“Oh, that’s embarrassing.” I quickly collect the contents of my senior year time capsule. “Close your eyes!” I shout, and snatch the never-been-opened condom off the bed. I suspect my ears are turning as red as the package: In case things get hot. Brendan sits on the floor and shuts his eyes as I put the notes back into the box, plus the corsage Gene got me for homecoming. I’d wanted to take him out of the box completely, but you can’t replace your history.

After pushing the box under my bed, I sit down on the floor across from Brendan and pull my knees to my chest. He peeks an eye open, then closes it again. I face-palm his forehead.

“Ow,” he laughs, jerking back. “Why are your hands wet?”

My face heats up and I wipe them on my jeans. “I keep an aquifer in my palms for rare and endangered life-forms.” He cocks his head at me.

“Okay, I’m getting my essay stuff out now so you don’t hit me with your flippers again.” Brendan takes his laptop and a folder full of school supplies out of his bag.

“I do not have flippers!” I laugh, hiding my face in my hands, face positively burning. “Dear College Admissions Person,” I say through my fingers. “I hope you appreciate this essay, because it has been so freaking embarrassing to write.”

“Great topic sentence,” he says. I look up to find him spreading the contents of his backpack on the floor around us: laptop, pens, sticky notes. This is not how I pictured a boy being in my room for the first time. He has flash cards. But then again, that boy wasn’t supposed to be Brendan.

“What are those for?” I ask, pointing to the stack in his hand and feeling slightly out of place between my own four walls.

“Your essay,” he says, clearing his throat in mock formality. I’ve never seen his face up close for this long before. Abigail is right: Brendan got cute. “Let’s start by exploring feelings.”

Now, in addition to sweaty palms, I have kiddie pools under my armpits. “I’m not very good at feelings.”

“Cham—” He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I’m surprised by how deep his voice is, not even a hint of a musical note in it. “We’re going to write this essay and you’re going to pass English and things aren’t always going to be shitty.”

I look away from him, wriggling my shoulder out from under his hand. He turns the laptop so we can both see the essay prompts. Describe a challenge you’ve overcome. Discuss an event that’s sparked personal growth. Provide the measurements of your asshole.

“Ugh, those all sound terrible.”

“So what do you want to write about, then?” he asks.

“I don’t want to write anything.” I roll over onto my stomach, accidentally inhaling a bit of rug lint. “I’m from middle-class suburbia, never had a life-threatening disease or an essay-worthy mental illness or any sort of compulsion to clean bathrooms.” I drone on, voice deliberately Great Plains–like in flatness. “The extent of my hardship was going to anger management after getting kicked out of public school a few years ago, all relating to my dad’s being diagnosed with a disease that basically turns your life into a saga of suck. The end.”