She puts the letter away, tucking it into one of her binders. “I know. That’s why I’m here. I have bad social instincts. I need . . .” She visibly swallows bile. “I’m aware that I need help. Socializing. That’s where you come in.”

“Where I come in?”

“Oh, don’t make me say it, Haltiwanger. I need help. . . .” She rolls her eyes and then whispers the rest. “Getting . . . cooler. More chill.”

“You want me to She’s All That you?” I manage to say, hiding the smile I feel creeping on my lips.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, my God,” I groan. “Watch more movies. Maybe that’s been the missing ingredient all along.”

“Oblique pop culture references do seem to be a cornerstone of social language, actually,” Corinne says, as if making a mental note.

“A.) I was kidding; b.) I’m a guy,” I point out. “I don’t know how to make a girl popular.”

“I’ve mapped it out. You’re the perfect gatekeeper of the senior-class social scene. You get invited to every big gathering. You’re seemingly comfortable with every subgroup. You’re tagged in all the big group photos, despite not having an online presence to speak of. Everyone likes you. Or at least thinks you’re likable. That’s what I need!”

“You think Mrs. Carroll will see you with a group of pals in the hallway and rescind the letter she already sent to Princeton?”

“Maybe! Maybe seeing me with more kids will cause her to change her mind. It would at least let me make a better case for myself instead of storming her office and calling her a bitter, incompetent hack, which was my first impulse.”

“Doubtful,” I say. Then again, I really shouldn’t talk, considering I’m going to raise every Hail Mary out there to get a new Columbia interview.

“I know, but I want to prove her wrong. I’m not . . .” She pauses. “I’m not what she sees me as, okay? I don’t want to end high school with everyone thinking that about me.”

“Just be yourself,” I say. “And even if you don’t end up at Princeton, I’m sure you’ll end up exactly where you need to be.”

The words taste hollow, but Donielle Kempf’s reheated casserole of nonsense might be just the thing to get me out of this. Unfortunately, Corinne only rolls her eyes in response.

“I guess I’m not making myself clear here,” she says, standing up with pursed lips. “I will blow up your little operation if you don’t help me. This is New York City: people are psychotic about their dogs. Plus, nobody likes to be hustled by a private-school punk.”

“I’m sorry. Are you blackmailing me?”

“It’s your choice,” she says, and we both understand she’s not bluffing.