Grimshaw leans over. “If they fail us,” she whispers, “I’m not coming back.”

“What are you talking about? What will you do?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “But I have to do something. I can’t just wait around, like my life’s gonna fall out of a tree and land on me. That’s what I’ve been doing, just sitting on a rock and waiting. And it’s not working.”

“But you have to finish school.”

“Why? Obviously, I’m not learning anything.”

I wish I had an answer for this, a scheme for us, a vision, a plan, but I don’t. We always talk about leaving Colchis and going to New York City, where she’ll be a famous dancer and I’ll be famous, too. She dances, and I—well, I don’t know what I do, but I figure it out and do it and be famous, and we meet at sidewalk cafés and put our cold drinks on tiny tables. I feel like the future is coming at us too fast, though, and I wish I had known what to do to get ready for it. Claudette and Angel come out of the girls’ room and then Mrs. Kmiec comes out and signals us all back into Mr. Van’s office.

“All of you have failed Western Civ for the year.” The principal’s voice is crisp. “If you plan to graduate next year, you do need that history credit.”

Claudette’s mouth hangs open. “You mean we have to repeat the whole year?”

“If you want to graduate, yes.”

“What about summer school?” asks Angel.

“We’re not offering Western Civ this summer.”

“I’m talking to my father,” Claudette storms.

“Good,” my mother says. “I will be, too.”

Mr. C. stands up. He rubs his hands triumphantly. “I’ll see you in September, girls.”

On the drive home, my mother seems more tired than mad. She informs me that of course she knows I didn’t plagiarize, but I didn’t deserve to pass Western Civ anyway, so yes, I do have to take it again next year, and so does Melody: she is not going to put her career in jeopardy defending my right to be an arrogant little smart-ass. Mr. C. plays golf with the chairman of the school board, and that’s probably where her candidacy for principal will be decided. “Not that there shouldn’t be further consequences—”

“Maybe you should get contact lenses,” I suggest, trying to divert that one at the pass. “Your glasses make you look more liberal than you really are.”

She lets out one long, irritated exhalation. “Serena,” she starts.

“What? Allegra gives you career tips all the time.”