Mrs. Mac studies my face. “Socially, you seem to be doing great, Clara. I pay attention . . . notice when somebody looks like they’re making fast friends. So, kudos to you on that.” Wait to see if she’s going to nail me on my choice of friends, maybe mention Kincaid, but she moves on. “Grades are another story. I took a look-see at your averages, and to be honest, they’re not quite what I’d expect to see from a student who came to us with a GPA of 3.52. Also, Mr. Smythe noted an unexcused absence last Friday afternoon. He says you never showed up to his calculus class.” Ma’s gaze cuts across me like a Ginsu knife, and suddenly, I can’t sink deep enough in my seat, my gaze seeking the potted vine climbing the file cabinet.

“Granted, you’re only a couple weeks in, so I don’t want to cause a panic. Plenty of time for these things to even out. But I have to ask”—she plops her chin on her fist, small, sapphire eyes bright behind her glasses—“what’s going on here?”

Ma adjusts in her seat to face me. “I’d like to hear it.”

Godzilla and Megalon just formed a tag team. “Nothing. I”—work that new-kid angle, work it—“got overwhelmed, I guess? And I got sick. Last Friday. I was here, just . . . in the bathroom.” Hard swallow. “Everything’s changed so fast.” Ma hasn’t budged. “I started the semester late, and I was already so far behind. . . .”

Mrs. Mac nods, like I’ve confirmed some suspicion; Ma presses her lips together and chooses her own plant to glare at.

“I think I know what you’re saying, Clara.” Mrs. Mac shakes her head. “I could kick myself for not thinking of it sooner. I should’ve set you up in our tutoring program right from the beginning. You must’ve been feeling like a miner’s mule, with that load on your back!” Scribbles a note to herself on a sticky pad. “This is my failing. I don’t want either of you”—a shaped mauve fingernail points between us—“taking this on yourselves. Relocating is one of the biggest challenges a family can go through. We want to do everything we can to help you make this move a success.”

I think we’re done. Ma shakes Mrs. Mac’s hand, turns to follow me to the door, jumps when Mrs. Mac gasps, “Oh!” Hurrying around the desk, shaking her basket. “Don’t forget your Raging Elk pin.”

Hesitantly, Ma takes one, dropping it into her purse. “Thanks.”

“Pleasure’s mine. Always happy to spread around a little school spirit.” Mrs. Mac opens the door, just in time for us to witness a secretary race across the hall with the coffeepot and douse a smoldering trash can.