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Hiro gives me a small shrug. He’s a senior and super popular in the gamer crowd. I suck at video games; I’ve got no true hand-eye coordination skills. But Hiro and I have a silent respect for each other. We share a singular passion: disdain for bottom-feeders like Ford.

“You can use any art medium you want for presentations: music, photographs, visual media, PowerPoint, whatever.” Ms. Amos’s relaxed shoulders expand. Pointedly, she says, “Help us understand who you are.”

The class is filled with mumbling. A few students are furiously taking notes. Sara’s rubbing her temples. Yeah, my brain is ready to skydive right out of my skull.

When Ms. Amos returns to rambling about Tennessee Williams, I slump so far down in my chair, I nearly split my chin on the desk.This. Is. Perfect.An entire essay on who I am. Essays aren’t among my favorite things. I was banking on studying extremely hard for the final exam to pass.

I need this class to boost my application for Emory. Average student and GSA President aren’t enough. AP Literature is my golden ticket. Ms. Amos’s affiliation to Emory is the key that unlocks the gates. But an essay that determines my final grade?

I’m freaking doomed.

* * *

After school, Maplewood High’s studentparking lot is like a scene out of an apocalyptic film, one of those gorgeously shot movies starring kids from Disney Channel spinoffs. The suburbs of Dunwoody are too pretty for George Miller-style adaptations.

Tucked under a blanket of pale-blue sky, the gray of the parking lot is broken up by bright yellow parking lines and sparse clumps of green grass that lead to the woods nearby. The only cars left belong to sporty students or band geeks or detention-dwellers—and slackers like me.

Curbside, Lucy’s next to me; our asses are numb from sitting so long. The late afternoon sun stretches its golden paws over the far side of the cracked pavement. The sweet afterglow of midday heat lingers. Georgia in the fall is a different kind of beast. It’s humid and thick and sweaty as if it were still June, and at the same time the air still tastes a little like September: sweet-tart McIntosh apples and spicy butternut squash.

As if reading my mind, Lucy says, “The Gwinnett County Fair.”

I hum contently.

We share a look that says we already miss sharing funnel cakes with Rio, with our mouths covered in powdered sugar, on a cool September evening.

In the distance, I can hear the marching band: snare drums and trumpets and that swell from the brass section. They’re trying something new, a cover of a Gorillaz song. It’s sick. My foot taps against the ground with the drumline.

The first big pep rally of the year is Friday. My anticipation is high.

Sneakers pound against the ground. The cross-country team trots by. They all wear tiny athletic shorts and loose shirts. I hide my grin in the crook of my elbow. Some of the guys are just—I don’t know—something about sweaty hair and tinted cheeks, focused eyes and syncopated breaths.

I cross my legs, hoping no one notices the little twitch in my jeans.

Lucy whistles. “Hot.”

Infinitely embarrassed, I elbow her.

“You don’t think so?”

“What?No.”

“Liar.”

“Whatever,” I mumble, shaking my head.

Lucy returns to coloring the toe of her Converse with a red Sharpie.

My phone sits on the sliver of asphalt between us. I have one earbud in. POP ETC pumps into my veins. “Backwards World” comes on and I think,How appropriate.

Across the lawn, to our left, I spot Silver ducking behind the main building. No doubt he’s headed to have a cigarette out of teachers’ view.

Silver is a mystery, an undiscovered planet. He’s a quiet loner, unlike his older sister, Darcy, who is Maplewood High’s resident religious dictator. Popular and sparkly and influential, she’s president of the Godly Teens First Organization. Yep, GTFO. I don’t know why no one’s voted that name off the island yet.

Silver’s real name isn’t Silver. It’s a nickname other kids gave him for his pale-blond hair, stormy eyes, and nimbus-cloud skin tone. I’ve never said much to him though we’re both juniors. Something about Silver seems untouchable. Students adore him for his looks but fear him for his silence.

Watching Lucy from the corner of my vision, I bite my thumbnail. “What do you wanna be when you grow up?” I hate that phrase: “When you grow up.” I’m seventeen, a quarter-inch short of six-foot-one and have a long-standing love affair with cold-brewed coffee. I’m probably notgrowinganymore, not physically. I’m cool with that. But Ms. Amos’s essay has me on edge.

“Grow up?”