Not that I’m counting or anything.

“Alice!”

I glance up to see my roommate, Chanel, waving at me from the middle row. She’s pretty in that Taobao model kind of way: pointed chin, pale glass skin, air bangs kept deliberately messy, a waist the size of my thigh, and double eyelids that definitely weren’t there two summers ago. Her mum, Coco Cao, actually is a model—she did a shoot with Vogue China just last year, and you could spot her face on pretty much every magazine stand in the city—and her dad owns a chain of upscale nightclubs all over Beijing and Shanghai.

But that’s more or less the extent of everything I know about her. When we first moved into our dorms at the start of Year Seven, part of me had hoped we’d grow to become best friends. And for a while, it seemed like we would—we went to the cafeteria together for breakfast every morning and waited for each other at our lockers after class. But then she started asking me to go out shopping with her and her rich fuerdai friends at places like Sanlitun Village and Guomao, where the designer bags sold probably cost more than my parents’ entire flat. After I turned her down the third time with some vague, stammered excuse, she simply stopped asking.

Even so, it’s not like we’re on bad terms or anything, and there’s an empty seat right beside her...

I motion toward it, hoping I don’t look as awkward as I feel. “Can I sit here?”

She blinks at me, clearly a little taken aback. Her waving at me was out of politeness, not an invitation. But then, to my relief, she smiles, her perfect porcelain veneer teeth almost glowing as the auditorium lights begin to dim. “Yeah, sure.”

No sooner than I’ve sat down, our senior coordinator and history teacher, Mr. Murphy, strolls out onto the stage, microphone in hand. He’s one of the many American expats at our school: English degree from decent but non–Ivy League university, Chinese wife, two kids, probably came to China because of a semi midlife crisis but stayed because of the pay.

He taps the microphone twice, creating an awful screeching sound that makes everyone wince.

“Hello, hello,” he says into the resulting silence. “Welcome to our first assembly of the academic year—a very special assembly too, if you might recall...”

I sit up a little straighter in my seat, though I know the awards are coming only at the very end.

First, we have to get through a whole round of self-promotion.

Mr. Murphy makes a signal with his hand and the projector comes on, filling the screen behind him with familiar names and numbers and easily recognizable school logos. Acceptance rates.

According to the PowerPoint, over 50 percent of last year’s graduating class were accepted into Ivy Leagues or Oxbridge.

A few students in the audience murmur in amazement—most likely this year’s newcomers. Everyone else is used to this already, impressed enough but not in awe. Besides, the graduating class from the year before had an even higher rate.