Mr. Mezterol's classroom to see if I could talk to him. He was there, standing by his filing cabinet going through sheet music. He wore a suit jacket and tie—I'd never seen him in anything casual, and his mustache was neatly trimmed. I used to think his mustache was actually a word filter because he always spoke so slowly. He told his classes that when conversing, it was important to choose exactly the right word, and you did get the feeling that he ran through a mental thesaurus every time he spoke. He looked up when I walked in, but then went back to his filing.

I stood before him, nervously clutching a CD of the song that I'd downloaded last night, and explained that I was trying out for the High School Idol auditions. I needed help with my voice. Did he have any time to offer me some pointers?

He turned, slowly, and considered me with reproach. " I 'm not sure, Chelsea. Many of my choir students are trying out, and I need to help them. My time is very limited over the next two weeks. You understand that my choir students have first priority."

I gulped, and grabbed my CD harder, but didn't leave. He had started his answer by saying, " I 'm not sure," which meant he could still be persuaded. "But it won't take long," I said. "And I used to be your student. How about I'll stay after school and help you grade papers so you'll have extra time. Or I could clean your classroom, or wash your car . . ." Or just grovel for a sufficient time for you to forgive me. "Please?"

He looked at me for a long moment, tapping his fingers against the sheet music in his hand. "Perhaps we could work out a deal. After all, I shouldn't turn down someone who's . . ." His mustache twitched. "Inspired so much music lately."

I blushed. "You heard about Rick's song?"

He turned back to his filing cabinet and placed the last piece of sheet music in the drawer. "Some girls in my second period class sung several songs to me. That 'Dangerously Blonde' one has a good beat."

I leaned against his desk. "Now you know why I've got to sing really well. I can't let Rick win a spot on High School Idol."

"Mmm hmm." Mr. Metzerol shut the file then made his way around to the back of his desk. He sat down in his chair and clasped his hands in front of him. "It's a brutal thing to be on the wrong end of teasing, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said, glad that he understood.

"School should be a place of learning, of friendship, but words . . ." he shook his head sadly, "those take a toll on a person's self-esteem, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," I said.

The corners of his mouth lifted, as though winning an argument. "It's so important to feel accepted by one's peers."

I'd already said as much, so I wasn't sure why he kept bringing it up. "You don't think I pick on people, do you?" I put my hand against my chest. "Because those things Rick said about me aren't true."

He didn't look convinced. "You try to include your peers whenever you can?"

"Yes." I should have seen it coming, really. I mean, I'd used the same put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is technique on Adrian.

"Then you won't mind helping me with a project. You're the perfect one to do it, in fact, since you know how it feels to be on the wrong end of teasing." He leaned back in his chair and stroked the ends of his mustache. "You see, I'm worried about a couple of my students, Molly and Polly Patterson. You know them, yes?"

Yes, I knew them. They were identical twin girls who'd moved into town this year and had the misfortune of being plain, frumpy, and on the overweight side. They'd immediately been dubbed Roly and Poly by some guys on the football team. "They're in my history class," I said.

"That's right," Mr. Metzerol said. "They have choir first period. Superb voices. Excellent harmony. I can't get either one to sing a solo though. They're too self-conscious. Too worried about what others might say."

"You want me to help them with singing?" I asked.

Mr. Metzerol leaned forward. "I want you to help them with life at PHS. I want you to be their friend."

"Oh." Adults love to say these kinds of things as though you could order friendship the same way you ordered a pizza. You didn't just decide to be friends with two people whom you'd hardly ever spoken to and probably had nothing in common with. Still, I couldn't explain this to Mr. Metzerol. Once people become adults they instantly forget what it's like to be a teenager.

Mr. Metzerol nodded appraisingly. "If they hang out with you, people will stop making fun of them."

Yeah, because they'd be too busy making fun of me. My popularity was already in a free fall. Thank you very much, Rick.

Still I couldn't turn Mr. Metzerol down. I needed his help, and besides, he was right. I knew how it felt to be called names. "I'll try to get to know them. I'll say hi in class and everything if you want me to."

"Yes, but we need . . ." He sat silently at his desk while I waited for him to finish his sentence. "Something . . . more." And then, as though it were already decided he added, "I'll take the liberty of asking Mrs. Addington to put the three of you together on your history project. That should give you an opportunity to become friends."

We were just starting a unit on technology in world history class and had to come up with a report and presentation. "But Samantha and I already decided to do our project together . . . " I said.

"Good, good," he said. "Samantha can help you befriend them. That will work out even better. I'll let Mrs. Addington know." He stood up as though the matter was closed. "Now then, you brought your music with you? Let's hear it."