Everything can still work out the way I want it to.

“...consider that English program?” Mr. Chen is saying, a meaningful look in his eyes.

It takes me a second to figure out what he’s talking about. He’d recommended this prestigious two-month writing course to me and only me at the end of last year, and I’d let myself get excited for exactly five seconds before erasing the whole thing from my mind. The program cost about as much as my parents’ flat, and even if I were rich and had the time to spare, I’d probably invest in a coding boot camp like the one Henry went to in Year Nine. Something with a high ROI.

But obviously I can’t tell Mr. Chen that.

“Oh, yes. I’m still thinking about it,” I lie. My smile is starting to feel even stiffer than usual.

To my relief, Mr. Chen doesn’t push the matter. “Well, no rush. And in the meantime... I have something for you.” He holds up a paper with my tiny writing scribbled all over it. It’s last week’s English test: an essay and two long-answer questions on symbolism in Macbeth. “Good job.”

My heart stutters a beat, the way it always does when I’m about to receive academic feedback of any kind. I grab the paper and quickly fold it in two so that Henry, who’s walking toward us, can’t see my score.

“And you too, King Henry,” Mr. Chen says with a wink, handing him his test over my shoulder. I don’t remember who came up with the ridiculous nickname first, but all the humanities teachers seem to get a real kick out of using it. I’ve always found it a bit too on the nose. After all, everyone knows Henry is the equivalent of royalty at our school.

I have a nickname, too, though only my classmates sometimes call me by it: Study Machine. I don’t mind, to be honest—it highlights my main strength and suggests at control. Purpose. Ruthless efficiency.

All good things.

As Henry thanks the teacher and strikes up a conversation about some extra readings he did last night, I step off to the side and sneak a glance at my score.

99%.

Relief floods through me. If this were any other subject, I’d already be beating myself up for that deducted 1%, but as a rule, Mr. Chen never gives out full marks.

Still, I can’t celebrate just yet...

I turn to Henry when he’s finished talking. “What did you get?” I want to know.

He raises his eyebrows. He looks more well rested than he did the last time I saw him; his skin smooth as glass, dark hair falling in neat waves over his forehead, not a single wrinkle to be seen on his uniform. I wonder, briefly, if he ever gets tired of being so perfect all the time. “What did you get?”

“You tell me first.”

This earns me an eye roll, but after a pause, he says, “Ninety-eight percent.”