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When I enter the library the next day, everyone is glued to their laptops, faces pinched tight with apprehension. The air

is unusually hushed. Only Leela glances up when I drag myself over to the seat she’s saved between her and Celine.

“Wow, someone didn’t rest well,” she remarks.

I grimace. I hadn’t slept at all last night, even after Aaron left the house. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jessica’s journal

entry.

“Who can blame her?” Celine says without lifting her eyes from the screen. She stabs the refresh button in her inbox with

one manicured nail. Hits it again and again and again. “Though there’s not much suspense for Jessica.”

Leela snorts. “There’s not much suspense for you, either.”

“Of course there isn’t,” Celine says, even as she continues refreshing her inbox with the fervor of someone possessed. “If

the teachers don’t choose me, I’ll riot.”

“You can’t threaten teachers into choosing you.”

“We can’t all flatter them the way you do,” Celine says, reaching behind my chair to give her a shove. In a voice that sounds remarkably like Leela’s, she mimics, “Oh hello Ms. Lewis, oh you look absolutely stunning today, is that a new shade of lipstick? I found yesterday’s lesson so very fascinating. If you had any extra questions for us to do—”

“Shut up,” Leela says, laughing—maybe louder than she normally would. “As if you don’t charm people.”

“I reserve my charms for people I want to make out with,” she says.

“Is that how you ended up with the model last summer? What was her name again?”

“Juniper,” Celine says distractedly. “Yeah, she was nice. It might have worked out if she wasn’t always trying to push me

into doing a liberal arts degree.”

“You mean a degree in your area of passion and expertise ?”

Celine shoots Leela a look. “I mean a degree that can’t bring me any stability. She didn’t understand that—she thinks people

only head to university for the experience and the memories you’ll make and learning doesn’t require any practical application. Easy to think that when your parents are billionaires.” Each word

is punctuated by the sound of Celine’s nails tapping the keys. “Like I said—she didn’t understand, but you must.”

Leela heaves a sigh. “Unfortunately. Yes.”

“Damn it,” Celine mutters, pulling her laptop screen closer. “Where is that email ? Or—” The faintest quiver creeps into her voice. “Or has it come in? Have you gotten anything?”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t gotten it either,” Leela says.

It takes me a beat to identify the source of tension. Awards. They should be announced this morning. If I weren’t so preoccupied with my more pressing supernatural-existential situation, I would be just as nervous.

Academic awards are a big deal at Havenwood. Fewer than ten awards are given out to the best students in each year for their

performance across every subject. Winning one doesn’t really promise you anything except praise and a free outdated encyclopedia,

but losing an academic award is a humiliating ordeal that can wear away at your confidence for a whole year. The only remedy is to win

the academic award the following school year.

I’ve received it just twice before, in seventh and ninth grades, when most people weren’t quite as intense about their studies.

Both times, I had the overwhelming suspicion I’d barely made the cut.

Jessica’s won it every year, though. Of course.

“Oh!” Celine makes a squeaking sound so high in pitch I’m scared I’ve stepped on a mouse. “Oh my god, I think it’s—No.” Her

tone sours. “No, it’s just that cursed student feedback survey. What do they even want us to answer? ‘How’s your mental health?’

Terrible, thanks. ‘Would you feel comfortable speaking to staff members if any issues were to come up in your personal life?’ I barely feel comfortable asking Old Keller if I can go to the bathroom in the middle of class. ‘Do you know what is expected

of you in your subjects?’ Yeah, I’d say the issue is that I’m too aware of the expectations... Hang on, I got it,” she says suddenly, her mouth splitting into a grin as her eyes move over

the screen. “I got it. I mean, I obviously knew I would. But it’s nice to have the confirmation—and to finish the year on a good note.”

“Same here,” Leela says, smiling at her screen too, her shoulders sagging with relief.

Celine turns to me. “What about you, Jessica?”

“Oh, um... let me check.” I pull out my phone and refresh Jessica’s inbox. Sure enough, it’s there: an email from the principal

congratulating me on winning not just the academic award, but also the STEM award, the humanities award, and the Betty Robertson

Award.

“Wow.” Celine peers over at my screen. She falters for a moment, but the smile that rises to her lips is genuine. “Figures

that you’d win all of them.”

“All of them?” Leela says, craning her neck as well. “Oh my god. Jessica. That’s incredible. You don’t understand—that’s like,

ridiculous. No one scoops up an award in every single category.” She stops reading and scans my face. “Why aren’t you happy?”

Why aren’t I happy?

Is this how Jessica felt when she got accepted into Harvard? Empty, instead of ecstatic?

“Probably because she’s already used to it,” Celine says.

“No, no, it’s definitely not that,” I say in a hurry. “I am happy. I think I just need to process it.”

“Well, we need to head to class,” Leela tells me, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “But enjoy your success. I hope you know this

means you’re treating us to a very nice dinner.”

“Sure,” I say weakly. “You got it.”

The two of them head out the doors together, already deep in conversation—most likely speculating who else received the academic awards and who didn’t and why and whether they’ll be upset about it. It’s a sadistic little game all Havenwood students hate but participate in anyway. We’re so invested in each other’s successes and failures, so insecure that we need to repeatedly compile and update all the evidence we can find that we’re doing well in comparison to everyone else.

But I’m suddenly not so sure I want to keep playing.

I manage to study for about twenty minutes after Leela and Celine leave. And by study, I mean I attempt to do a practice test

with the answers lying wide open next to me.

“Hey! Jessica Chen!”

I startle and look up to see Lachlan Robertson marching across the library toward me.

This in itself is shocking enough that the students sitting near me have also swiveled around to stare. Aside from the debate,

I’ve probably spoken to Lachlan a total of three times before—we operate in such different social circles. He’s a legacy kid,

the youngest son in a family of entertainment attorneys and chief financial officers; his world is one of trust funds and

lavish pool parties and holiday houses off the coast of Italy. Whenever I catch sight of him around campus, he’s always laughing

with the other guys in the halls, tossing a basketball around on the court, or making loud, obnoxious phone calls in the parking

lot.

“Yes?” I say, tentative, half convinced he’s looking for the wrong person. I can’t imagine a single reason why he’d want to

talk to me.

He doesn’t slow his steps until he’s towering right over my desk. It’s not a particularly flattering angle.

“That award was meant for me,” he says, not bothering to keep his voice down. The words echo in the vast space, and suddenly

all the muted activity in the background dies down. More heads turn toward us. It’s so quiet I can hear my own sharp breath

of surprise.

“What award?” I stare at him. “What are you talking about?”

He makes an impatient gesture with his hands. “The Betty Robertson Award. It was created by my grandmother. It wouldn’t even exist if it wasn’t because of her.”

Slowly, understanding trickles in. “Um, thank you? To her?”

“The award is meant to go to someone who embodies the school spirit. She wouldn’t want it to go to someone like you,” he says,

his pale eyes narrowing.

“Well, if that’s the case,” I say irritably, “then maybe you should go talk to your grandmother instead of me. You can complain

about it together.”

Somebody snorts from the desk behind me, and his face flushes.

“But you have to agree that it’s wrong,” he says, like this is a fact. “I mean, listen, you can take all the academic awards

you want, all right?”

“What do you mean? They’re already mine.”

He continues on as if he hasn’t heard me. “I just think you should stay in your lane, is what I’m saying. Stick to the math

tournaments or whatever. That’s what you’re most suited for, you know?” He pauses and offers a smile closer to a sneer, his

mouth twisting at the sides.

I feel something inside me go cold. With forced nonchalance, I start to close my laptop, tidy my notes, my fingers quivering slightly over the papers, all the equations I’d been working on bleeding together. Nobody moves. The quiet is punctuated only by the screech of the chair as I stand up. It doesn’t make much of a difference—even with my back straight and my head lifted, Lachlan is still tall enough to block out the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Tall enough to cast a shadow over me.

“I should get to class,” I tell him, and I have to marvel at how steady my voice sounds, how perfectly controlled, even when

I think I might be sick.

He doesn’t stand in my way. But as I stride away from him, my books hugged tight to my chest, my leather shoes squeaking over

the floor, he calls after me, “There’s nothing remotely special about you.”

Ignore him, I urge myself. It’s what my mother would advise. Don’t talk back. Don’t get into any drama. Don’t make a mess. Nobody will stand on your side. I can hear her voice now, in the back of my mind, firm and coaxing. There are plenty of things in life that are bitter, Jenna; you must learn to swallow the bitterness and continue on.

Yet I skid to a halt, my heart pounding, the cold feeling in my stomach spreading out to my fingers. Transforming into heat.

I clench them as hard as I can, my nails digging into skin.

“Nothing that stands out,” Lachlan goes on. “I’ve met plenty of people like you before, you know, and most of them end up crashing and burning out the instant they step into the real world. You don’t even have a personality. The school just gives you these awards because you’re the more diverse choice. You don’t actually deserve it—”

I twist around on my heel, the library a dark brown blur in my peripheral vision, and fling my notebook at the wall behind

him. The sound it makes is louder than I’d imagined, a solid thud that seems to ring and expand through the space even after the notebook has fallen to the floor, its cover bent like the

broken wings of a bird.

Gasps rise from the other students. A girl cries out.

Lachlan flinches, his eyes wide, the look on his face not one of fear or outrage, but pure disbelief, like he’s not sure what’s

happening. He wasn’t expecting it. Certainly not from me.

I let my hand drop back down to my side, adrenaline buzzing through my blood. I can still hear my mother’s voice in my ear,

warning me against making a scene. If I were really the one Lachlan was insulting, I might be able to listen. But this is

my cousin he’s talking about. My cousin he’s attacking. The girl who I understand better than I ever have before.

My mouth opens. This is the time to say something profound, something that could express all my rage and resentment and grief,

but I’m jarred by the limitations of the English language, the very history and design of it weighed against me.

And in the end I don’t get the chance to speak.

Ms. Lewis steps forward from the teachers’ desks, and I’m gripped by the absurd, terribly inappropriate urge to laugh. Her lips are pursed in one tight line, her face pale. From her expression, you’d think someone had just been brutally murdered right inside the library. “Jessica Chen,” she says, in a tone I’ve never heard her use on Jessica before. “Come to my classroom now.” She pauses, and glances over at Lachlan, who’s staring at the spot where the notebook hit the wall as if it’s the scene of a grisly crime. “And you too, please.”

As Ms. Lewis shuts the door behind her, trapping us inside the dim classroom, I realize that I’ve never gotten into trouble

at school before.

Even when I wasn’t always the best student in the class, or even the second best, I was still considered well-behaved . Most parent-teacher conferences were so anticlimactic as to be a waste of time, the comments always the same: Jenna Chen is

attentive, you can tell she tries really hard, she seems to be following the curriculum without much trouble....

It used to be a major point of frustration, listening to their canned, polite responses, then comparing the lackluster experience

to Jessica’s. Once, a teacher had grown so emotional in describing how simply remarkable Jessica was and how very privileged she was to teach her that she’d burst into tears.

There was nothing very remarkable about me. But now that I really think about it, there was nothing wrong, either.

Not until now.

“I have to say, I’m quite stunned we’re even here,” Ms. Lewis begins, sitting down behind her desk, her bony hands folded

in front of her. There’s a significant stack of test papers waiting on the side, most of them already marked with red. Our papers, I realize, noting the familiar-looking questions on the first page. And despite the dire circumstances, despite the fact that I’ve just threatened one of the most powerful people in our school, I can’t resist the impulse to peek at the scores. Kevin Cheng received seventy-five percent. Leela received ninety-eight percent—

“In all my years of teaching at this school,” Ms. Lewis says, her lips a bloodless white, “I have never witnessed such terrible

behavior.”

I yank my gaze back and remain standing.

I know this is probably the part where I’m meant to bow my head in shame and dissolve into inconsolable sobs, but all I can

think is: Really? This is the worst behavior she’s ever seen? Not when one of our old PE teachers was “transferred” to another private school after

he harassed a student in his class? Not when someone in the year above ours scribbled a slur in permanent marker on the bathroom

walls? Not when Tracey Davis posted her ex-best friend’s home address online after an argument, and trashed her locker with

raw eggs and chicken blood? Not when two boys in our class fought each other in the parking lot over some girl they both liked,

until one ended up with a broken nose and the other with a fractured arm?

This manages to top all of that?

But already I can imagine the answer. To them, violence doesn’t look like blood and broken bones. Violence looks like the

disruption of power.

“What were you thinking, Jessica?” Ms. Lewis asks sharply. “You could have hit Lachlan.”

A few feet away from me, Lachlan slides into one of the seats by the open window, his long legs sprawled out. He hasn’t uttered a word since we left the library.

“Well?” Ms. Lewis presses.

I swallow and try to think of how Jessica would respond, except of course Jessica would never be in this situation in the first place. So when I speak, I speak as myself. “Did you hear what he said to me?”

She blinks. “What he said? Are you honestly making excuses for your actions?”

“Fine,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. Suddenly all my anger has wilted, and all that’s left is heavy, bone-crushing

exhaustion. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to explain my hurt, dissect it in a way that’ll make them understand. “So

maybe I scared him a little.”

“Maybe—”

“But what else was I meant to do? Just stand there and take it? Ignore him? Walk away and be the better person?”

Her eyes flash. “Yes, Jessica. I’m frankly appalled that I even have to answer that question. Yes, that’s exactly what you

should have done. That’s what we would expect of a model student like yourself.”

I clench my teeth and face her fully. She stares back, her disappointment palpable. A sharp, twisting pain tears through my chest. I remember all the times I watched Ms. Lewis stop Jessica after class to compliment her, just to tell her she was doing a great job. I think of all her kind smiles, her words of encouragement, her subtle nods of approval from the front of the room. Jessica Chen has always been one of her favorites—everyone knows it.

But now, within a matter of moments, because of one mistake, it’s like everything has been erased.

And I realize, with a deeper pain, that this is the difference between being accepted and being tolerated. Even Jessica isn’t

an exception. None of us are.

“What exactly is your definition of a model student?” I ask her.

She falters, but I already know what she’s thinking.

A model student causes no trouble. A model student makes no noise. A model student gives everything they have and asks for

nothing. They simply keep their head down and study and get the best scores on behalf of the school, and then they graduate

as valedictorian, with their perfect winning streak, and they head to the best universities in the world to train even harder

to become a model citizen, so they can continue to be good . They’re so good that nobody bothers to notice when something’s wrong. They’re so good they’re an afterthought. They’re so

good they might as well not exist, except to be used as evidence that success is possible, that the system is perfectly sound,

that anyone who struggles can only blame themselves.

“Well,” Ms. Lewis says at last, with a sniff. “For one, they would never resort to violence .” She turns her attention to Lachlan, and her voice instantly grows softer, the way you’d speak to a young, defenseless child.

“How are you feeling, Lachlan?”

Lachlan makes a low grumbling sound. “I think... I think I might need some time to recover—”

“From the notebook sailing over your shoulder?” I demand incredulously.

He glowers at me. “It could have hit me. It could have killed me.”

“Yes, sure. It’s entirely likely that the notebook would have ricocheted off the library wall twenty-five feet behind you

at a perfect hundred-degree angle, shot back through the air with the speed and force of an arrow, and hit you perfectly in

the back of the neck with the corner of the soft cover, hence shattering a bone near an artery—”

“Exactly. It could have,” he says, sniffling. Either he is incapable of comprehending the sheer absurdity of his accusation,

or he’s so shameless as to not care if his claims are ridiculous, because he believes everyone will side with him anyway.

“If that’s your understanding of physics,” I say sweetly, “I’d suggest paying more attention to the teacher instead of ranking

the hottest girls in the class with your friends.”

“Jessica,” Ms. Lewis snaps. “Seriously, what’s gotten into you?”

“I didn’t hurt him,” I say, because if she believes I’m guilty either way, I might as well speak up for myself. “I didn’t

even touch him. I threw a notebook —”

“I want to call my father,” Lachlan says, straining his voice to be heard over mine. “I’m going to tell him that I don’t feel

safe at this school anymore.”

An audible snort escapes my lips, but beneath my incredulity, I feel the first prickling of fear. If Lachlan refuses to let this go, the school will have to step in. Maybe they’ll message my aunt and uncle. Maybe they’ll tell Harvard, and they’ll rescind my acceptance. Jessica’s acceptance. The thought makes my stomach contract. I’ve always envied Jessica for being better, but I’ve never wanted to

make her life worse.

Ms. Lewis visibly freezes. I can almost see the mental calculations she’s doing, her need to protect Lachlan’s feelings warring

against her need to protect the school brand—and, ultimately, losing.

“Now, Lachlan,” she says, her tone softening, changing tactics in an instant. “Jessica has a point. I can see no signs of

physical harm, and in accordance with our school guidelines, this would only count toward a warning strike.”

Lachlan slouches back in his seat, his brows furrowed. Behind him, the window opens out to a sweeping view of the manicured

school oval, half of it bathed in golden light, the other half cast in shadow. Clusters of friends are spread out over it,

blazers sliding off their shoulders or cushioned beneath them like rugs, whispering and falling back on the grass, laughing

hard. I wonder if news of the incident has already spread. It must have.

“There’s really no need to turn this into a big... event,” Ms. Lewis continues carefully. “I understand you’re upset, of

course, and Jessica will apologize.”

“I will?” I ask.

Ms. Lewis pinches the bridge of her nose. “Will you... not?”

My heartbeat picks up. How far can I push this before it completely blows up in my face? “I’ll apologize only if he apologizes

first for insulting me.”

Her hands flatten over the desk, her lips moving soundlessly—no doubt cursing me for making her life difficult. “Lachlan?”

Lachlan shrugs. “Sure, sure, sorry.”

Ms. Lewis breathes out and twists her head back to me. “And Jessica?” There’s a note of warning in her tone, a weight to the

hardness of her gaze. “Can you apologize now? I really shouldn’t be asking twice.”

The words crawl up my throat like bile.

“I’m sorry,” I grit out, and Lachlan’s sulk immediately vanishes. This is all he’s after, really. To feel like he’s won, to

feel like he has power. To him, this is the balance of the universe restored.

“For?” Ms. Lewis prompts.

“For throwing an extremely thin notebook at the wall,” I say.

“And what else?” she asks.

Lachlan waits, visibly gloating.

My next word turns to dust between my teeth. It feels like someone’s struck a match, set my blood on fire. I clench my jaw

so hard I imagine my bones fissuring, the pressure spreading down through my neck, my stomach, my arms.

And I think: screw it. Screw all of it.

“I’m also sorry,” I say, before I can stop myself, “that your very fragile feelings were hurt.”

Lachlan frowns. “Wait—”

“And I’m sorry for not protecting your precious ego, the way everyone else has your whole life. I’m sorry you’re secretly

ashamed,” I say, “because you know, deep, deep down, that you aren’t as great as you’ve been led to believe.”

His face has turned a shade of crimson so unnaturally bright it could make the news. “My father will—”

“Actually, yeah, go right ahead and tell your father,” I say. It’s not something I imagine would ever come out of Jessica’s mouth, but maybe that’s just it. I am not Jessica Chen. And maybe Jessica Chen herself isn’t either. Maybe nobody is. The very idea of her is a construct, a myth, a distraction, the dream we’re forever reaching toward but can never quite grasp. “The bigger deal you make of this, the more people will find out that it all started because you didn’t get an award, so do with that what you like. Can I go now?” I ask Ms. Lewis, though I’m not really asking. “I still have class to get to.”

Before she can reply, I smooth out my skirt. Tighten my ponytail. Turn around and walk away, without so much as glancing back

to see their reactions.