“Not well,” I mutter. I can’t believe my teammates put a fake hand in my locker. It’s bad enough they changed practice on me. And the shit that they wrote? I’m tempted to skip the rest of the training sessions altogether. Lately, I’ve been wondering whether I should even go to Snider. “Sometimes I think about quitting. . . .”

“You can’t quit!” Zach protests. “Then they’ll win!”

I look over at him as I smooth the sheets. It’s nice how much he cares, though he still doesn’t know the full extent of it. He just thinks my teammates are all cheating. He doesn’t know what Mr. Connelly did.

“Hang in there,” he urges, throwing the comforter on the bed. “Snider’s in what? Like three weeks?”

I nod, taking a deep breath. I remind myself there’s quiet bravery in staying on the team. It’s not selling out.

I climb onto the bed and carefully arrange the half-dozen pillows.

“Why do rich people need so many pillows?” Zach chuckles. He looks out the double glass doors of the bedroom terrace at the trees and sparkling-blue pool below. “Man, can you imagine how different our lives would be if we lived in a place like this?”

“That’d be sick,” I say.

Zach gets up and starts strolling through the house. “My mom would sleep right there,” he says, pointing at the master bedroom, which has its own Jacuzzi. I follow him as he walks down the hallway, amused. “Home theater system in this room so I can watch the game with the guys,” he says, pointing to another bedroom.

I chuckle. “I’d make this my debate-prep room,” I say. Zach flashes me a thumbs-up. We continue walking.

“Gym!” he calls out when we pass the upstairs study, grinning as he runs a finger up and down his chest. “Gotta keep the ladies happy!”

I pause. Zach sees my face and is quick to reassure me. “Hey, don’t worry. You’re going to have a bunch of guys lined up to date you too,” he assures me.

I don’t want a bunch of guys. I only want one.

Claire calls me later from her boyfriend’s, whom I’ve still not met. I know he drives a Lamborghini. But he never comes in. He just drives up, texts her, and waits in the car.

“What’s up?” I ask Claire, scrolling through my email. A bunch of private schools got back to me, unfortunately none of them have a scholarship spot open at this time.

Claire says in a hushed voice, “Hey, can you come over? I need you to bring me my makeup bag and . . . some tampons. I don’t want to have to run out and get some. That’s so embarrassing.”

Isn’t it tragic that for all we’ve advanced, girls are still embarrassed by their menstrual cycles? I close my laptop.