Like I was ever not ready to go. By the time she packed up her stuff, answered her emails, and got some sneaky paper marking in, I was the last student to leave this area of the school—everyone else was way down at the other end hanging around the art room or the track field.

Well, except for Alexander Brougham, apparently.

“Did you know students stay back this late to use the pool?” I asked Mom, hurrying to meet her stride.

“Well, we’re in the off-season for the school team so I daresay it wouldn’t be busy, but I know it’s open to students Vijay gives passes to until reception closes. Darc, could you text Ainsley and ask her to take the spaghetti sauce out of the freezer?”

By Vijay, Mom meant Coach Senguttuvan. One of the weirdest parts about having a parent work at school was that I knew the teachers by their first and last names, and had to make sure not to slip up in class or talking to my friends. Some of them I’d known practically as long as I’d been alive. It might sound easy, but having John around for dinner every month, and at my parents’ birthday parties, and hosting New Year’s Eve for fifteen years, then suddenly transitioning to calling him Mr. Hanson in math class was like playing Minesweeper with my reputation.

I texted my sister Mom’s instructions as I hopped in the passenger seat. To my delight, I found an unread message waiting from Brooke:

I don’t want to do this essay.
Please don’t make me do this
essay.

As usual, getting a message from Brooke made me feel like the law of gravity had declined to apply to me for a beat.

She was obviously thinking about me instead of doing her homework. How often did her mind wander to me when she started daydreaming? Did it wander to anyone else, or was I special?

It was so hard to know how much to hope.

I sent a quick reply:

You’ve got this! I believe in you. I’ll send you my notes later tonight, if it’ll help?

Mom hummed to herself as we pulled out of the parking lot, unbelievably slowly, so as to not bowl down any unexpected turtles. “How was your day?”

“Pretty uneventful,” I lied. Best to leave out the whole “I got hired and also blackmailed” thing. “I got into an argument about women’s rights in sociology with Mr. Reisling, but that’s normal. Mr. Reisling’s a dickhead.”

“Yeah, he is a dickhead,” Mom mused to herself, then she gave me a sharp look. “Don’t you tell anyone I said that!”

“I’ll leave it off the agenda at tomorrow’s meeting.”