“You need to put your back into it,” my mom says, suddenly calm and sober. A cold devastation coming off her in waves. “Plant your feet.”

I don’t throw it again. The carton is, like me, frustratingly useless. I should have thrown my water glass instead. Just another bad decision.

I should have let it shatter all over the floor.

We deserve to step on glass.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Then

“I’m not going to sugarcoat. This essay reads like a parody of an LA rich kid,” Mrs. Oh says. She hands me back my paper, which after a quick glance, looks free of edits. I’m confused. I’m used to Mrs. Pollack returning my English assignments covered in red pen.

Mrs. Oh is sans baby today. In our last meeting, she found a Cheerio in her pixie cut and casually popped it in her mouth.

“You didn’t write any comments.”

“Because you should throw it in the trash and start over. Actually, burn it.”

“You said that the admissions committee would find my mom’s career interesting. I figured I should write about that.” I attempt to say this as matter-of-factly as possible. To keep the wobble out of my voice.

“This reads like if your mom’s Wikipedia page and an Instagram influencer’s diary mated and had a college application essay baby.”

“That’s mean.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m a little punch-drunk from lack of sleep.” Mrs. Oh doesn’t look sorry, though. She looks like she wants to laugh. “But did you have to mention that you once got a free Chanel bag?”

“It was an example of how the stylist system works.”

“Really? Because it sounded like you thought acquiring that bag was an accomplishment that should get you into college.”

Mrs. Oh is right. My essay is a joke.

“Listen, Chloe. It’s my job to be real with you. Do you want me to be real with you?”

“Not really?” I say, but I nod anyway. This hurts, though not too badly. It would have hurt more if I had worked harder on the essay.

“You’re a senior in high school. If you want to be treated like a serious person, you need to act like a serious person,” Mrs. Oh says, and readjusts herself on her chair, stretches her back, and groans.

“What if I’m not a serious person?” I ask.

“Listen, you can’t all be academic superstars. I get that. But then don’t bother applying to SCC if you’re going to phone it in.”

“You’re right,” I say, because she 100 percent is. I don’t want to be a parody. “I’m sorry I wasted your time. I’ll do better with the next draft. I promise.”

“Good.”