Then she sees Irony Man. On the back of the last page of the exam, before I knew I would need the extra space for my essay, I drew a panel of him rescuing my Western Civ grade. I meant to erase him, but I ran out of time. He came out looking a little too much like Mr. C. in a cape and tights.

The principal looks up at me. She is deathly pale and gazing at me through slitted eyes, as if already planning the humiliation and dismemberment she will put me through as soon as it’s legal, which will be soon.

The principal is my mother.

Nobody knows that yet, because she hasn’t even been principal for two months. She was hired from a different district. We have different last names. She’s Mrs. Pentz. Today, Mrs. Pentz is wearing a red linen pantsuit, which my sister Allegra picked out for her. Everyone who failed the Western Civ final is crammed in Mrs. Pentz’s office—me, Grimshaw, and those two vicious cheerleaders, Angel Ciaramitaro and Claudette Mizerak, co-captains of next year’s varsity squad. Angel and Claudette basically run the school. Of course, Mr. C. is there, too.

“So …” Mrs. Pentz begins. She turns to Mr. C. “Are you saying this essay was—”

“Plagiarized!” Mr. C. shouts. “That is not original thinking!”

“Okay,” my mom says, tiptoeing through the minefield. “Can you … prove it?”

Boom. She hits the land mine.

Mr. C. stands up. “I have been teaching in this school for over three decades!” he yells. “I have read the essays of literally thousands of sixteen-year-olds. I know how they think!” He glares at me. “Even the so-called smart ones!”

My mom’s face has gone very white, except for two red spots about the size of a quarter on each cheek. Her five children know those spots. They are warning signs. She’s still breathing carefully. I’m not sure if she’s angrier at me or Mr. C.

She opens her mouth to say something. But Mr. C. isn’t done. “Why doesn’t somebody call this girl’s bluff?” he shouts. “She coasts along, acting like she’s so much smarter than everybody else, no-o-o, she doesn’t have to answer the essay question, she’s too smart. She can write about whatever she wants! And I’m supposed to feel honored that she took the time to lecture me on everything I don’t understand about history?” Mr. C.’s rant ends with a little shriek of indignation. His face has gotten bright red. He has to pause and gather himself so he doesn’t have a stroke. “Why don’t they put her in real classes? Let her take physics and calculus. Let her take AP, let’s see if she’s as smart as the kids who actually study.”

“With D’s in Foundations,” my mother points out, “we can’t very well put her in Honors.”