“That’s not what I said and you know it. I was simply making the objective observation that I’m the least interesting person I know. And I have no idea how to spin that for an essay.”

“Define interesting,” Shola says, because she never lets me get away with anything.

“I’m an average student with average grades and I haven’t, you know, written a book on molecular biology or played with the New York Philharmonic. All of a sudden, it feels like you need to be special to get into college,” I say.

“Or rich,” she says.

“Why do you have to make everything about money?” I feel bad as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Shola doesn’t make everything about money. The world does. And Shola is the only person at Wood Valley brave enough to point that out. Which is yet another reason why the rest of the student body remains mystified by her. It’s uncomfortable to hear the truth. “Anyway, that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Chlo, when you say ‘least interesting’ what you really mean is ‘most privileged’—like nothing bad has ever happened to you, wah, wah, too bad, so sad—and the idea that you’d complain about that is like the height of entitlement.”

“Stop being smarter than me. I can’t keep up,” I say with a smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“Bullshit,” Shola says, then slams her locker door and walks away.

—

Later, we sit together at lunch, but it’s obvious Shola’s still annoyed. She spends the whole time jabbing at her phone, probably complaining about me to her other, non–Wood Valley friends. We’re under a tree in the quad, our favorite spot, and I wish Levi were here to smooth things over.

If Shola wasn’t mad, I’d say I miss Levi, and she’d snort and say You are so ridiculous.

Levi’s at a student council meeting, and since he’s busy every day after school this week, I won’t be able to spend any real time with him again until Saturday night. I’d like to ask Shola what she thinks will happen when he comes over this weekend.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and she looks at me, and then back at her phone. “I really am, Shola.”

“You’re not the only person in the world applying to college, you know.”

“I know that.”

“This is super stressful for me too.” Shola puts down her phone and plays with the grass. Pulls up individual blades, one by one, and then lines them up in her hands.

“You’re going to get in everywhere, though.”

“See. That’s what I mean. You say that, but you have no idea—”

“Shola, you’re brilliant. You work hard. You have practically perfect grades, you do a ton of extracurriculars, you’re—” I start ticking off her attributes on my hands.