Hurrying through a gap in traffic, Susan narrowly avoided getting hit by a cyclist with an impressively profane vocabulary. The streets were lethal, and even if she ran all the way into town, she’d still be late.

And with her lungs, running wasn’t exactly an option.

Not wanting to hold the others up, Susan took her phone out to message Daisy.

In the last half hour, Esther had developed reader relationships with The Catcher in the Rye, Keep the Aspidistra Flying (who knew George Orwell has written something other than 1984 and Animal Farm?!), and The Lord of the Rings without ever having read a single sentence. None of them were relationships she wished to pursue, and she’d spent most of her time pretending not to stare at the girl next to Thesaurus Boy. Although there was so much for Esther to stare at. The perfect fade of her green eyeshadow and the precise taper of her eyeliner. The skull-and-crossbones stud in her tragus and the line of sharp black studs, like rotted teeth, nibbling the length of her ear. The wolf print of the knotted scarf holding her hair off her face. Her shirt, her nails, her jewelry . . .

Esther had never seen anyone so cool in her life.

Despite Noor’s assurance at Halloween, Esther hadn’t seen Goth Girl in any of the lectures she’d managed to attend in the last ten days, and she hadn’t anticipated seeing her now. If she had, Esther might have worn something a little more lively (or deadly) than a plain black hoodie, minimal makeup, and no jewelry. If she wanted to impress, she’d have to do it with her mind.

When a boy called Da Vinci, who clearly considered himself to be edgy, started reading out loud from American Psycho, Esther yawned. Loudly.

“Sorry,” she said, sounding anything but when everyone turned to look at her. “Conditioned response to anything that considers itself shocking.”

Edgelord Da Vinci looked set to explode.

“Dude. It’s been made into a movie. I’m not saying it’s not great literature, but if your only relationship with American Psycho is the desire to be shocked, then how are you really engaging with what the author intended?”

There was a stunned kind of silence in the room, the kind Esther reveled in. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed the role of provocateur. Back when she was an amateur, she might have played the American Psycho card, but Esther had long since turned pro.

“Interesting that you should bring up the notion of authorial intent when this discussion is focused on the reader,” Dr. Cordoba said, but he didn’t look displeased. “Does it matter what Easton Ellis intended? Should it matter?”

There was a murmur in the room as Da Vinci closed his book and gave Esther a mutinous look. She blew him a kiss.