“Want to hear something weird? My private college counselor said my essay was great.” This is true. He sent me and my mom an email that said: Great job, Chloe! We are full steam ahead on all our big plans! And then he inserted the winking face emoji, which seemed a poor choice, in my opinion. Like it discredited the compliment that preceded it. Then again, in my experience, old people don’t know how to use emojis. My mom always sends the hugging hands when she means to wave hello.

“Then she should be fired immediately.” Interesting that Mrs. Oh assumes Dr. Wilson is a woman. I don’t bother correcting her. “Honestly, this essay could even jeopardize your chances of getting into your safeties.”

I glance out the window. Levi’s standing on the green, gesticulating widely in front of a crowd of seated students. He’s running a student council meeting and from this side angle, I can see Sophie’s—his ex—face. She’s watching him the way I sometimes catch myself watching YouTuber makeup unboxing videos, openmouthed and with longing.

“Are you listening?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Just Levi.” I gesture out the window, and Mrs. Oh looks at me like she understands. “Anyhow, I promise I’m unpacking your feedback.” I’m parroting Mrs. Pollack, but I like the way it sounds. Perhaps I should use the word unpack more outside the suitcase context. It makes me think of Russian dolls and accordions and unfolding that manual that Isla was born with and I wasn’t.

Mrs. Oh pulls at her shoulder, sniffs, grimaces. “Goddamn little monster. I was wondering what that smell was and it turned out to be me. Spit-up. Great.”

“Babies,” I say inanely.

“Chloe, sorry if this feedback feels harsh. I’m Team Tough Love here at Wood Valley.”

“Mission accomplished, but no worries.” I live in a world of protected feelings and of cushioned blows; there’s a strange relief in Mrs. Oh’s brutal honesty. “So what should I write about then?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She points at me with a pen, and I see her hands are stained with ink. She must have marked up everyone else’s papers, and I feel embarrassed all over again. “You should write about you.”

“I did write about me.”

“No, you wrote about how fun it is to live with a B-list celebrity,” she says.

“Did you just call my mom B-list?”

“The sleep deprivation makes me loose lipped. Please don’t tell her I said that. I really need this job.” Mrs. Oh looks at me with desperation, and then wipes at her shoulder with a McDonald’s napkin. After a few attempts she gives up.

I mime zipping my lips.