According to the SAT board, I’m allowed a full two days for the test, though my mom says it’s okay if I finish in one. I tell myself the extra time won’t make a difference one way or another, so I shouldn’t stress too much about why they gave it to me.

“Just remember, if they were testing for awesomeness, you’d get a sixteen hundred,” Shola says.

“Who’s paying you to be president of my fan club?” I ask, and rest my head on her shoulder, which is about half a foot higher than mine and therefore at a perfect angle.

“Why do you assume everything comes down to money?” Shola jokes. When we met on the first day of seventh grade, Shola walked up to me and said, “Everyone here seems super weird to me, and you look like you’re probably weird too, but maybe slightly less so, which I think means we should be friends.” She was wearing a T-shirt that said NERD, in all caps, like she wanted to shout the word. I said, “Define weird.” And she said, without missing a beat, “Did I say weird? I meant rich.”

I’m not going to lie—my first thought at the time was: Do I look different from everyone else? Once we were close enough for me to ask her why she picked me without her judging me for wanting to know, Shola would confess that it was my slouch. I didn’t walk around like I thought I already owned the world, even though it turned out I was as privileged as everyone else at Wood Valley.

After being her best friend for five years, I’m deeply grateful for my terrible posture.

“Just kidding. It’s your parents. Yup, they’re totally paying me,” Shola says. And then we both burst out laughing.

—

On Friday night, I get into bed early, with Fluffernutter tucked under my arm for extra comfort, but I can’t sleep. I’m too nervous. My tutor, Linda, told me not to worry, that what will be will be, and these words were so disconcertingly out of character, they freaked me out more.

I guess even she has given up on me.

Linda wears blazers and dainty shirts that have little bows that tie at the neck and basic pumps. She’s widely considered the best tutor in Los Angeles, and there’s a waiting list to work with her. In fact, sometimes we have our sessions over FaceTime, because she’s busy tutoring the children of oligarchs in places like Dubai. She calls pants “slacks” and I bet she’s never had much fun, not even on the private jets her clients arrange for her. When the air hostess offers her a glass of champagne, I’d put money on her responding with something prim like “No thank you. I’m on the clock.”