I follow her, all the while trying to push her words to the back of my head.

We have to win the competition. We have to.

If I have to spend another year at home, if I have to spend another year with this awful weight on my shoulders—with this tiny, familiar voice in the back of my head taunting me relentlessly—I’m going to lose my shit.

You’re never going to win. You’re never going to be good enough.

Sometimes I can’t tell whose voice it is.

And sometimes...it sounds like my own.

3

The weather is absolutely atrocious outside. A strike of lightning makes me jump, knocking my elbow into Rosie’s. Our school is tucked away in Astoria, and I can’t imagine the East River’s proximity helps when it comes to storms.

“Jesus, it’s bad out here,” Rosie says, shivering as she runs her hands up and down her arms, trying to get rid of goose bumps.

“Want to share my umbrella?” I ask, trying to hold it higher to accommodate her height, but my attempt results in both of us being assaulted by the rain.

Rosie shakes her head, tilting her head toward the end of the street, where a cute little blue car is waiting for her. “I’m good.” She leans over, offering me a quick hug. “Love you! Get home safe.”

She runs toward her dad’s car, holding her tote bag above her head. I shake my head, almost certain she has an umbrella tucked in between her binders.

Rosie’s dad spots us and rolls down the window to wave at me, even though it means stray raindrops splatter onto the car’s leather seating. “Mina! You okay out there? It’s coming down pretty hard.”

I wave back, but the movement feels stiff and listless. “I’ll be fine, Mr. Hardy.”

He frowns at me, presumably because my umbrella is one gust of wind away from falling apart. “Are you sure? Where do you live again? Maybe we could...”

Rosie slides into the passenger seat on the other side, wringing out her wet curls. “I’ve told you like ten times, Dad. She lives in Forest Hills.”

“Oh,” he says, scratching his head. “I see. Are you taking the subway home?”

I nod, hitching my thumb in the opposite direction. “The R train is only a few minutes away.”

He glances between his overworked windshield wipers and me. “If you want...” He falters, lips pressed together.