Dean Portman stormed into the office of Mark Turner, Eden Hall's academic counselor. Mr. Turner barely looked up at Dean's angry entrance. "Can I help you, Mr. Portman?"

Dean waved a piece of paper in Mr. Turner's face. "What is this?! These aren't the classes I signed up for last year, Turner!"

Mr. Turner looked at him calmly and accessed Dean's record in the school computer system, his glasses balancing on the edge of his nose. "Let's see. Ah, yes, I believe last year you signed up for Advanced Shop II, Advanced Shop III, Algebra and Basic English/ Composition. That schedule is not exactly murderer's row, Mr. Portman."

"I can't do this, Mr. Turner. You have me down to take classes with all these preppy honors kids. I don't belong in Calculus and Advanced Literature."

"Why exactly is it that you do not belong in these classes? As I understand it, you share these classes with some of your friends; Ms. Julie Gaffney and Mr. Adam Banks."

Portman exuded an expression of frustration. "I'm not a brainiac like Banks or Gaffney. All I know about are cars and hockey."

Mr. Turner leaned back into his black leather executive chair. "Do you really believe that, Mr. Portman? Eden Hall receives the scores of all its students who take the SAT, which I believe measures the natural aptitude of a student, regardless of background. Your scores were off the charts. I think that you're smarter than you think. Do you realize that you've maintained a 3.5 GPA during your time here at Eden Hall? Don't you think its time that you've started challenging yourself? Have you even thought about college yet?"

Portman snorted and almost smiled as he noticed the grimace that the sound evoked from Mr. Turner. "Right after I graduate I'm going back to Chicago to work in my dad's auto shop—I don't need to go to college."

Mr. Turner studied Portman in heavy contemplation, taking note of his leather jacket, black jeans and earring. "Is that what you really want, Dean?" His voice had an almost imperceptible tone of earnestness and pleading.

Portman did not even hesitate. "Of course. Now, I want to change my classes."

Mr. Turner shook his head and failed at hiding a smile. "I'm afraid that's not possible right now, Mr. Portman. We're processing far too many requests and your case would take at least a week to take care of. Why don't you take some time to think about it, see how these classes feel—and then if you insist that they're not right for you, we'll talk again. Sound fair?"

Portman waved a hand dismissively over his shoulder as he was already headed out the door. "Whatever, Turner."

Connie Moreau sat sullenly on a bench on Commons Field before her English class. She fished around absently in her book bag and produced a make-up compact. Connie groaned as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. I look like a wreck, Connie thought. Her normally long, brown and shiny hair was dull and disheveled. She applied bronzer to her now-sallow skin in an attempt to restore its normally glowing color. "It's no use," Connie muttered to herself as she closed her compact sharply with a snap.

She barely turned her head as Julie called her name from behind. "Connie! It sucks that I'm not rooming with you this year. How was your summer? What's going on?" Julie gave her a look of concern.

"What's going on," Connie said through clenched teeth, "is that Guy and I broke up."

Julie could not hide her shocked expression and put Connie in an embrace. "Why? This seems so sudden."

Connie threw her hands up in disgust. This was the same question she was asking herself everyday. "We were eating at this Mexican restaurant in St. Paul when Guy ordered my food without even asking me—he does that all the time. I told him off and he blew up, going on about how I've changed and how I'm not the same girl I was when he first met me."

Julie interrupted. "What did he mean by that?" Julie could not venture a guess. Both Connie and Guy, she now concluded, were certifiably insane. They had no business breaking up--Julie had always considered them a couple that 'worked.'

"I don't even know what Guy means! For Pete's sake, we were five when we met! He's the one who's changed. Guy used to be so sweet and sensitive and...different. He doesn't even wear that stupid hat that I love. We're not on the same wavelength anymore."

Julie could not hide a look of confusion. "If this was mutual, then why are you so upset?"

Connie gave Julie a look of frustration as if the answer was obvious. "I saw him walking around this morning with his arm around Francesca Nielson. Are you kidding me? Francesca Nielson?"

"Wait, what's wrong with Francesca Nielson? I had chemistry with her last year and she was really nice."

Connie rolled her eyes—Julie was really bad at this 'supportive best friend' act. She made a smooth transition into her imitation of Francesca, with a vacant expression and a lock of hair twirled around her finger. "This is the girl who has uttered such infamous phrases like 'I like puppies...I think' and 'It's like hot outside...but not'! And plus, we broke up last week! I'd expect a little mourning to go on first."

Julie frowned. "That's really rough, Connie." There was silence for a moment. "Hey, did I tell you that Scooter started crying after I helped him move into his dorm?"

Connie's face was aghast. Sometimes Julie had no sense of timing—she somehow found the worst possible thing to say to Connie at this moment. She gave Julie a punch in the arm that was only half-playful. "Oh, shut up!"