“Just sweaty hookups here and there.”

“The analysis of my private life isn’t part of our deal, Troy!”

She does the blinking thing again. “Sorry.”

Just then Damon and Nick, two tenth graders, approach us, and Corinne straightens her back, clearly expecting to be introduced. When that doesn’t work, the quick kick to my tibia does the trick.

“You guys know Corinne, right?” I say, smiling through the pain.

“Sure, hi,” Nick says, and there’s a note in his voice that’s just an inch too close to sleaze.

“You’re in my Advanced Calculus elective,” Damon notes, more conversationally. “You talk a lot.”

“By design. Statistically, women don’t talk in arithmetic fields,” Corinne quickly retorts. “I make an effort not to fall prey to that trend.”

The only person having a good time right now seems to be Ming, shaking his head with giggles.

“Right. So, Cori, what do you like to do around town?” Nick tries.

“Corinne.”

“Um, what?” Nick asks.

“What do you mean ‘what’? My name is Corinne, not Cori.”

Nick and Damon both smile tightly to each other and disappear back into the crowd a few moments later. My phone immediately buzzes, and it’s Nick texting me a string of emojis that amounts to Yikes, dude.

Soon, Ming recognizes a passing friend from his coding boot camp, and the two trade shoulder bumps and part ways with us. It makes sense; he didn’t sign up for the Corinne tutorial, after all.

“Godspeed, young Padawan,” he says, clasping her shoulder before heading off. “Please feel free to embarrass Halti as much as possible!”

“You know, the whole point of parties is to mingle,” I say as we watch Ming go.

“I didn’t want to spend any more time talking to those two morons. Find us some other people.”

“Life is going to be full of very short parties if you only talk to the people you like,” I reply. “You know, it’s okay not to enjoy stuff like this. It’s not for everyone. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to go home. Mrs. Carroll is an ass.” I smile the Smile of I Understand Your Pain.

She looks at me for a moment, processing my intentions like a freaking replicant from Blade Runner.

“Uptown Updogs!” she exclaims loudly, sounding like an infomercial. “‘A trusted team of well-trained professionals for your furry family—’”

“Okay, okay, okay,” I groan. It was worth a try. “New plan: Cori!”

“Cori?”

“Yes. Just tonight, you’re not Corinne Troy”—kraken of FATE Academy—“you’re Cori. Cori is chill. If you bump into Cori and spill her drink, she will laugh and let you get her a new one instead of . . .” I trail off.

“Asking them if their family has inbred so much that ‘walking’ and ‘standing’ are no longer a given of the gene pool?”