I need to come up with a better strategy than simply repeating “I didn’t know” over and over, like those words are a magic spell. How do you prove a negative? Ironic that my best defense is exactly what got me into this mess in the first place: Your Honor, I was too oblivious to realize what was happening. Exhibit A, the SAT. Even my own parents think I’m a moron.

I saw Proctor Dan on the news yesterday and wouldn’t have recognized him if it weren’t for the caption under his picture: BREAKING NEWS: ACCUSED TEST TAKER TO ENTER GUILTY PLEA IN COLLEGE ADMISSIONS SCANDAL. Gone were his tie-dyed T-shirt and flip-flops and chill vibes. Instead, he was grim-faced and clean-shaven and wearing a blue suit. According to the reporter, who looked eerily like a younger version of my mother, all smooth hair, giant lips, and tiny hips, Dan has been proctoring as a side hustle since he graduated from Yale five years ago. Apparently, he’s presided over hundreds of SATs and ACTs at three test centers around the country “controlled” by Dr. Wilson.

The scam was simple; after the student left, Proctor Dan would fill out and submit a completely different Scantron. He guaranteed a score within a twenty-point range.

I’m impressed despite myself.

Then I wonder: Did my mom specifically request a 1440? If I were paying $15,000, the amount she is alleged to have paid for this part of Dr. Wilson’s services, I would have gone for the full 1600. Or maybe not. No one would have believed I could score that high on my own.

When the breaking news alert came on CNN last night, which has been on silent in the background downstairs all day every day, my mom let out a string of expletives that would have made even my father and Paloma blush. Kenny later explained why this was more bad news: Proctor Dan’s plea means that if my mom’s case goes to trial, he will likely testify against her. If I get charged, he could testify against me too.

I never should have eaten his chips. I should have suggested he trim his toe hairs.

“You need to get up,” Isla says. “Mom is bombed out of her mind on Xanax. I think yesterday put her over the edge. Dad is locked up in his office with the lawyers. He’s hired his own separate team too. I need at least you to be okay.”

“I’m not okay.”

“Yes, you are. We’re going to get through this,” she says in the steely, determined tone she usually reserves for her academic life, student council meetings, or class presentations. The we is mighty generous of her, considering.