First period math today, the Monday after sneaking away from Mr. Buford's class in the auditorium, seemed to go on forever. Layla refused to even look at me, but that's alright with me. She was only ever fake nice to me to get what she wanted, which she did. I just got something better than what she thought was possible. Ha ha, sucks to be a bully.

    With about fifteen minutes left in the class, Mr. Buford got a phone call, looked directly at me and said, "I bet this is for you... again."

    Jerk. No need to be salty.

    "Mr. Buford," he answered. Then his eyes darted back to me and sort of lit up in a weird combination of frustration and victory. "Yes, she is. I will send her."

    I didn't even wait until he hung up the phone before I stood up and hurried out of the that den of bitterness. I didn't even know exactly where I was going, though I could have only assumed I was being called the place I always am: the office. And I was right, because when I arrived, Mrs. Thomas was standing in her doorway waiting for me.

    "You got here quickly," she said with a little smile. "Ready to talk about next quarter?"

    "Oh, is that what this visit is about?" I asked. "I thought maybe I was in trouble for something again."

    Mrs. Thomas chuckled. "No, not this time. Come on in."

    I went into her office and took the same seat I sat in nine weeks earlier when she was suggesting I switch into theater and I thought that was the worst possible thing to ever happen to me. It's so funny to think back on all of that now knowing what I do: that that class change was the best thing that's ever happened to me.

    She handed me a thick piece of paper with our school's seal on it. It was my third marking period report card, and I gulped before reading over it. I had been in such a depression and then such a focused routine that I didn't bother checking my grades for the past two weeks as the quarter wrapped up.

    "Take a look at your grades," she told me as I took the paper. And there they were:

     English 10: 84% B

Geometry: 77% C

Western Civilization: 81% B

Biology: 80% B

Spanish: 78% C

Theater 4: 100% A

Sewing: 95% A

"You'll notice," she pointed out before I barely had any time to process the grades in front of me, "that sewing and theater are included on this report card. That's because both teachers insisted on giving you grades for the work you did with them. But what I'd really like you to notice is the increase in your percentages in every single one of your classes. In English, your grade went up nearly 20 points. That's some incredible work, Janie."

"Thank you," I said, though I knew I would have to thank Thatcher for a lot of that later too.

"What would you say the change was this marking period?"

I smiled. "There wasn't one change, there were a bunch. I got rid of toxic people in my life and found people who support me instead. I learned to speak up for myself, and I found something I was good at and someone who helped me be better every day. Knowing that I was dyslexic and that it wasn't a big deal was huge too. You know, you think because you have this diagnosis, it's going to be this big part of who you are, but it's just one little piece. It's just something that means you need to approach things differently, and honestly, it's going to be better. Having a different perspective makes you interesting, like all the friends I've made. And when a bunch of different people, a bunch of misfits, come together, they aren't really misfits anymore. They fit together. They fit in with each other."

Mrs. Thomas smiled at my little speech before sliding a course selection form across the table. "Pick your classes for the next quarter. Make the choices you want. Not the choices anyone else would want you to make."

"Not a problem anymore," I said, picking a pen from the little organizer cup on her desk.

Before I chose anything else, I put a checkmark next to Theater 4 on the electives side of the form. I chose English 10, Geometry, and Biology again, because I had to by state law, but then I made my own choices for the other classes. I didn't like Spanish, so I switched to French, just to try it out. I left a class blank so that I could have a study hall period during the school day for help with my studies and time to meet with the special ed teachers if I need. I chose Ancient Greek and Roman History as my humanities credit. I seem to remember something about the Greeks pretty much inventing theater as we know it, so why not?

It felt good to have a say.

Mrs. Thomas shook my hand as she wrapped up our meeting, and then said, "Before I forget, Grant O'Reilly emailed the information packets to us today to pass along to the four of you and then the two students selected to be extras as well. It has all the details about when you will leave, how you will be sent your tickets, all of that. But with that comes this other form." She handed me the packet and then placed another form on top that read Educational Trip Form. "Your mom will have to fill this out with the dates from the packet. Will that be okay?"

"Yes. We had a good weekend. She will fill it out."

"Good, because one of your peers was worried about the form."

"Worried about my form?"

"No, theirs."

It had to be Thatcher. Who else would have parents who wouldn't sign this?

"Oh, okay," I said. It was the only thing I could think to say in the moment.

She finished explaining everything, but my mind was on Thatcher. What did his dad say when he got home on Friday? I was so distracted by his sweet texts and my own family drama to ask about his.

I couldn't stop thinking about him all morning, and it didn't help that apparently his phone was off so he couldn't respond to my texts. Not even my last day in sewing with sweet Mrs. Larkin could distract me. She made me a special fabric patch to commemorate my trip to film with Grant O'Reilly. She hand stitched a red rose in the center of a black patch with the words "Misfit Theater Company" sewn below the rose.

"I know you weren't in this class for very long, and I know you didn't want to be here, but I'm proud of you. I just wanted to give you a little parting gift as a reminder," she explained, "that it doesn't matter how long you've known a person, you can still make an impact on them."

I thanked her, as well as apologized for not taking her class seriously, and then I found a safety pin to affix the patch to the front of my binder until I could put it on my backpack.

I was almost successfully distracted during fifth period English while reading the part of one of the apparitions who comes to Macbeth with a prophecy, but my lines only made me think about Thatcher.

"Be brave like the lion and proud. Don't even worry about who hates you, who resents you, and who conspires against you. Macbeth will never be defeated until Birnam Wood marches to fight you at Dunsinane Hill," I read. Well, the second part didn't have anything to do with Thatcher, but the first part made me think of him.

Be brave.

Be proud.

Don't worry about the haters and the people who do things to go against you, like possibly not sign an educational trip form to allow you to miss those days of school to film for a once in a lifetime TV show opportunity.

It wasn't until this moment, as I make my way into the cafeteria for lunch, when I receive a text in reply that I allow myself to be present.

"Don't worry about me," Thatcher texts me. "I'm going to A Call from Midnight. If you have to smuggle me in your luggage, I'm going." He adds in a laughter face emoji, but I'm still nervous. Ugh, why does his dad have to be the literal worst?

"Janie," I hear someone call in the hallway, so I lift my head up from my screen. It's Gina. She waves sheepishly at me.

"Hey," I say as we move with the crowd into the cafeteria entrance. "What's up?"

She shrugs. "Nothing much, I just wanted to congratulate you on the part on A Call from Midnight. Promise you'll tell me what Grant O'Reilly is like?"

"Oh, I can do that already. I ran into him backstage before my one act disaster on Friday. He's really sweet and nostalgic, actually. He was there taking throwback pictures for his Instagram."

"Wow," she says, though I can tell she's more jealous than astonished, "that's really cool. Well, listen, I'm not going to be taking theater next quarter. It's not really for me. Maybe I'll find my calling like you did, but it won't be there."

I place my hand on her shoulder. "Be yourself and take chances to be silly. You'll find where you fit."

She laughs. "Yeah, I don't know if I can do that, but I'll try. Anyway, text me when you're ready to hang out again. If you ever are, okay?"

I won't be, but I still say, "Okay. Will do."

She has to know that day won't ever come, because she forces a tiny smile into the corners of her lips and then heads to some faraway place in the cafeteria to eat. I don't want to be her friend again, but that doesn't mean I can't actually wish her the best. I do. I truly hope she can overcome her judgement issues and find where she fits in. I want her to be as happy as I am now.

"Janie, over here," Patti calls out, waving her hands. She's already sitting with her packed lunch, so I head over to join her and put my binder down.

"Have you received your information packet yet?" she asks as soon as I put my binder down.

"Yes, I'm so excited," I say.

"I know, it's unbelievable. This could be our big breaks, Janie. Like, we could be stars after this. I'm going to have to consult with the stylist about how to best handle my hair for camera though. I don't want to be typecast as the frizzy haired crazy girl after this, you know?"

I smirk. "Yeah, I know. Want to come and get my lunch with me?"

"Sure; but I invited Timothy and Thatcher to come and join us, so we should wait for them," she says, folding her hands in front of her on the table.

"Don't they have class right now?"

She looks at me like I've just said something completely ridiculous. "Uh, yeah, but it's the last day of the quarter. Not all of us are good kids and care about going to class like you and me," she says, cracking a little smile. Then her eyes dart toward the cafeteria entrance behind me, and she smiles. "There they are."

I turn around. Moth is the first one in, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his light, torn jeans, making his arms and shoulders look as if he's perpetually shrugging. His hands only leave his pockets when he waves to us.

Then Thatcher comes in, and my heart swells. He's wearing a cobalt blue sweater that make his eyes look more like tiger eye gemstones than normal human eyes. His dark hair is swept to the side, and even though his skin is pale, it's clear and totally kissable. He's still sort of Gumby-like in the way his shoulders sort of fall forward and in his height, but he's my Gumby. I stand up and walk toward him, meeting him for a hug.

"Wow, I ought to come to your lunch period every day," he says as I tighten my grip. I don't want to let him go, especially now that I'm worried his dad will mess this all up for him. "I think my social studies teacher may be a little upset about it, but I would make it work."

"I was thinking about you all morning," I say.

"Me too, Janie. It doesn't feel real still you love me back," he whispers. Then he kisses the top of my head. He is perfect.

"So, what's the deal here? Do we pack? Do we buy? I buy," Moth says, so I turn around to face him and Patti with Thatcher's arms still wrapped around me.

"I buy, Patti packs," I say.

"Okay, you two are too cute, but I'm hungry, so let's get into that line, dudes and ladies," Moth says.

Thatcher doesn't take his arms away, but instead squeezes me more tightly. I guess this is how we are walking to the lunch line, I think as I smile to myself. I used to hate couples that did stuff like this, but now that it's us, I love it completely. We sort of waddle up to to the line together, following Moth and Patti, even though she isn't buying anything.

We grab our food—he grabs a chicken sandwich and fries on his tray, and I grab a salad and fries on mine—and take turns paying. The four of us don't talk about our worries about the show or about getting there, all we talk about is how excited we are. Moth is hopeful they'll really showcase his man bun. Patti hopes to have a dramatic scene to showcase her range as an actress. Thatcher just wants to be on camera more than once. I want to talk to Tara Lyons about dyslexia. I think we all probably hope that this little gig will lead to more, or will at least help us in the future. Right now, everything is about hope.

"Hey, those are the people from the Romeo and Juliet play. The ones who stood up to Dr. Howard," some guy stands up and shouts from his table across from the registers where Thatcher is finishing up paying for his lunch.

The guy starts to applaud us, and the other guys and the few girls at his table join him in standing up and clapping for us as well. I don't really know what to do, but luckily, Thatcher's arms around me, and with him, I feel less exposed. The people at the tables on either side of them look up, and they must hear the guy start chanting, "Romeo and Juliet," because they stand up, clap in rhythm with the others, and chant along.

"Romeo and Juliet."

"Romeo and Juliet."

"Romeo and Juliet."

I can't help but laugh as the chanting and clapping takes over this side of the cafeteria at the very least. I can't really see if anyone else is over everyone who is standing. The teachers who are monitoring lunch sort of half-heartedly try to quiet them and get the kids to sit down, but they just keep on chanting.

Patti takes Moth's hand. He sets his tray on the ground, and then Moth takes my hand. Thatcher does the same after stepping out from behind me and setting my tray on the ground too, and then he takes my other hand. We stand in a line, lift our arms, and bow in unison. The chanting stops and now the cafeteria is just applauding for us.

I can't stop laughing. Not because it's funny, but because all of this feels like a dream. It's a fantasy I never imagined ever being realized.

And then it gets better.

Thatcher pulls me toward him, spinning my body so that my back rests against the curve of his arm, and then, like a real life Romeo, he dips me back and kisses me in front of the whole cafeteria. Their applause erupts into screams, and as I come back up for air, I see the once apathetic teachers actually yelling at students to calm down. They even start to approach us, but then I hear more screams from the crowd.

I look to my right, where Patti has grabbed Moth's shoulders and pulled him in for a kiss too. Just as soon as she's done it, she releases him. I can't see his face, but Patti smiles. "Holy cow, Patricia," Moth exclaims.

"Alright, enough of this, you've had your show time," one of the teachers scolds us. "Back to your seats."

The four of us bend down to get our trays, Moth gets one more bow in, and then we retreat to our lunch table on the far right of the cafeteria, high fiving people the whole way to our seats as the commotion dies down.

When we take our seats, Moth catches his breath. "We have a lot to unpack from that little exchange," he says, obviously referring to the kiss between him and Patti, "but for now... how freaking awesome was that?"

"That was amazing," I say.

"You know what this means, right?" Thatcher asks.

"What?" I reply.

"Our next one act is going to have to be out of this world to hold up to their expectations. We have some pretty crazed fans now."

Patti smiles and puts her hand in the center of the table. Moth places his hand on top of hers, wrapping his thumb around her palm for a brief moment. Yes, there will be a lot those two need to unpack. Then I put my hand in, and finally Thatcher does too.

He smirks. "We are all so weird," he says.

"Yep," Moth says, "but we rock it."

"Misfits on three," I say.

Patti smiles. "One, two...."

"Misfits!"