“Thank you. That sounds super fair,” I say, thinking that my parents or Carrie can hire me a tutor to help. A beat later I realize that I don’t want them to. I need to manage this on my own with a little hard work. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

“Good. Glad that’s sorted. So then about prom.”

“I’m not going.” Last week, I finally received a text from Levi. It was only six lines. My very first breakup haiku.

I’m sorry about prom

But what happened was messed up

Not ready to talk

I’m not sure when/if

Obvi hope it works out for you

But this is goodbye

I, apparently, am not even worthy of full sentences, or the writing out of the word obviously. Which, come on, it probably would have been the faster choice with autofill.

“Right, okay. Good. We were worried about paparazzi, so—” Mrs. Oh clears her throat. The bell rings again, and all that background shuffling comes to a stop. I picture Shola in class finding someone else to talk to when Mrs. Pollack makes everyone break into small discussion groups. I picture Levi taking Sophie to prom instead, and kissing her on the dance floor, and not giving a second thought to the fact that it was supposed to be me there with him. Obvi. “One more thing, and I’m sorry about this, truly I am, but SCC is rescinding your acceptance. You’ll be getting a letter soon.”

My friends on Signal had warned me this was coming. The future that had so recently seemed inevitable—me in my dorm room at SCC becoming whomever I’m meant to become—disappears. I remind myself that I don’t want to go someplace where I don’t belong, that everyone hates me there anyway, and most importantly, that I never earned my spot in the first place. None of that lessens the sting.

For a week, I’d had the pleasure of basking in my parents’ evident pride, of walking through the Wood Valley hallway flaunting my brand-new SCC sweatshirt, of scrolling my SCC class hashtag on Instagram. I’d felt important and special and chosen. Now I wonder if what my parents were experiencing was nothing like pride at all. Only a perverse relief. Or if there was pride, it was because they had found the side door, the secret handshake to get me in.

In the complaint, there’s an email my mom wrote to Dr. Wilson after I got my SCC acceptance. She sent him a high-five emoji. That’s it. No words. Only the high-five emoji. Out of everything I’ve read and for reasons I’m not sure I can explain, that one hurts the most.

“Yeah. Okay,” I say, my voice thick. “No SCC. I figured.”

“I know it sucks.”