Hannah leaned close to me while Ms. Conner shuffled her note cards behind the podium on the stage not three feet from us. “Cosmo makes me feel like I’m in way over my head,” she whispered into my ear. “My mom would have a legit aneurism if I tried to broach the subject with her. You’re the only sister I have…” She winked at me. “And I tried typing it into Google—”

“Omigod, you didn’t.” I clamped my hands over my mouth.

“Totally did. Totally regret it.” Another shudder shook her body. “Blech,” she said, sticking out her tongue. “Don’t ever Google anything with…” She huffed. “Just don’t Google. It’s dangerous.”

We laughed until the sound of the doors sealing shut rang out like a prison sentence. The lights dimmed enough to illuminate the giant screen behind Ms. Conner, who clung to the note cards like a lifeline.

Principal Tanner stood at attention in the front right corner of the room, just to the side of the screen. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, but the navy suit he wore wouldn’t dare wrinkle. Not only was he the stiffest, strictest human being I’d ever met, but so was his wardrobe. It was no wonder he’d forced me and my fellow classmates into a suffocating uniform that sucked creativity and individuality from everyone who wore it. No use trying to be yourself at Wilmont—not when Principal Tanner was dead set on pumping out legions of worker drones.

I shifted in my seat, itching to pull out my laptop and play with a tricky set of code that had been giving me a headache since this morning. The security measures around the site were a real jerk, but I’d crack it eventually. Though, I’d be just as willing to start Googling, as Hannah had warned me not to do, if it meant I wouldn’t have to pay attention to this.

One more look at Principal Tanner shot down that blissful idea. I didn’t need to give him another reason to hate me. He barely tolerated my presence with my pixie-cut dark hair—the left side streaked with a few strands of light pink.

Also, my mom was an erotica author.

I got away with the hair because it was technically within the school’s guidelines of not being distracting enough to draw away from academics. The erotica author mom was easier to get away with because she donated boatloads of cash to extracurricular activities in need. Tanner would be selfish to question her motives because her profession “disgusts me”—as he’d once boldly told me when I’d been caught chatting with my ex over Messenger instead of working on actual class work during computer science last year.