“Hanging in,” I say.

“You’re a tough kid. You’re going to be fine.”

“What do you mean by ‘I’ll be fine’?” I ask, and hope she realized that I’m not trying to be a smart-ass. “I’m sorry. I’m honestly asking.”

I lie on my bed and stare at my chandelier, which has become my new favorite pastime since I’ve given up social media. There are no answers for me up there, though. Only a lonely light fixture, currently overused because I’m still too scared to open my curtains.

“You’ll put this behind you and maybe even be a stronger, better person for the experience. You’ll go on to live a long and authentically good life. You’ll end up more empathetic and ultimately have a fuller understanding of your own privilege not in spite of this mess, but because of it. That’s what I mean by fine.”

“Huh. Thank you.” I savor her words for a minute. I wonder if there’s any chance for me to emerge from this as someone who feels anything but pure self-loathing. I’ve spent much of my life feeling stupid, and now I feel stupid and dirty and ashamed. I’m not sure I’ll ever feel worthy of Mrs. Oh’s definition of fine. “Hope you’re right.”

“I keep remembering when we talked in the fall about your SATs. I should have done something. I should have listened better. I think you were trying to tell me what was happening, in your own way, and I might have saved you from this going so far—”

“Let’s not. I mean, I’m not supposed to talk about it.” It occurs to me that if called to testify, Mrs. Oh could mention that meeting in her office, and my obvious suspicions that something was off with my test. Can she incriminate me? What did I say exactly? Or did I make it clear that I knew?

No, that’s not possible. Because I didn’t. Not really.

Did I?

“Fair enough. So we have some orders of business.”

“Okay,” I say, when I really want to say is Mrs. Oh, I’m sorry I let you down. Mrs. Oh, I’m so bone tired of bad news. Mrs. Oh, please don’t testify against us.

And also, this: Mrs. Oh, your baby is very lucky to have you as a mom.