“Not a chance,” I tell her. “It’s a pain in the ass for them to fail anyone. That’s what Mr. C. meant when he talked about not wanting to do the paperwork. It’s way easier to pass us. Also, they’re worried about our self-esteem.” I’m hoping Mr. C. hates me enough that he’ll free me from Western Civ with a D. I’m a straight-D student, which keeps me in Foundations-level classes with Grimshaw. I used to take pride in that, like I was beating the system, like there was an art to achieving a D. I thought getting a D required the precision of a Swiss watchmaker—after all, there’s only a five-point spread to aim for, as it hangs over the abyss, but then I look around at the other people who get D’s, and it seems that I got the metaphor wrong, that a D is actually a huge sack that has room for every loser in the school.

My mother is just the interim principal of Colchis High School. In April, Mr. Van Horton, the real principal, dropped dead of a brain aneurysm while repotting some African violets in this very office. Mr. Van was tall and bald, pink-cheeked and fairly fat, and wore gray suits and walked the halls all day, whistling tunelessly and jingling the change in his pockets. In the back hall of Colchis, there is a big picture window overlooking the football field, and you could find him there sometimes, gazing out at the football fields, not whistling, not jingling, just standing tipped back on the worn half-moons of his heels and gazing out at the white lines on the green. If he heard you coming, he’d frown and clear his throat and bark, “Where are you supposed to be?”

And then, bang, he died, which is how my mom got to be the principal for almost two months. She taught here once before, about seven years ago, but I was still in elementary school. Now that she’s here again, she’s trying to keep me a secret, too. I haven’t exactly made her proud. In addition to the name difference, we don’t look anything alike. Our voices are identical, though, when we answer the phone, a fact I took full advantage of until I got caught skipping school and grounded. She’s going for the permanent job in the fall, but the school board is toying with her, pretending they have long lists of people clamoring to lead Colchis High School into the future. She’s trying to prove her fitness for the job by instituting a regime of high academic standards.

From inside her office, we can hear Mr. C. yelling about how awful kids are today. There’s no respect for rules, he says, no self-discipline, no manners. “She was right!” we can hear him yell. “There’s no pride in this place anymore. None!”