She waves a hand, and so I look around to see what she could be talking about. The pool guy outside skims leaves. My dad practices his golf swing in the backyard. My mom is at Dr. Roth’s, her second home, getting a laser peel.

“I’m not following,” I say.

“Your sneakers came predirtied and cost like eight hundred dollars.”

“Your point?” I ask. Dad calls Isla “our good little liberal” because she’s always making us recycle and bought us water bottles made of cork with aluminum straws, and last year, when we flew on Aunt Candy’s private jet that one time, she tried to convince my parents to offset the environmental damage with carbon credits. She gets into arguments with my dad all the time about the need for affordable housing in Los Angeles and calls him a NIMBY-ist, which was a term I had to look up. Apparently, it stands for Not In My Backyard and means that you are pro-liberal ideas, except when they directly impact you or your house or your wallet. To be fair, she nailed him.

“That’s a lot of money. A lot of families in the United States don’t even have eight hundred dollars in their bank account. I bet Cesar’s family doesn’t.”

I groan, because this is a low blow, bringing up Cesar. I examine my sneakers.

“They aren’t predirtied. They’re strategically dirtied, which is a whole different thing.”

“Also, you don’t have ADHD, Chloe.”

Here’s what this is all about. Not my Golden Goose sneakers. That was only the appetizer, her opening segue. My stomach knots up, and I feel my face redden. Of course, even though I never specifically told her about my accommodation, Isla lives in this house and so has overheard me and my parents endlessly discussing the SAT. I guess there was no way to keep it a secret at home.

I tell myself I have nothing to be ashamed of. A doctor diagnosed me.

“A doctor diagnosed me,” I say, but it comes out too practiced, too defensive, like I said it in my head first.

“Right,” she says. “Listen, I’m glad you did great. Seriously, I am. But—”

“But what? It’s really none of your business anyway.” Isla took the PSAT last year and she scored so high that had it counted, she’d be a National Merit Scholar. Still, she’ll be putting her hours in with Linda soon, learning the tricks to aim for a straight 1600.

Isla picks up her book again, as if she’s done talking about this. And then she looks at me, square in the eyes, like she’s lining up a shot: “Did you tell Shola about your accommodation?”

Another low blow. My sister has terrific aim.

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because,” I say.