I recognize my own face, of course, from that bikini photo in Cabo, though I don’t remember getting that tan on the trip. My mom is such a fascist about sun damage that she makes us all sit in the shade and wear 80 SPF. Instead of lying on a chaise lounge and throwing a peace sign at the camera, as I am in the original, in this one, I’m running, spear in hand, like an extra in Gladiator. I have biceps, the kind my mom has from strength training, a solid mountain range of bumps, not the kind I actually have, a slight sag from Pringles eating. My legs look longer, like an Olympian’s legs, or Stretch Armstrong’s.

I have no idea why they’d manipulate my picture to make it look like I’m doing warrior-princess cosplay. On second glance, I realize I have it all wrong. It’s not cosplay. Not a costume, a sports outfit. Again, not the right word. A uniform.

This is a picture of me pole vaulting.

Pole vaulting?

Fake news, I think. Which I realize doesn’t really make sense, but it’s a phrase I hear bandied about and it seems to apply here.

I don’t pole vault.

I don’t even run.

This picture isn’t real.

Fake news.

I flip through the pages. An essay with my name at the top, though I didn’t write it, tells an elaborate love story about how I, Chloe Wynn Berringer, fell head over heels for the sport of pole vaulting after running track competitively for seven years. I’m a champion, a master, an athlete who wakes every morning before five a.m. to sprint in the refreshing morning air. I describe the spike of adrenaline and the cold clench of goose bumps as I hit my stride. Apparently, I get the same feeling when I win.

According to the essay, I’m addicted to winning. Those are the words I use—or alter-ego me uses. Addicted to winning.

Never mind that I don’t particularly appreciate heights, nor would I ever choose to use a pole to hoist my body over a bar, a sport that sounds like an f’ed up version of limbo. I don’t even like rooftop parties—I hate the idea of being solely responsible for keeping myself from falling off an edge. They make me the same kind of nervous I get when I’m stopped at a stop sign and a pedestrian walks in front of my car. How do they trust me not to let my foot slip off the brake?

I don’t even trust me.

Obviously, I can’t avoid driving, but I keep myself at a safe elevation. No need to throw my body around.

So Dr. Wilson did a last-minute bait and switch. Assumed SCC would prefer Pole Vaulting Chloe to Noncommittal Chloe.