The meme doesn’t hurt so much as feels like confirmation: I am a piece of shit.

This is not news to me. I had thought I had done a good job of hiding it, that’s all. But I guess that’s what a dumbass p.o.s. would think.

And then that’s when I see it, a new text from Levi. My pulse stutters, and I feel a sickening dread. I don’t want to read it and fillet my own already filleted heart.

Levi: I mean, Chlo…seriously?

I write back immediately:

Me: It’s not how it looks

He doesn’t make me wait. I thank God for small blessings.

Levi: I need a beat to process

Me: Levi, let me explain

Levi: I need time. I’m so…

Levi: Never mind

Me: Please

I wait a minute, but the little Delivered never appears under my message. I retype and resend. Again, no delivery confirmation. There’s only one explanation: Levi, without even giving me an opportunity to explain, has blocked me. I tell myself this is temporary—I take him at his word; he needs time—and still a loud, flushing sound, like the suction roar of an airplane bathroom, fills the empty space in my head.

I deactivate all my accounts, as I should have done fifteen minutes ago. I feel a pang of nostalgia and loss as the pictures that have chronicled my life—mostly shots of Shola and me making silly faces in front of LA’s many Instagrammable walls, or smiling big as we are about to dig into red velvet cupcakes—all disappear.

My life as I know it is officially over.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Flush.

I scan through my texts one last time before powering the phone off. Just to double-check.

But no. I was right the first time.

There isn’t a single word from Shola.

CHAPTER TEN

Then

I take the SAT at a nondescript building in West Hollywood next to a marijuana dispensary advertising THC gummies. A bald man with a long, unkempt brown beard, a tie-dyed Phish T-shirt, and Birkenstocks meets us at the door and introduces himself as “Proctor Dan.” He’s friendly and warm, less taskmaster and more stoner camp counselor, and he moves his coffee mug to his armpit to shake both my and my mother’s hands. I guess an accommodation doesn’t only guarantee more time, but a chiller vibe all around.

He doesn’t ask me for ID, even though I have it ready. Once we reach the classroom where I will take the test, my mom hands me a lunch sack and grabs my cheeks, eyes shiny, like it’s the first day of kindergarten.

“I had Cristof pack lots of extra protein to keep your energy up,” my mom says. “Just do your best. That’s all I ask.”