II

Like the idiot I am, I followed Esmerada, but I convinced myself I was only following Valentine, who was following her. Now I'm watching her perform onstage for the Drama Club. It isn't high drama she's performing. It's more like a carnival show with what looks at first glance like a small dog, but upon closer inspection turns out to be a white Pygmy Goat.

"Djali," she calls it. She asks it the time, and it answers by tapping the tambourine with its hoof. I fold my arms and try to appear disinterested.

Peter is exasperated. "She interrupted our rehearsal," he whispers to me, apparently too dignified to disrupt any show, regardless of whether the show in question has just overrun his own.

"So tell her to leave." I shrug as though it were just that simple, when I know damn well it's not.

"I can't. I mean look at her. They all love her."

"It's the goat they love." I'm such a liar.

He shakes his head.

Well, I'll just have to prove it to him, won't I? I'll just have to prove it to us both, so I don't go insane with jealously knowing half the school is in love with my destiny. I stare past Esmeralda—I can't look directly at her—, clear my throat, and say, "You know you can't have a goat in the building."

The hush that follows is like sulfuric acid on my skin. I know everyone is watching me, glaring at me, ready to pounce because I've taken their small pleasure from them. Fine. I'm used to their contempt. What I can't stand is thinking she might be burning me with her eyes, just like everyone else. Because she isn't supposed to be just like anyone. She's supposed to be different.  I have to know, but when I finally look up and see the way she's staring down at me, I swear my heart stops. She isn't different. Not at all. In fact, I suspected she hated me long before this wonderfully affirming moment, didn't I? But I can't accept it. I can't. She's just misunderstood me. She would never be so cruel.

Then her expression softens. "What harm can it do?" She pouts to the whole audience, as though my interruption were only part of her act. "Your friend has a dog in the building."

Valentine grins stupidly when he sees her finger pointed at Jackie. He pats the dog's great, black head with pride.

"That's a service animal," I answer back. The weakness in my voice astonishes me.

"No kidding!" She slaps her knees and laughs. "Djali is a service animal, too. Aren't you, Djali?" She turns to the goat, holds the tambourine flat at Djali's level, and says, "Service, s'il vous plaît!"

And the goat does the most confounding thing I've ever seen. It stands up on its hind legs, balances the tambourine like a waiter's tray on its foreleg, and takes a few steps forward before toppling over again. Esmeralda catches the tambourine, and the crowd, now double the size it was when I came in, roars with laughter.

I have never seen a school play with an audience this attentive. Peter must be seething underneath that delighted smile of his. I know I am.