“Oh no, don’t worry,” Mr. Murphy says with a light chuckle, evidently relieved I’m back in control of my emotions again. “I just finished writing your midterms yesterday—would’ve gotten it done earlier, honestly, if it weren’t for my kids.” He makes a you-know-the-struggle kind of face, and I nod just to speed things along, even though I obviously don’t. “The revision guide should be ready soon too. I’ll send the class an email once I’ve got it printed out for next class—how ’bout that?”

“That’d be perfect,” I say, offering him my best straight-A student smile.

He smiles back, not suspecting a thing. I’m still Alice Sun, after all. Even if I messed up on my last test, there’s no way I’d ever dare cheat. “You know what’s so great about you, Alice?” Mr. Murphy says as he stuffs today’s worksheets into an already overflowing, see-through folder. Even though Airington keeps making grand statements about being a completely “paper-free school,” he’s one of those teachers who’s always preferred physical copies. “You’re so driven. So determined. No matter what happens, you just have a plan and you do it—and you do it well too.”

Normally, this kind of praise would make me giddy with joy, but my chest only tightens.

“You’ll go far with that mindset of yours,” Mr. Murphy continues, gazing out into the empty classroom as if he can see some glorious vision of my future shining right there before us. “I’m certain of it.”

It’s too much. I feel so guilty that I barely manage to stutter out a thanks, just grab my books and go.

When I get back to the dorms, Chanel is in a bad mood.

I know this because she’s lying on our bedroom floor in her BTS pajamas and feasting on three giant bags of spicy strips at 11:00 p.m., breaking the intermittent fasting thing she’s been practicing religiously since the start of the school year.

“Want a latiao?” she asks when she notices me, holding up one of the bags. Her fingers are red with chili oil.

“Um, no thank you.” I walk closer, careful not to step on her hair. “Is...everything okay here?”

“Yeah, of course,” she says. But she’s an even worse liar than I am, and terrible at holding things in. After only a few beats of silence, she throws up her hands like I’ve got her at gunpoint. “Okay, okay, fine. But you’re going to think it’s ridiculous.”

“I won’t,” I promise quickly.

“You’re going to think I’m ridiculous.”

I blink at her, confused.

She heaves a loud sigh, props herself up on one elbow, and says, “I failed my chem test.”

“Oh.”

I don’t know why I assumed it’d be something a lot more dramatic, less...normal. Maybe I’ve come to think of people like Chanel as living on a whole separate plane of existence, elevated from mundane struggles and concerns like getting a bad grade.

“See,” she says, groaning and falling back on the floor with a significant thud. “You’re judging me. I can feel it.”