Heather flips her ash-brown hair to one side and texts on her phone. “Oh, you know, the usual,” she says. She rattles off a list of periodicals: The Economist, Foreign Policy, and the New York Times. “Why?”

“It’s just really similar to a speech I heard against UCLA at El Camino,” I say. I’m completely making it up, I have no idea what they said at El Camino. But I remember Coach Evans mentioning this when he was over at her house.

Heather looks up from her phone, her cheeks crimson.

“So?”

“So . . .” I take a deep breath, mustering up the strength. “Heather, we can’t win at these tournaments if our speech is just copied from somewhere else. We have to come up with all original points.”

She tosses her phone in her Kate Spade bag and crosses her arms at me. “Every argument is derivative,” she informs me. “Every point is based on a previously established point. There are no original points!”

“Yeah, well, there’s a difference between deriving and outright copying,” I say.

This sets Heather off. “You’re one to talk! You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have extra help!”

My mouth dries, and I feel the expensive glass walls of our hallway closing in around me as Heather turns and walks away.

“Watch your back, Thunder Girl,” she warns.

Eleven

Claire

There are a lot of Chinese kids at American Prep. Mrs. Mandalay, the headmistress says they come from all over: Beijing, Chengdu, Shenzhen, etc. Many of them live with host families too, though some live alone, she says, as she leads us on a tour around the school.

“They love it here,” Mrs. Mandalay says. “Some don’t even want to leave for the holidays.”

My mom pokes me. Hear that? I intend on catching the first flight back whenever there’s so much as a long weekend.

“Do you guys have any . . .” My mom searches for the right word in English. She tells me in Mandarin.

“Discipline problems,” I translate for her.

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Mandalay is quick to say. “I assure you, all the kids here are very good.”

My mom nods, satisfied, and turns her attention back to her phone while I continue gazing at the Chinese kids. Many of them are carrying MCM backpacks. The girls wear shorts we would never get away with wearing in China. There’s a couple in the corner making out. The boy has his hand inside the girl’s shirt, and even when we walk past, they don’t stop. I look over at my mom. She doesn’t seem to notice.

The white students stare at me as I walk. They don’t seem to be mixing with the Chinese kids. They keep to themselves. I can’t tell if they are fascinated or disgusted by the arrival of yet another Asian person.

“How are the teachers?” I ask Mrs. Mandalay.