“You missed five,” I say.

“Five AND six, it’ll be like taking money from a baby. A really rich baby who drives a Tesla,” Taylor says.

“Seven, it would be the most fun way to make money ever,” Katherine says.

“Eight,” Nevaeh says. “We can’t get jobs here. We can’t borrow cash; none of us can get a loan. There are no easy after-school felonies to commit. But this idea. This is everything we’re good at, and the four of us could pull it off.”

“And so what if we’re sitting in detention for the rest of the semester?” Taylor says. “It’ll be worth it.”

“It’s not your responsibility to figure it out,” I say.

“Addie. We keep telling you,” Katherine starts in again, but the clock tower is bonging again.

I shake my head. “You are all wonderful, and we are late.”

“Are you really saying no?” Taylor says. “That’s not the Addie I know.”

I snort. “That won’t work either.”

“What if—” Katherine starts.

“If you sneak off and start your own, I will never talk to you again,” I say.

“That is not what I was going to say!” Katherine says. “I was going to say what if we want to do it? Not just for the money.”

“You can strip in our room all you want,” Nevaeh tells her, and Katherine pushes her shoulder, and I shake my head at them, point up toward the clock tower when the bell rings.

“All right, I need to go fail English now, okay?” I say.

Katherine scoffs at that, but we all plod back to the path. They break off at the science building.

“I’ll see you all at dinner,” I call to them, and I take off down the path with a fizz of sequins and silk and worry still stuck in my brain.

5

I don’t remember anything about any of my afternoon classes, and now, before dinner, I’m trying to catch up on my reading for class tomorrow. I’m not thinking about Angles or the email Carly sent me with links to grant possibilities, all of which we had already found at lunch. I texted my sweethearts that I was sorry and turned off my phone, because I also don’t want to keep looking at the pictures of burlesque costumes Taylor keeps forwarding me without commentary.

They’re distracting, and I am trying to work.

And yet I’m doing less reading and more clutching Rachel, my worn-out childhood stuffed tiger, to my chest, staring at the constellation of faded stars on the ceiling of my tiny, single room, listening to Amy a couple of doors down argue with the hall supervisor about what “open flame” technically means when you get right down to it. I’m feeling mostly convinced by her argument when the Skype noise jangles on my laptop, sitting open on my desk.