Cristof is our chef, who I’ve never actually met, though I eat his food almost every night. He cooks three mornings a week in our kitchen, while I’m at school, and then leaves his food behind in our fridge in glass containers—my mom says Cristof is anti-plastic for hormonal reasons, not environmental ones—all of which have adorable chalkboard labels that list the ingredients. Sometimes Isla and I write back notes: Please ignore Mom. More real food. Less salad. Thanks!

“Okay,” I say, because that’s the only word I can get out. I’m too nervous to talk. I think about Levi, hoping the excitement of last night’s revelation will counteract today’s nauseating fear, but it does the opposite. I feel like my entire body is on sensory overload.

I notice Proctor Dan’s exposed toes, which sprout hairs at fixed intervals, like a doll’s scalp.

“You’ll do great, honey. I know it.” My mom is, as usual, way more confident than the occasion calls for, as if enthusiasm alone is all I need to understand complex mathematical equations. I realize with a start that this is the exact tone I use with Cesar whenever he catches on a word he doesn’t know when reading, and it makes me wonder, for the first time, if we all turn into our mothers one day.

“Let’s get this party started,” Proctor Dan says, and drum-rolls the desk.

“Can I stay?” my mom asks, looking around the room for a chair.

“Mom! Get out,” I say, and I cringe because I sound like a tween on a Disney show. Since she hired Dr. Wilson, my mom’s become obsessive about this college admissions process, and she’s driving me bananas. I usually like the feeling of my mom being invested in my life, but with the applications, the tenor feels different.

Did my mom really think she could sit in on my test? Next, she’s going to want to pitch in when I don’t know the answers.

“Sorry. It’ll be hours. I’ll text as soon as I’m finished. Promise,” I say. “Go shopping or something. What will be will be.” I echo Linda, who is in Hong Kong and sent me a text this morning reminding me to fill in an answer for every question, even if I have to guess.

“Okay, sweet pea,” my mom says kindly, as if she’s unbothered by my initial outburst, or maybe she’s in public mode, that tone shift that happens whenever we leave the house. Who knows what tabloid connections Proctor Dan might have? We are in LA, after all.

“Sorry again,” I mutter. “I’m nervous.”

“Me too,” she says, and kisses my cheek, and only later, after she leaves, will I wonder what she has to be nervous about. She already got into college.

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