She speaks in the same succinct intonation as her mother but with far less polish. As though she’s only hearing the words for the first time as she’s saying them. Must be nice to live life this unfiltered.

“Well, then, what do you want?” I finally ask.

She bats her eyelashes. “Are you not enjoying the neighborly chitchat?”

“This isn’t chitchat,” I state plainly. “You clearly want something, so can we get to that part?”

“What happened to all that Halti charm you’re always oozing around the school?”

“I had a long day, Troy.” I tuck my arms into my pits and tilt my chin, ready to return to complete silence.

“That word you called me at school this week,” she finally says. “Intense. Why did you choose that word?”

I can’t help but let out a spastic yell and flail out my arms. Are you kidding me? That’s my great sin here? That’s what got Dora the Nosy-Ass Little Explorer all up in my business? “This again? Why are you so obsessed with two syllables?!”

Corinne takes out a piece of paper from her bag, folded into a perfect square. She adjusts her glasses once, and then another time, and then finally begins to read out loud.

“‘Corinne is a gifted student and will make an excellent academic addition to the class of 2025. Corinne is smart, meticulous, and outspoken, and while her level of intensity may not serve her socially, her commitment to her academic pursuits is undeniable.’”

“What was that?” I ask.

“The recommendation letter I got from Mrs. Carroll.”

Dang. I made it out of her two history classes with an A– and a B+ respectively, but even I know that Mrs. Carroll is not to be trusted. She’s the kind of teacher who pulls quiz questions from optional readings and insists you print out papers in Arial 12. Not Times New Roman, not Calibri. Arial. Failure to comply will result in an entire half grade being docked on papers. The woman would excel in a dystopian world where teachers can electrocute students.

“It’s not that bad of a recommendation,” I lie.

“Are you kidding me? This is for Princeton! She might as well have put a red ‘Do not admit: Social Pariah’ sticker on my forehead.”

“I’m sorry,” I say after a beat. And I am, actually. Donielle’s You’ll end up exactly where you’re supposed to be is burning a fresh hole in my lower cortex. Corinne seems taken aback by the apology, but I just shrug. “I get it,” I tell her.

She looks at the letter again, shaking her head. “She looked me right in the eyes and said she’d be happy to write the recommendation. ‘Happy to do it’: those were her words.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”