“She’s playing a game, is all I’m saying,” says Mr. C. “And she better make sure she doesn’t lose.”

“I think you make a good point,” my mother says quietly. “How about the others?”

“Equally insulting!” Mr. C. snatches up Grimshaw’s exam and skims it across my mother’s desk. She picks it up and holds it at the end of her arm.

“The multiple choice looks okay,” she says. Mr. C. snorts. The cheerleaders snicker together. My mother looks at them severely over the top of her glasses. She flips to the essays. She looks at them quickly, then looks at Grimshaw and takes off her glasses until the snickers subside. Grimshaw twists her fingers together in her lap and starts scratching the nail polish off one thumbnail. Grimshaw adores my mother.

“Oh, Melody,” my mother says.

“Melody” looks mortified. “I never do good on essays,” she mumbles. “I don’t know how to begin.”

“But to not even try …” my mother pleads. “To answer an essay question with—what are these, lyrics from rock and roll?”

“I’m sorry,” Grimshaw whispers.

“This is just mockery,” she continues. “This is the kind of thing Serena would do.”

Grimshaw looks at me sideways. “I know,” she whispers. “I just couldn’t focus.”

“They’re willing to give you the benefit of the doubt here,” Mrs. Pentz lectures her. “But you have to write something, anything at all, to prove … that you can do it! That you want to do it!” Grimshaw stops scratching at her nail polish and stares at the floor.

The principal sighs and shakes her head. “Okay. Next.” She picks up the cheerleaders’ exams.

Claudette Mizerak is really rich. She lives pretty close to Grimshaw and me, but she’s never ridden the school bus in her life. Her father has the biggest dairy farm in the Valley, with a ten - thousand - dollar - a - month interest payment on his debt. Angel Ciaramitaro lives in a trailer park across the road from Claudette. Angel’s dad was Mizerak’s farm manager until he was automated out of a job. I know these details because my stepfather bought one of his cornfields to build the development we live in.

My mom looks down at their tests. “It looks like the two of you just plain failed.”

“I’m ADD,” says Claudette.

“Did you study?” my mom asks.

“Yes,” Claudette says.

“No,” Angel says.

“Did you study together?” she asks.

“No,” Claudette says.

“Yes,” Angel says.

“It looks,” my mother says, tracing down each of their tests with a finger on each one, “as though your answers are both wrong and identical. That makes me wonder if—”

“Redundant!” interrupts Mr. C., holding up his hand. “They would have failed anyway. So spare us the paperwork.”

“There is just so much else going on,” Claudette explodes.

“We’re very busy,” says Angel.

“I can understand that,” says my mother. “But—”