‘I KNOW!’ Preeti wailed. ‘She’s gonna tell Sister Hellda!’

‘No, no, we’ll figure this out,’ I said. ‘Hey, wait! This could actually work to our advantage! What if she’s SO not cool that she doesn’t even know it’s weed?’

Preeti wavered. ‘Maybe …’

‘Yes! She found something weird in a little plastic bag, she didn’t know what it was, she’s suspicious. But it could be anything! It could be oregano!’

‘Oregano?’ Preeti rolled her eyes. ‘What am I, Papa John? What would I be doing with oregano?’

I shook my head, thinking rapidly. ‘No, wait! I’ve got it!’

I sprinted downstairs to my room, grabbed something and ran back up. When Preeti saw it, she frowned. ‘A sleep mask?’

‘Yup.’ I found the seam of the purple silk sleep mask and began tearing it open. ‘Sometimes it comes in handy to have a mom whose entire parenting style consists of sending me healing crystals and other bullshit from ashrams two thousand miles away.’

The sleep mask split and a handful of herbs showered to the floor as Preeti stared.

‘Lavender and chamomile!’ I said triumphantly. ‘So make sure to tell your room-mate the little bag she found was just soothing herbs to help you sleep. If she could walk in and find you meditating, that would definitely help.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Preeti said, biting her thumbnail. ‘And if it doesn’t work?’

‘If it doesn’t, you tell Sister Hellda you never smoked weed before, but you were super stressed about being away from home for the first time. Use the word overwhelmed a lot. That way they’ll send you to the school counsellor instead of Father Hughes.’

Preeti nodded obediently and started anxiously picking up her clothes. Before I left, I paused and watched her.

‘And you know … you can go see the school counsellor anyway,’ I added gently. ‘I mean, I just go there to skip gym class and play with that Zen garden sand thingy. But she could probably help.’

Phew, I thought as I flopped onto the futon in my dorm room, being selfless is exhausting!

With a whole Friday night ahead of me, I should have done something productive – like wash my duvet cover, study my Spanish verbs, or hide Sir Shackleton in my bra drawer and leave a ransom note on Mary Kate’s pillow made with cut-out letters from her Seventeen magazine. Instead, I found myself scrolling through my phone to find the first text I’d gotten from Hockey Player Pat, which said,

Hey, how’s your vagina doing?

And then a follow-up message that said:

(… and yes, this is my opening line to every girl I text)

I hadn’t replied at the time. I preferred to watch that grey bubble with the dots pop up as he drafted the next message then withdrew it, savoring the sadistic pleasure of torturing him.

But now, I had to say, I was tempted. And bored.