“I’m not an asshole, Henri,” she says, actually sounding offended. “I would never do that.”

“I have no way of knowing that. Blackmail is kind of a rough first impression, Corinne.”

“We’ve been in the same school for, like, three years and living in the same building for one. It wasn’t our first impression,” she retorts. “It was just the first one you noticed.”

She would be deadly in a debate setting.

“Look, I gave you my word. Besides, you’re great with Palm Tree and my mom doesn’t actively hate you, so as far as I’m concerned, Uptown Updogs is just another thirsty high school kid overpricing a basic service to people who can afford it.”

Uh. That’s not inaccurate.

“Well, good night,” she says. “And, y’know, thanks for everything.”

“Sure.”

If questioned at gunpoint, dangling over a vat of acid, I might have to admit that Corinne Troy is—can be—kind of cool. Even the whole blackmailing thing had a certain hustle behind it you kind of had to admire.

“That was an . . . interesting night, Cori.”

And actually: it was.

Eight

Like most of FATE staff and faculty, Mr. Vu is a man of many specialized talents. Guidance counselor. Peer adviser. Walking college encyclopedia. He can recite the most up-to-date Ivy League admissions statistics by heart but also knows which varsity recruiters will be present at any given state competition. He’s been known to put a handful of FATE athletes on the Olympics path for a variety of sports and two years ago, the class valedictorian apparently tearfully thanked him during her graduation speech for making all her dreams come true. She’s at MIT now.

“Thanks for squeezing me in,” I say, sitting down and still pawing the empty cup of coffee I forgot to throw out.

“Eleven emails in one week, I believe.” He smiles as he lifts his trash basket at me and nods to the cup. “You kids drink so much caffeine. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to your nervous system?”

“It’s what powers us through that eleventh email.”

“Those ridiculous metabolisms of yours.” He sighs. “You’ll miss it.”

You could call him out of shape, but he makes up for it with great posture.

He clicks his very loud computer mouse, and his eyes dart from left to right as he scans the screen, humming every few moments. I don’t have to lean forward and sneak a peek to know he’s reading my file.

“Give it to me straight, Mr. Vu,” I urge, getting antsy.

“Your chances for Columbia without Ms. Kempf’s recommendation,” he says, quoting my last email back to me.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it’s not just the recommendation, Henri,” he says after a moment. “Your grades could be better.”

“I’m on the Honor List!”

He clicks his tongue, to temper my enthusiasm. “Not the Dean’s List.”