“Stop complaining. You have the best parents in the world,” Shola says, and I’m about to reflexively disagree when I realize that my parents, though far from perfect, are still pretty kickass. My mom, in particular. When I first got my period, she lay on the floor of the bathroom to give me real-time instructions on how to use a tampon. Later, I did the same for Shola, since her mom left her a box of maxipads in her backpack and explained nothing. “My dad is super pissed because I didn’t help out with the church barbecue last weekend. I had gotten up early to finish that big physics project and I was tired and he was like, ‘We don’t do lazy in this family.’ ” Shola puts on a heavy Nigerian accent whenever she imitates her parents, and it’s always stern and menacing and disapproving. In reality, Shola’s parents are as warm and friendly as she is, and on the rare occasions we hang out at their apartment, they treat me like I’m an interesting, exotic pet that needs to be fed. Shola has a ton of friends in her neighborhood, who she sees outside of school when she’s not hanging out with me, and though I know all about their secret lives and I’ve seen pictures on her phone—a squad of beautiful black girls—I’ve only met them in person a few times.

“My mom’s on my case too. I’m taking the SAT again this weekend,” I say.

“Here?”

“Nope. Some testing center in West Hollywood. They had more availability or something. I don’t know. My parents set it up.”

This is a half-lie. My accommodation came through, and apparently, there was some sort of conflict with the dates available for extra time at Wood Valley. I’m relieved. My test-taking juju hasn’t been great at school. Maybe sitting it somewhere new will help.

I guess it turns out I do officially have ADHD, though when I asked for an Adderall prescription my mother suggested I dot my wrists with ylang-ylang instead. I haven’t told Shola, because I suspect she’ll think the diagnosis is nonsense, and knowing her, she won’t be shy in telling me so. As it is, she thinks my family is ridiculous and over the top, and I guess we are, if you are Shola. I mean, the first time I showed her my mom’s closet, which to be fair is like a museum with ever-changing exhibits, she dropped to her knees and started genuflecting.

It’s not like there’s anything I can do about the testing accommodation, even if I share Shola’s suspicions. I don’t let myself dwell on it too much, anyway, because I don’t like the way it makes me feel something uncomfortable and unfamiliar: an uncertainty about my parents’ judgment.