Alicia Atkins grasps the fake gold necklace at her throat as if it is a talisman, a charm that will ward off the evil spirits lurking all around. The necklace spells out "ERA," and Alicia gave one to each of her five closest girlfriends -- honor students all -- at the start of the school year.

She had gotten the trinkets from a woman at her church, who had picked up a handful at a women's rights rally. But Alicia decided the letters would stand for something else: "That we would be a group of smart girls at Ballou, who'd be sticking together and do well in school, that we would bring about, like, a new era for black people."

Fifteen-year-old Alicia hopes desperately it will protect them. Short, chatty and all dimples behind her big glasses, she is the self-appointed mother figure for this group of sophomores.

Alicia is most protective of 15-year-old Octavia Hooks -- and for good reason. Alicia's home life may be chaotic, with seven siblings including her brother Phillip. But her father has a steady job, her mother is always at home. She is guided by her father's advice to set "attainable" goals; she wants to be an executive secretary with "a house with three bedrooms, a little yard with a swing, where I can walk outside and not be afraid. And when I get it -- and I will -- I'll live there, all by myself."

Octavia's life has no such order. She has lived in two of the city's worst public-housing projects in the past two years. She and her five siblings are from two different fathers -- one a drug addict who was beaten to death, the other an occasional visitor.

In the past year, though, Octavia has emerged as a blazing student. When the other girls get "A's," Octavia brings home the lone "A+." She talks of being an obstetrician. But she is often tired and carries an edge of neediness.

Her physics teacher, Christopher Grimm, is concerned. Mr. Grimm was reluctant last September to accept Octavia into a class of almost all seniors, so he gave her a math-proficiency test, expecting her to fail; she scored 100%. Now he is challenging her at every opportunity, and says her science-fair project -- which uses fireworks and sensors to measure rocket thrust -- was "a cinch for first place." But Octavia didn't show up on the day she was due to fire the rockets, and the project won't be finished in time for the fair. She will only say she had "family business" that day.

"Occy's one of those welfare babies," says Alicia, trying to make it sound like banter. "What they call 'at risk.'" But she is worried: Octavia's "mind's been all over the place. . . . Things are going on."

Over fried chicken during lunch period, the talk turns to a 21-year-old man Octavia has been seeing. Alicia has been on tenterhooks, afraid her friend might be pregnant, "and, that'll be it. Her life'll be over." One day she says that "Occy's in denial" and that "I'm going to be the godmother." Octavia angrily denies being pregnant, and later Alicia says she "was mistaken, it was all just a joke."

But in physics class, Octavia bears down on a copy of Parents magazine. She lingers over "10 Essentials for a Safe Nursery." "It must be really hard," she says, pensively, "to make a place absolutely safe for an infant -- so nothing could happen to them."

A few weeks later, long after the science fair, Octavia sits in physics class with her head on the desk. Three feet away, on a table against the wall, dangle two starter fuses for a rocket launcher. Mr. Grimm is beside himself: If she doesn't complete her experiment in a few days, his star student will fail physics for the quarter.

"It's so frustrating," he says. "You see them drowning, and you reach out and say, 'Just take my hand.' But they won't. They think they're supposed to drown."

Later, Alicia mentions that she and Octavia, together, came up with the idea of a "new era that we would lead." The necklaces, they both felt, would be a shield to keep them safe. Now, Octavia is the only girl without one. Alicia says she took it back after discovering her friend tried to sell it for $5.

Half-a-mile away, at Octavia's row house, her 36-year-old mother, Michelle Rindgo, sits in her "TAKE ME HOME I'M DRUNK" T-shirt on the couch. Ms. Rindgo reels off mistakes she has made: her first baby at 14, her years on welfare, her attempts, often futile, to keep her children "away from all the other kids who live around here who are going nowhere."

Like many living rooms in the projects, hers is wall-papered with certificates that local schools pass out frantically, honoring small victories, like attendance or citizenship, to build self-esteem. But this shrine offers scant comfort as her daughter grows into womanhood. "She's at the age -- she's a pretty girl -- and I worry," Ms. Rindgo says.

Octavia comes home, and packs clothes for a weekend away. She will be staying at the apartment of her 21-year-old sister, who has three out-of-wedlock babies. As she slips out the door, Ms. Rindgo calls to her: "You still a virgin, baby?"

"Yes, Mama," her daughter calls back. Then she disappears across a landscape of bursting Dumpsters and junked cars.