I try to log in to the portal again to take a screenshot of my acceptance. My password spends a good minute trying to load but fails. It figures that I’ve run out of data at the worst possible time.

I settle for merely texting the news, sans attachments, and the reply is instantaneous. Dad is not normally an all-caps kind of texter.

SKIP YOUR AFTERNOON CLASS

COME HOME

WE HAVE TO CELEBRATE

I head out to empty my locker and grab my coat. I’ll tell Corinne at the Wyatt. He doesn’t have to tell me twice. And if the uppercase state of mind didn’t convey it, the fact that Dad would ever advocate for my skipping a minute of school time tells me how happy he must be right now. This was always the school I was meant to attend.

“Henri Haltiwanger!”

Mr. Vu is standing outside his office. The thing is, Mr. Vu doesn’t shout. Every school’s teaching body can be divided into two: teachers who shout and teachers who simply do not have it in them to raise their voice. They’ll give stern speeches, failing grades, or detention, but they will simply not yell.

Up until this very moment, I had Mr. Vu firmly placed in the latter category.

“H-hey, Mr. Vu,” I say, readjusting my backpack strap. It’s pretty obvious to him that I’m on my way out. “Okay, I know this looks bad, but my dad told me to skip, which is as bonkers as it sounds.” I laugh. “You would know if you knew him. Anyway, I have some awesome news, Mr. Vu. I got in! I got into Columbia!”

“We can discuss this further in my office, Henri. I’m not asking.”

I notice that his face is beet red. Is his chest heaving? Why is he so mad? I hadn’t technically skipped yet. A passing freshman raises an eyebrow at the exchange and slinks into the gender-inclusive restrooms.

Vu looks down both sides of the otherwise empty hallway before looking back to me and letting out another shout, this time in the form of a low raging hiss.

“Now, Henri!”

His voice sounds nothing like the normal mixture of administrative weariness and politeness I’m used to. Right now, it’s pure outrage. And with the excitement and the Yadira hug and the Marvyn hug, for a split second I’m confused about what he could be upset about. . . .

And then it comes rushing back.

Oh. That.

Twenty-Five

It’s not a straightforward conversation. Not from my chair, at least. Mr. Vu doesn’t so much mince words as chop them into invisible particles until I’m in a cloud of “concerns,” “inconsistencies,” and “ethics,” wondering how long I can hold my breath before taking it all in.