“I guess,” Nina said. “And he’s so competitive with his twin. It, like, consumes him. I could see them, like, duel to the death. But yeah, Remington is a big concern.”

Nina was too sweet to say that the real concern was Remington + Marianne. That was a math problem even Marianne could solve.

“I don’t know, I think we have a shot,” Marianne said.

“Me too.”

They reached their dads’ cars and stood in front of the passenger doors.

“Why is Vi like that?” Marianne asked finally.

“I don’t really know.” Nina tilted her head, thoughtful. “She was definitely happier when Addison was around? But still kind of harsh. She just wants to prove something, I think. Did you see that presidential campaign of hers…” Nina made a “yikes” face. “See you tomorrow maybe,” she said.

They had one school day left before the big weekend.

Nina surprised her by squeezing her hand before she said goodbye.

Marianne squeezed back.

Unbelievably, it had been a good day. An easy day.

And Marianne wore that goodness on her the next day as she strolled into Mr. Garcia’s class, expecting another one just like it.

Instead, a sore sight greeted her.

Graded tests sat on their tables. He’d returned them early.

Marianne needed a C plus, minimum. Otherwise, she’d need to get As or Bs on the next quiz and final exam, and that might be close to impossible to manage.

But there, in bright red, screeching at her, she saw a large, circled D.

She looked to Mr. Garcia, who she couldn’t help but feel had betrayed her somehow, but he remained absorbed with his preparations for the lesson that day, paying her no mind.

And he’d said that effort led to a win nearly every time.

What a liar.

9

IN THE CAR ON the way to Ann Arbor, her mom and dad tried to cheer her up.

“Honey, you can still pass,” her mom insisted. “You get a B plus on the next quiz and the final and with the extra credit to go along with it, you’re set.”

She wanted to respond, “Yeah right, like a B plus is possible,” but her mom didn’t deserve any talking back. Plus, her mom didn’t know that she had to win this impossible competition to even get the credit, and if she was still getting extremely bad grades on tests, ninth grade was just a pipe dream.

So Marianne just stared out the window at the farms and exit signs leading to small towns and said, “Horses,” whenever they passed some.

And then, every time, she thought of her nickname and shuddered. Should she “neigh” to the camera for the livestream?

Did people even recall why they called her that, or did they just know that “horse” had become a stand-in for “you’re stupid”? No, they probably didn’t even remember. But Marianne did.

The name came from the first month of a sixth-grade social studies class.

The very beginning of middle school, when she’d thought maybe there’d be a fresh start. Maybe she’d magically understand every math problem. Maybe she’d have an easy time sitting down to do her homework, like Skyla did, like Lillian did. She’d scribble down the right answers and run off to do whatever she wanted; no nagging necessary.