Levi, on the other hand, has found his venue here at Wood Valley. I’m not the only girl who watches wistfully as he walks down the hallway. He’s half Indian, half white, and has unruly brown hair and big brown eyes and a grin that spreads so deliberately and sensually, it feels like he’s unzipping a zipper. He’s president of our class, is a National Merit Scholar, and takes five APs on top of playing two sports. But sometimes he rubs his eyes with his fists, like babies do when they’re tired, and it is so cute and guileless that I die a little. I suspect he knows how I feel, has always known, and I also suspect that he likes to stoke my crush, because it’s fun being on his end of its unrequitedness. I don’t blame him.

“What do you think, Chloe?” Mrs. Pollack asks, but I’ve been off in Levi land, so I have no idea what she’s talking about.

My face flushes hot.

“Um, what was the question?” I hate being caught out in class. It’s embarrassing enough when our tests get handed back and I have to flatten my palm over my inevitable B minus so that no one else sees.

“Crime and Punishment. We know from history that Dostoyevsky is rejecting Russian nihilism,” she says. She’s trying to help me out here but it’s not working. I have no idea what nihilism is. “This is a deeply moral novel about a murderer. Amazing, right? How he garners our sympathy—or is it empathy?—despite the fact that from almost the very beginning, we know Raskolnikov’s capable of monstrous things. We don’t have to like him. People forget that about novels. It’s not our job to like our main character. It’s our job to try to understand them. Let’s be honest, most people are deeply unlikeable.”

“Yeah, totally,” I say, but I’m not sure I agree. Sure, when I turn on the news, I see that our government is filled with truly disgusting people, but that doesn’t seem to apply to my daily existence. Am I deeply unlikeable? What would happen if I wrote a book about my life? It’s hard to imagine anyone caring about the life and times of Chloe Berringer. There are no dead bodies, no deep dark secrets, no real intrigue. I have, thus far, murdered approximately zero people. Most of the plot would consist of me eating fro-yo with Shola and making sad doe eyes at a boy who doesn’t like me.

Poor little rich girl in unrequited love.

Even I can hear the orchestra of the tiniest violins.