Clearly, no one sitting in Ms. Clarke’s office had been the kid in fourth grade who tried the math problem over and over, giving only incorrect answers, knowing the whole class wondered what was wrong with her. Was she supposed to go through that again, just to make Mr. Garcia feel like a better teacher?

No wonder he’d called on Marianne that day. He knew it was do-or-die for her.

He could save her if he really wanted to, though.

He must have just really hated her.

Marianne watched the April birds outside the window, moving from wide circles to V shapes and back again.

Her throat tightened and she could feel tears just itching to come out. She wouldn’t let them.

Ms. Clarke pulled up Saturn Grades on her laptop and pointed to percentage breakdowns for homework, participation, and tests. Her parents asked about “the process” and “the plan.”

The birds flew past the gray clouds outside the window and out of her sight.

Marianne needed them to stop talking.

“I know I can do it,” she interrupted with a bold lie. “I’ll participate. I’ll do all the stuff I have to do.”

Marianne heard her dad sigh.

“I swear,” she added, holding a hand to her heart.

Was her dad wishing she were more like Lillian? If Lillian had a meeting with the principal, it would probably be to let her parents know that she was overextended by getting all As, volunteering to bring meals to old people, and winning “best human girl in Michigan” or something.

But then her dad squeezed her hand.

She squeezed back.

Memories of mandated parent-and-daughter homework time flashed through her mind. She could almost hear the cries of “You could get it, you’re just not focusing!” and “I’ll never need to know this stuff in real life!” and the slamming of her bedroom door.

“I’ll try,” she told the roomful of grown-ups, who nodded and promised they believed in her and did not understand that trying had never been enough before and that was why she’d given up in the first place.

After a fend-for-yourself dinner she threw together while her parents headed to Lillian’s swim meet, Marianne meandered her way to the porch. The sun lingered for its last moments in the sky. She texted Skyla.

how were the nachos?

extra cheesy. how was principal c?

you wont even believe me when i tell you. porch.

She heard the door at Skyla’s house swing open.

They met at their railings facing each other, and Marianne spread apart the empty branches of the lilac bush to see her friend. Skyla tucked strands of her black bob behind her ears over and over, only to have them fall in front of her face again. She’d gotten a lot taller recently, Marianne noticed, and she hunched over a little, like she wanted to be smaller again. Skyla, hazel-eyed and level-headed, had never known how beautiful or cool she was.

“Did you get my telepathic message about my deodorant?” Marianne asked her.