English is another story, of course. I sent Evelyn the video Abigail and I made of my college essay, but she hasn’t said anything about it, which is either a great sign or a dismal one. I’ve put it out of my mind because we’ve gone into full-blown final-project mode. The cool thing is that Evelyn gives us class time to work on it, which, let’s be honest, means do anything but it. The less cool thing is it’s due in a week, and Cham’s Personal Philosophy is currently a three-word document: Cham’s Personal Philosophy. It’s in a really nice font, though.

“How have you written so much?” I ask Abigail in class on Friday as she scrolls through what could be an ebook’s worth of work.

“I keep thinking about the A I’m going to get so I graduate high school without a single B.” Gag me with a compostable spork. “You just have to get some words down. Even if you hate thinking about philosophy and life and stuff, just write something down. It gets easier after that.”

“I have written—”

“Titles don’t count. No matter how long you spend trying different fonts.”

I pause and pick at something under my chair that could be gum. Brendan sits on his desk, paging through a copy of Caligula.

“Actually, I don’t mind thinking about this stuff at all,” I say. “I kind of like it. I just don’t want to do anything more than think about it.”

Abigail looks behind her. “How have we not talked about the fact that Brendan was at your house.” She adds knowingly, “I bet getting out of high school is going to be really good for him.”

He sees us looking at him and stands up. I feel something weird when he walks over. Like nervous? Nah, probably just hungry.

“Hey, Abigail, hey, Cham,” he says. I look up and he meets my eyes. I look away quickly and attempt a garbled sound that I swear is a greeting. Abigail looks at me like Excuse me?

There’s a tapping on my desk and I turn around. “Can I talk to you in the hall?” Evelyn asks. “We’re about to transition to silent thinking time, but I wanna chat a bit before then.”

“Okay,” I say.

Abigail does the sign of the cross over her chest, and I follow Evelyn out of the room.

The posters in the hallway are different now that school is almost over. The GET YOUR TICKETS TO PROM signs have been replaced with GET YOUR CAP AND GOWN signs. Apparently, you have to buy tickets to go to your own graduation, which is one of eight thousand reasons why I’ve decided I’m not going. When they hear about the buy-your-own-tickets scam, I’m sure my parents will understand. For sure.

“I got your e-mail,” Evelyn says as she closes the door and traps me in the large open space of the hall. “I’m sorry to hear that your dad is sick.”