Chapter 24

OPHELIA S itting in my usual seat in the second row of the lecture hall, I absentmindedly flick through the pages of my textbook. The sound of laughter makes me look up, and I stifle a groan as three girls make their way along the row to sit near me. The front couple of rows are usually for people like me who sit alone or are a little unusual, for lack of a better word. Not for the popular girls, which these three clearly are. Being an outcast all my life, I can tell. One of them sits beside me and smiles. “Hi.” “Hey.” I offer a faint smile in return. Her friends sit too. Each of them gives me a quick wave and a smile, and I offer an awkward wave in return. They chatter among themselves, and I tune them out, taking out my battered copy of Wuthering Heights and getting lost in the words of Emily Brontë. After a few minutes, the girl next to me nudges my arm. “Hey, you know her, right?” I look up from my book and shake my head. “Know who?” She tuts. “Penelope Nugent. I heard you went to