“That would also help explain away her grades, right?” my mom asks. Apparently, she too has forgotten I’m in the room, and like with anything Aunt Candy recommends, she not only eats up this stuff, she also seems eager for more.

I don’t want unlimited testing time.

Time isn’t the problem. Not being able to figure out the answers is.

“Mom,” I say. “I don’t have ADHD. I mean, I’m not a genius, obviously. I know I’m not as book smart as Isla. But I don’t have, like, a problem?”

My voice turns this into a question, which pisses me off. It sounds like I’m not sure. For the record, I wouldn’t be ashamed if I did have an issue; I’d be thrilled if some legitimately prescribed Adderall was the solution to my GPA. But I’m not fooled by their broken logic. Some kids, by definition, have to be in the middle or the back of the class rankings. We can’t all use learning disabilities to explain away our performance.

I know I can’t.

I also realize I used the words book smart as if to carve out some wiggle room for myself. Like I have some other kind of yet-to-be identified intelligence. I can’t imagine I’ll ever be great at school—and let’s be honest, “street smart” is off the table since I was raised in Beverly Hills. Still, surely there’s something I’m good at that will come in handy in adult life.

I mean, Isla’s a genius, but she’s also a moron. She once wore a Canadian tuxedo to school with Tevas.

Dr. Wilson knows nothing about me, beyond my transcript and SAT scores. How can he make a diagnosis? Is he even a real doctor?

“Chloe, maybe you should go wait in the playroom,” my dad says. The playroom is what we always call our den, even though it’s been Lego- and toy-free since Isla was ten. For the first time, the word, which used to feel cute, chafes.

“Are you serious?” I ask my dad.

“This is all very common,” Dr. Wilson says, finally turning to look at me, and he smiles. It’s not quite creepy in the way it often is when middle-aged men smile at teenage girls, like they’re the Big Bad Wolf and they want to eat you whole. Shola calls that the Perv Grin. His is simultaneously condescending and menacing. “I would bet at least forty percent of the kids in your class got an accommodation for their tests.”

“I don’t know a single person who got an accommodation,” I say, hating the stubborn edge to my voice. I assume Dr. Wilson already thinks I’m spoiled. No need to play into that perception.

Privileged is the word I’d use instead, but maybe that’s equally obnoxious. It’s its own kind of cop-out.