I spend the next hour talking until my throat hurts.
It’s not as if the school campus is even that big: We have three buildings in total, all designed in the same boring, rectangular style with white- framed windows and gable roofs, and spread out around the main oval.
The issue is more that there’s a lot of explaining to do.
Like: why photos of the senior teachers have been cut out and glued to the ceiling. “It’s a gesture of appreciation and respect,” I tell them, because prank is not the right word here. “At Woodvale, teachers and students are on very close terms, and we’re encouraged to express ourselves in, ah,
creative ways. Every time we walk through these beautiful halls, we’re reminded that our teachers are always looking down on us from above. Like, um, angels. Or God.”
Or why there’s a massive statue of a green donkey in the middle of the hall when our mascot is meant to be a horse and our school colors are blue and white. “Donkeys are symbolic,” I lie on the spot. In truth, our deputy principal, who’d ordered the cursed statue, apparently just isn’t very
sensitive to either colors or animals. It could have been worse, I guess; she could have ordered a statue of a cow. “They stand for determination and hard work and grit: all crucial school values we take to heart.”
Or why the schedule on the bulletin board says our next assembly will
be happening at 9:00 a.m., 10:00 a.m., 10:20 a.m., 3:00 p.m., 3:35 p.m., and somehow also 8:00 p.m. “We like to be very flexible,” I say, ushering them along. “Obviously there is only one time for the assembly that everyone
knows about. Obviously this has been communicated well, because the communication at this school is flawless. Now, have you seen our drinking fountains? We have a great filtration system . . .”
Or why there’s a construction site next to the cafeteria.
“I remember reading about this on the school website,” the green-scarf auntie says with a small frown. We’ve stopped just outside the wire fences, and even I have to admit, the view isn’t great. There’s nothing but rubble and plastic coverings and a few scattered poles. As we stare, a literal tumbleweed rolls across the dirt. “It’s for the new sports and recreation center, no? I thought it was meant to be finished two years ago.”
“Right. That.” My smile widens in direct proportion to my panic. I don’t know how to tell her that, yes, the sports and recreation center was finished two years ago. But then there came a minor issue with the bathrooms. To be specific, the toilets were all built facing the side, instead of the door, so you couldn’t sit down on them without banging your nose. At first the school asked us to be grateful and flexible and view it as a learning experience, but after Georgina Wilkins got a bruise from the stalls and threatened to sue, they decided it was better to rebuild the center from the ground up after all. “There were some small delays,” I say, “but only so they could make it even bigger and better. There are some truly exciting features coming, including a mini golf course on the roof, a swimming pool, and three
private gyms. But as you know, excellence takes time.”
The auntie considers this for a moment and, to my relief, moves on.
We’ve circled our way back to the school gates now. The students have started to trickle in, yelling goodbye to their parents from the curb, swinging their bags over their shoulders and messaging their friends. Julius is also there. He’s standing before the aunties, his styled hair glinting in the rising orange light, with his perfect skin and perfect uniform and perfect posture. Just seeing him makes me want to put my fist through something hard—ideally, his jaw.
“We’ll definitely be sending our daughter here,” one of the aunties is saying. “If you’re the standard for the students at Woodvale, then this is the perfect school.”
I feel a black thunderbolt of rage, the electricity crackling down my spine. It’s made worse when Julius catches my eye, like he wants to make
sure I’m listening.
“It’s been a pleasure,” he says smoothly.
“No, no, the pleasure is all mine,” the auntie returns in Mandarin, and my jaw unhinges. She was the one who’d used English with me earlier. It probably means nothing. Or it definitely means she likes Julius more and
feels more familiar with him and trusts him even though there are pyramid scheme leaders more trustworthy than he is. “We couldn’t have asked for a better tour guide. Really.”
Still looking at me, Julius smiles. “I’m so happy to hear it.”
I bite my tongue, swallow all impulses for violence, and wave to the aunties as they leave. The second their clacking heels have faded into the distance, I rush off to my first class: history. Unfortunately this is also the
first of my shared classes with Julius, and it’s not long before his footsteps catch up to mine.
“That went well, didn’t it?” he says, his voice drifting just over my shoulder.
“Did it?” I say, shoving the glass doors to the humanities building open with maybe a bit more force than necessary. I’m kind of hoping that it’ll swing back and hit him, but of course, he catches the door easily with one hand and slides in after me.
“I mean that it went well for me,” he clarifies. “Both of them are sending their children here. I bet Ms. Hedge will be pleased. She must have known I was the best person for this task, though I suppose you made some limited contributions as well.”
I mutter something unrepeatable under my breath.
“What was that?” I can almost hear the gloating smile in his voice. “Nothing. I just said we’re going to be late if we keep talking.”
“Well, unlike you, I have no problem with multitasking.”
Go to your happy place, I will myself as I push open the next set of doors. In my mind, I’m no longer walking these crowded halls, listening to the warning bell chime. No longer in this town, even. I’ve graduated, undefeated, as valedictorian and school captain, and gotten my degree from
Berkeley, and I’ve bought a huge house in a big city for my mom and my older brother, Max (ideally, he would have managed to actually find a job on his own after finishing his expensive sports university, but this is meant to be an achievable dream, not an alternate reality). In the new house, there are more windows than walls and at dawn the sunlight turns everything into gold. We’ll have vases full of fresh jasmines, and chocolate-covered
strawberries for dessert, and lunches outside in our own gardens. My mom will still run her bakery, but she won’t have to work twelve hours a day, and we won’t be understaffed anymore, and we’ll only go to sneak out taro buns and tuna rolls warm from the oven.
It’ll be just us, and we won’t need anyone else. Our lives will be better than they used to be with my dad around. I’ll do everything he should’ve done, provide everything he should have provided. I’ll do so much that nobody will feel his absence lingering in our living room like a silent ghost anymore. Maybe Mom will even start smiling again.
All I have to do to make that life happen is push through these last few months. Turn in all my homework on time and ace every remaining test and make my teachers happy so I can keep my conditional offer of admission to Berkeley. Abigail always enjoys placing emphasis on the admission part, but I’m more concerned about the conditional part.
So. Just a few more months of this.
Which sounds simple enough, but at the thought, I feel a pressure that’s almost like a physical force, crushing my ribs. I have to steady myself
before entering the classroom, breathe in through my nostrils, bounce up and down slightly on the balls of my feet, the way I do before running a race. It doesn’t help that the room is too bright, too loud, everyone lounging around the clusters of desks and talking at full volume.
Julius pauses beside me. “What, not going in?” The corners of his lips are curved in their usual condescending manner, but he studies me for an extra beat, like he’s trying to figure something out.
“I am,” I say, ignoring the tightness in my chest and pushing past him.
I’ve made it all of two steps inside when a freckled face jumps into my vision. Rosie Wilson-Wang. She’s one of those people who know exactly how pretty they are, and uses it to her full advantage. She’s also the girl who copied my science fair project last year without telling me, then went on to receive an A‑plus for “innovation” and “creativity.”
“Sadie,” she gushes, which is a bad sign right away. Science project aside, Rosie and I are on amicable terms, but that’s because I’ve made it my mission to be on amicable terms with everyone. Or at least appear to be.
“Hey,” I say.
“Did you come in with Julius?” She peers over at him with what feels like unnecessary appreciation, then adds, “He’s so great, isn’t he?”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cough up blood. I guess it’s a testament to how well I hide my true feelings that nobody other than Abigail would even suspect how much I hate him. “Mm,” I muster.
“His hair looks really good today.” Her eyes trail after him as he takes
his seat at the front of the classroom. “Like, it looks so soft?” It’s somewhat concerning that she’s chosen to vocalize this as a question. It implies a
desire to find out the answer.
“Sorry,” I say, trying not to look too disturbed. “Were you going to ask me something?”
“Right, yeah.” She beams at me. “I was just wondering if you could send me your notes.”
“Oh. Sure. For history, you mean, or—”
“For all our history classes so far this semester,” she says quickly. “You know, because of that exam coming up next month? And, like, sure, I could technically use my own notes, but your notes are so much more
comprehensive and organized.”
“Oh,” I say again. “Yeah, I guess I could—”
“Perfect,” she says, squeezing my wrist. Her long acrylic nails scratch my skin, but I stay still. “You’re such a saint, Sadie. A true lifesaver.”
The compliment goes down my throat like syrup, warming me up from within. It’s embarrassing how tight I latch on to these little pieces of
validation, how much I want to be liked, to make everyone happy.
Sometimes I think I would give them one of my own arms if they asked very nicely.
Rosie moves to her desk by the window where her tight-knit circle of
friends are sitting. All of them are gorgeous, most of them are dancers, and a significant, overlapping portion of them are influencers. Yesterday, one of them posted a ten-second video of themselves standing before a mirror and bobbing their head. It received seventy thousand likes, and the comments
were flooded with people begging to be adopted or run over by her Porsche. “By the way,” Rosie calls over her shoulder, “could you scan your notes in color and sort them by date and topic? And could you add in your practice
essays too? Just send it all over to my school email by tonight—” “Hey, could you send it to me too?” Her friend, the head-bobbing
influencer herself, winks at me.
“Me too, please, while you’re at it,” her other friend chimes in.
I nod once, weakly, and they all turn their heads back to giggle about something on their phones.
“Thanks,” Rosie says, without glancing up again. “Much love.”
I swallow, her previous compliment threatening to make its way back up. But that’s fine. It’s no big deal. Certainly no reason to get worked up. I make a mental note to run to the school printers this afternoon before I head off to my mom’s bakery. It’ll push back my already tight schedule by about thirty minutes, which means I’ll have to shorten my evening run to only
five miles or eat dinner while I work or maybe both, but really, it’s not an issue.
I take another deep breath, though it sounds strained to my own ears, and a little frantic, like someone who’s been underwater too long coming up for air right before diving down again.
No big deal at all.
• • •
I’ve already pulled out my notebooks and written down today’s date when Abigail Ong waltzes in as if she isn’t seven minutes late.
I would ask her to at least try and be more subtle, but that would be asking the impossible. Abigail is basically a walking glow‑in‑the-dark exclamation mark, with her platinum-silver hair and rolled‑up skirt and platform combat boots, which are really just stylish stilts. They thud over the carpet as she makes her way toward me. Ms. Hedge has told her off
multiple times for not wearing proper school shoes, but then Abigail ended up writing a five-page thesis about why her boots did in fact meet all the
requirements for school shoes, complete with a proper bibliography and everything. I don’t think she’s ever put so much effort into any of her actual essays before.
“I’ve arrived,” Abigail announces to the class in general.
Our history teacher, Ms. Rachel, glances up from her desk. “That’s nice.
Take your seat, Abigail.” No other teacher would be so chill about it, but that’s one of the reasons why Ms. Rachel is universally adored. The other
reasons being that she’s in her twenties, she throws Christmas-themed pizza parties at the end of every school year, and her surname sounds like a first name, thereby creating the illusion that we’re on a casual first-name basis with her.
“I’m giving you half of this period to work on your group projects,” Ms. Rachel tells Abigail. “Of course, seeing as it’s due by nine o’clock, I would assume that you’re pretty much finished. But I like to be generous.”
Abigail offers the teacher a mock salute, then drops into the chair beside
me.
“Hello, darling,” she says. She started calling people darling ironically
last year, but it seems to have entered her permanent vocabulary. The same goes for bamboozled, vexed, and the random, self-invented phrase fumbled the birdie.
I finish underlining the date with my ruler so it’s perfectly straight. This is like my version of drugs. “Hi,” I say. “Do I really want to know why
you’re late?”
“Why else? My sister got into a fight with Liam again, so he canceled last minute. I had to walk two-point-five miles here in these heels.” She
kicks out her boots for emphasis.
“Have you considered, I don’t know, not relying on your sister’s on‑and-off boyfriend for your daily commute?”
“Liam drives a Lamborghini.” “So?”
“So I’m a fan of expensive cars.” I snort. “You’re such a capitalist.”
“I like to think I’m supporting the people contributing to our economy.” “I rest my case. And it’s not like he bought that car with his own
money,” I point out. “He’s a fuerdai; his parents probably gave it to him for his twentieth birthday as a little bonus to go with his new villa in Sanya.
But money aside, I just feel like he’s sort of a red flag.” Abigail raises a hand in protest. “He is not—”
“He has a literal red flag hanging in his car.”
“Okay, but you say that about all men, everywhere,” Abigail says. “You don’t trust any of them.”
Maybe she’s right. I definitely don’t trust Liam, but I guess I should also give him some credit: He’s the only reason Abigail and I are friends in the first place. When he started dropping Abigail off at school three years ago,
someone had misunderstood the situation and spread the rumor that Abigail was dating a guy way older than her for money. As with anything else at Woodvale, it’d traveled to basically everyone—including the receptionists
—by the end of second period. Even though we’d never exchanged more than a few words with each other before, I hadn’t been able to resist stopping by her locker during a break to ask if she was okay.
She was, shockingly. In fact, she found the whole thing hilarious. I was surprised someone could genuinely not care what other people thought of her when her situation was my very worst nightmare; she was surprised that someone could genuinely care about a random stranger and sacrifice their own free time to comfort them.
So we spent recess chatting, and then the next period, and then the last hour of school, at which point it only made sense for us to exchange
numbers and continue the conversation at home.
“I’m telling you, he’s not a bad person. I have, like, perfect gut instincts when it comes to this stuff. I’ve correctly predicted the breakup of every
couple in our year level so far, haven’t I?” she’s saying. She rummages through her bag—I swear I hear something cracking inside it—and tugs out a blunt pencil, a crumpled worksheet from last year, a bag of sour worms, and her lunch for the day. It must have been packed by her mom; the bread crusts are removed, the carrots are cut in the shape of hearts, and there’s a sticky note that says You’re a star! Her parents are big believers in positive messages, but they’re also just big believers in Abigail. Before visiting her house, I’d assumed that kind of unconditional love and support only existed in old sitcoms. “Oh, how was the parents’ tour, by the way?”
“I lost,” I say bitterly. I keep my voice as quiet as possible, because I’d rather die than let Julius overhear me admitting defeat.
“You lost?” Abigail repeats, laughing. “You can’t lose a tour—” “I can. I did. I have.”
“You’re so ridiculous,” she says. I would be affronted if it came from anyone else, but Abigail only teases a very select number of people she
deems important. Everyone else might as well be background noise, flies, motes of dust; in her eyes, they simply don’t exist. “Well, at least you don’t have to worry about the group project anymore. You’re done already, I gather, like the unreasonably organized person you are?”
“Of course. You know my policy.” Anytime I receive a deadline, I’ll set myself my own deadline at least a week before it. That’s why I spent the first two days of winter break completing my part of the project on China’s Warlord Era, which includes a four-thousand-word research essay, a hand- drawn animation of the Zhili-Anhui War, and an interactive map of the
various cliques. The workload itself was stressful, yes, but I’m only calm when I’m ahead. “I just need my group to give me their summaries, and then we can submit it.”
Abigail glances up and points at my group members, Georgina Wilkins and Ray Suzuki, who are coming over to our desk. “Uh, they don’t look like they’re holding anything. Should you be concerned?”
I frown. They are both empty-handed, and as they squeeze closer past the desks, I can make out the sheepish smile on Georgina’s face.
A bad feeling digs into my gut.
Still, I’m willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. “Hey, how are you?” I ask, because it feels rude to demand to see their summaries right away.
But Ray doesn’t seem to have any qualms about rudeness. “We didn’t do it,” he says bluntly.
I blink. He might as well have punched me in the stomach. “I— You didn’t do . . . the summary?”
“Nope,” he says, sticking his hands into his pockets.
“Okay.” I can hear a faint ringing sound in my ears, building into a screech. I do my best to recalibrate. Stay calm. Stay friendly. Stay focused. “Okay. Okay, um. It’s okay if you didn’t finish—maybe just show me what you have and—”
“I didn’t do any of it,” he says.
Another punch, even harder than the last. If I were standing up, I’d be staggering back.
“Right. And is there a reason why, or . . .”
He looks me straight in the eye. “I don’t know. Guess I just wasn’t sure how. Or, like, what we were meant to be doing, you feel?”
“The summary,” I get out. The summary I already wrote out for you, I add inside my head. Word for word. The one I asked you to copy down onto the template that I predesigned and printed and personally delivered to
your house in the winter rain on the first day of the midyear break so you could do it when you had time. That summary? “I thought . . . I mean, sure,” I say, seeing his blank stare. “That’s okay. What about you, Georgina?”
Georgina makes a gesture that reminds me of a flower wilting. “I’m sorry,” she says, pouting. “I tried to start, I promise, but, like, my face still
hurts from when I hit my nose against the bathroom wall?” “I thought you said you were fine,” Ray says.
Georgina shoots him a quick, pointed look, then turns back to me, her dark eyes shining with emotion. “I feel worse whenever I have to work on an assignment. It’s, like, super unfortunate. I wish I could do more to help, but . . .”
Stay calm, I remind myself. I clench the muscles in my arm so hard they hurt and then, very slowly, force them to relax again. I repeat this until I no longer feel like committing murder. “It’s not your fault,” I tell her, eyeing
the clock. Only eighteen minutes left until the deadline. I have two
summaries to write up, which leaves just nine minutes for each. Eight minutes, if I want to take time to double-check everything before submitting. “You know what? I can just do the rest myself. Totally cool.”
I expect more resistance, but they retreat rapidly, as if they’ve just dropped a grenade in my lap.
But no time to worry about them. This is my project. This is my grade on the line. One mistake and my whole average will drop, and Berkeley won’t want me anymore. I push my sleeves up as high as they’ll go, then open up my school laptop to find my notes. Just seventeen minutes left.
Briefly, as I stare at the tiny words loaded onto the screen, the dozens of
tabs pulled open, I feel so overwhelmed I could choke. The words fade in and out; my vision blurs.
Nothing gets in.
Then I notice Julius watching me in my peripheral vision, and it’s like
I’ve been zapped. Everything sharpens back into focus. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me struggle. I refuse to.
With deliberate, feigned calm, I pick up my pen and begin copying the summary down.
For those next seventeen minutes, I don’t move or speak or even lift my head until I’ve written down the last word. Then I release a sigh that travels all the way through my bones, down to my sore muscles and stiff fingers.
That was too close. Way too close. Next time it might be safer to just do everything myself.
“Thanks, Sadie,” Ms. Rachel says as she collects our project. “I can’t wait to read through this one; the Warlord Era is absolutely fascinating. It was one of my favorite subjects in college.”
I act like this is news to me, a happy coincidence. Like I didn’t spend
hours searching her up online and reading through an old interview she did for her alma mater’s student magazine, where she mentioned her interest in the Warlord Era. Like I didn’t choose this specific topic for the very
purpose of appealing to her personal tastes.
Abigail would affectionately refer to such behavior as my sociopathic tendencies.
“I’m just going to pop into my office to put this away,” Ms. Rachel tells me, nodding toward the pile of papers gathered in her arms. “I’ll be five minutes. Could you keep an eye on the class for me while I’m gone?”
“Of course.”
“Great. I can always count on you.” Ms. Rachel smiles at everyone like they’re special, but somehow it still manages to feel genuine when she’s smiling at me.
The second she steps out the door, the class dissolves into chaos. People slump back in their seats, kick their feet on desks, stretch their arms out in loud, open-mouthed yawns. Muffled conversations give way to open hoots of laughter and shouts across the room.
Before I can do anything about it, an alert pops up from my school inbox.
One new email.
My heart leaps. I’m praying it’s a reply from Mr. Kaye, our math teacher; I sent him a desperate email after midnight yesterday about one of the bonus questions. Unfortunately I still have all my tabs open, and my aging laptop is clearly protesting; I have to click my inbox about twenty
times before the rainbow spinning wheel disappears. Then I glance at the name of the sender, and my hope whittles away into rage.
It’s from Julius.
Just so you know, Ms. Rachel took a peek at our group project earlier and said it looked—and I quote—“phenomenal.” I’m saying this now so you’re not too shocked when our grades come back and mine’s higher than yours. I know how upset you get every time I win.
Best regards,
Julius Gong, School Captain
I snap my head up, my eyes going straight to him, but he’s turned away, chatting to the pretty girl sitting next to him. As he laughs, I’m gripped by
the visceral urge to march up there and shake him by the shoulders, dig my nails into his smooth skin. I want to leave a permanent mark. I want him to feel it, to hurt. I want to destroy him.
“Sadie.” Abigail’s voice sounds a thousand miles away, even though she’s sitting right next to me. “Um, there’s a vein in your temple that looks like it should be examined by a health professional.”
When I don’t reply, she leans over me and reads the email on my screen.
“Damn,” she breathes. “That boy’s really making it his life mission to get on your nerves.”
I squeeze out a scoff that sounds more like I’m being strangled. Across the classroom, he’s still laughing with the other girl.
Happy place, I remind myself. Remember your happy place. Your future.
But when I try to summon up the image of the giant house with the sunlit rooms and soft curtains, all that materializes is Julius’s sneering face, his pitch-black eyes and haughty cheekbones and curved lips. Beautiful and horrible, like those vivid flowers you find blooming in the wild that are actually carnivorous.
So instead I spread my fingers over the keyboard and begin to type in a furious rush, stabbing out each letter with my nails. This is my last resort,
my sanctuary, the antidote to my anger. Because I know better than anyone that I’m not really a saint. Nowhere close. I simply like to unleash all my
rage in my email drafts, where I can be as harsh and petty and unforgiving as I want, because I also know that I’ll never have the nerve to send them out. When I write, I write anything and everything that comes to mind.
Julius,
Just so YOU know, I’m keeping your email as evidence so that when our grades come back and mine’s obviously higher, you’ll understand how it feels to be slapped by your own hand. I can’t wait for the day to arrive. But also, even if it were a tie, I don’t think you have any reason to gloat. You managed to complete your project only because you have smart people like Adam in your group, and you have Adam in your group only because you gave the teacher that complete rubbish speech about wanting to switch things up and bond with new peers and so she let you choose.
Maybe the teacher and the parents you showed around this morning and everyone else at this school buy your bullshit, but I can see right through you, Julius Gong. You’re attention starved and self-obsessed and unbearably vain and you wear your cynicism like a crown; you’re the kind of kid on the playground who steals a toy not because you want it but because somebody else does.
Also, your hairstyle is ridiculous. You might think it looks all natural and effortless, but I bet you spend entire hours of your morning styling it with a tiny comb so that the one singular strand falls over your left eye at the perfect angle. From the bottom of my heart, I really hope your comb breaks and you run out of whatever expensive hair products you’ve been using to make your hair appear deceptively soft when I’m sure it’s not, because there’s nothing soft about you, anywhere at all—
“Morning, Mr. Kaye!”
The name jolts me back to reality. I peel my eyes from my laptop and spot Mr. Kaye walking past us down the corridor, a hand lifted in greeting.
I quickly save the draft. It’s the fifty-seventh draft email I have; the majority of them are dedicated to Julius, but there are a few others written for classmates and teachers who’ve made my life especially difficult in the past.
“Mr. Kaye,” I call, shooting up from my seat so fast I bang my knee against the desk. “Mr. Kaye, wait—” I suppress a wince and rush out into the corridor after him.
“Sadie,” he says, regarding me with the strained patience of a grandparent humoring their overenergetic grandchild. He’s probably old enough to be my grandpa, though it’s hard to tell, with his dyed black hair.
“Sorry to bother you,” I say. “But did you get that—”
“Email you sent?” he finishes for me. Unlike his hair, his brows are a peppery gray. They rise slowly up his wide forehead. “Yes, I did. Are you often up at one in the morning?”
“No, of course not.” I often go to sleep later than that, but there’s no reason to raise alarm. And the last thing I need is for this to devolve into a conversation about my unhealthy sleeping habits. I just want to know if my answer was correct or not. “For question six . . .”
“The textbook was wrong,” he tells me. “Don’t worry, Sadie, your
calculations were completely right. The answer should have been ninety- two. I’ll make a note of it in class, though I doubt anyone else except Julius has even touched the bonus questions.”
The textbook was wrong. The most beautiful arrangement of words to ever exist. It’s like someone’s injected sunlight directly into my veins. I’m so relieved, so euphoric, that I don’t even mind the mention of Julius.
“Oh my god, that’s amazing,” I say, completely sincere for once. “That’s— Thank you so much, Mr. Kaye. I redid my calculations so many times; I tried, like, eight different methods—”
“I’ll bet you did,” he says, and this time the corners of his lips rise too, with mild amusement. “Was that all?”
“Yes,” I babble, my face splitting into a beam. “Yes, thanks again. You have no idea—this just made my entire day.”
I’m still beaming as I head back, my high bun bouncing, my footsteps light. So maybe the morning was off to a bit of a rough start. That’s fine. Things are good now.
I don’t even mind the fact that the classroom situation has deteriorated further, or that Rosie and her friends have pushed back a few of the tables— including mine—to shoot a video of themselves spinning on the spot for god knows what reason. I simply wait until they’re done and rearrange the
tables myself.
“Your mood changed fast,” Abigail says, seeing my face. “Did Mr.
Kaye give you a cash prize or something?”
“Even better: The textbook was wrong.” I let out a happy sigh. “I was right.”
When I take my seat again, I notice, dimly, that my laptop seems to be in a different position. I pause, frowning. I could have sworn I’d lowered the screen almost all the way down, not just halfway. But then Ms. Rachel returns with important information for our upcoming test, and I forget everything else. I’m too focused on planning out my next move to beat Julius.
