He and my mother shared a knowing look. “You know why, Poppy. Stop deluding yourself. Business is a sensible enough major on its own, and there are hundreds of great business schools in New York City. We love you and want you nearby—”

“I’m going to get in,” I said in reply, cutting them off. My words were fierce, if slightly unhinged. “I don’t care what you say. I’m going to get in and I’m going to move to California.”

Ma had laughed. “The day you get into USC is the day pigs fly, Poppy. It’s as likely as you winning that stupid little film competition of yours.”

Something broke between us in that moment. Something beyond repair.

A fissure that my parents will never be able to overcome.

But maybe it was already breaking. Maybe both sides have been chipping away at it, day by day, for the last seventeen years of my life.

“And what if I won?” My eyes were stinging, tears prickling at the corners, but I held them back by some miracle. “Would you let me go to USC then?”

Ma gave me a smile, something condescending and cruel. “If you won, I’d pay for you to go to USC myself.”

My laugh was choked. “Is that a promise?”

“Do you want it in writing?” Ma asked, raising her brows at me. “Is that what it will take to get it through your head this is never going to happen?”

I still went to the interview. I just went with a signed piece of paper tucked into my back pocket—a weight even Atlas would prefer to leave behind.

Their words had been a challenge.

And I’m nothing if not determined to win.

Even now, the piece of paper is folded in between the flaps of my wallet. When I need motivation to keep going, I unfold it, reread the words in Ma’s smooth scrawl, and run my finger over the indent of her and Baba’s signatures.

I’m going to get out of here. I’m going to leave all of this behind and start my life somewhere new.

No matter what it takes.

9

After hours spent scouring the internet because of Emmitt’s refusal to participate in our film, hoping to find something to distract me from the overbearing buzzing in the back of my head, I stumble across something that brings on deeply violent urges. Grant’s father, Elijah Njoku, is producing the Firebrand movie Emmitt is going to star in.

No wonder Emmitt is at our school. He must be undercover, shadowing Grant to learn what it’s like to be a New York City high school student for his upcoming role.

“I’m going to strangle Grant,” I say, struggling to break free from Rosie’s grasp. I’d hunted her down as soon as the bell rang for lunch. “He fucking knew, and—”