“What else am I supposed to do late at night when I can’t sleep?” Levi asks, and I try to picture his bedroom, a place I’ve never been. What color is his comforter? Does he have posters on the walls? Are they of athletes or rock stars or, God forbid, inspirational quotes? I imagine leftover Lego model sets from childhood, a few debate team trophies, and a stuffed animal that he still sleeps with, like I do with Funny Bunny. I bet he has a Harvard pennant hanging above his bed, the thing that keeps him motivated in that fifth hour of the daily grind of homework when he goes for the extra credit. I wonder if he has an illicit Adderall prescription. Maybe he also got extra time on the SATs, but then I remember he was there, a few rows back, the first time I took the test.

“Watch Law & Order. Works like a charm. I hear that chick-chick sound and I’m out.”

“I’ll have to try that.”

“So, number six?” I ask.

“Six, rats. Five, black holes. Four, cats.”

“You are not afraid of cats,” I say, and grin at him, and he flashes one back, like a gift.

“I hate them, and that hate commingles with fear. Also, I’m super allergic, so they could actually kill me.”

“Kittens too?”

“Kittens are cats, Chlo.”

“I’m starting to think you’re secretly a wuss.”

“Oh, not so secretly. Where was I? Three. Getting shot at school.”

“That’s dark.”

“That’s America. Number two, losing my mom or dad or, God forbid, both, and then my number one biggest fear—drumroll, please…” I tap out a beat on his dash and look over at him. He’s staring out the windshield. I’ve always liked his profile—strong and hard-jawed, a profile worthy of a Roman statue. “Disappointing my parents.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and I realize it’s super messed up. Like losing them should come before disappointing them, but for me, if I’m honest, it really doesn’t.”

“I get that,” I say, because I do. I mean, my own list is totally different: I’m not afraid of rats or kittens or small spaces, and I love a good Gravitron. I’m not even sure I know what a black hole is or if it is something to be afraid of. But I do worry about my parents, about their inevitable disappointment and embarrassment, because I will not one day rise, like they have both risen from the ashes of their past.

I do not come from ash.

Rising for me involves a different sort of calculus.

A vision board is not going to get me into a top-tier school, and so very soon, there will be a reckoning. A moment when my mom will have to admit to Aunt Candy that despite the wizardry of Dr. Wilson, I’m still going to clown college.