“Greg is going to kill me,” I say with a groan after realizing that it’s too late to even attempt to make it to debate practice.

“Greg is probably going to kill you, yes,” Ming posits calmly.

I sigh.

“Thanks for coming to walk Buddy,” I try when we reach the subway entrance he has to take back to his place. “And congratulations on Beijing. Really. That’s great.”

He tips his cap and smiles, bright and open as usual, before disappearing underground. I could take a subway too but decide to walk home instead. I don’t want to stand still right now, even if it’s inside a train going forty miles per hour. I hate the feeling, and it seems to be present at every corner of my life these days. There’s a giant black cloud building up over my head.

Columbia University feels out of reach and blurring a bit more each day. Only Duke, Northwestern, and McGill have extended me interviews, and all three are completely out of geographical reach. I have no interest in getting paddled pledging a fraternity in North Carolina, Northwestern’s financial aid isn’t looking promising at all in my case, and sure, McGill has a very good design program but is design really something to study in college anyway? There’s something about it that sounds so . . . unserious. What would my dad say? Besides, I don’t have a Canadian bone in my body, eh. It’s all inching uncomfortably close, that great college abyss.

On the way, my phone receives a gigantic gray text message from “Greg P” that heavily features the words “punctuality,” “commitment,” and “disappointing.” Ming’s right. Too many plates. And recently, it feels like they’re starting to shatter on the floor around me.

Eleven

It’s not that Corinne Troy is around more, because I know she’s always been there, on the margins—that blurred hand always up in the front row of every class and her back tight and proud when other students snicker at her lengthy answers. It’s just that now she draws the eye. She’s been un-blurred somehow.

Others seem to take notice as well. When I spot her at her locker, she’s with two other students who seem also to delight in her bluntness. The three of them are chatting animatedly together. She no longer seems as awkward as she was the night of Evie’s party.

The bell for next period rings, and the other two students, whose names I don’t remember, excuse themselves with a small wave and a “Bye, Cori!”

I sneak next to her and dramatically slam my head back into her locker, kind of hoping to startle her, which doesn’t work.