“Sweetheart,” my mom interjects. “It’s almost six thirty. Don’t you think you should—”

“No!” Scot yells. “This is important. If she’s a cheerleader, she’s gotta understand the rules of the game. I can take one night off for that.”

Scot talks about strategies, plays, and the importance of the quarterback. Scot’s ideology is that in football, as in life, you can’t just wait to see what happens, you can’t just wait for the other guy to screw up. “It’s like life,” he says. “If you want to win the game, YOU have to make something happen. It’s on you.” As he describes the arc of the ball during the kickoff, he stands up and knocks his chair over backward. He ends up on one knee, looking heavenward with his arms crossed over his chest, which he says is the position a receiver is to assume who doesn’t want to get mowed down while he waits for the ball to drop.

The less I say, the happier everybody is. That is how a tentative peace descends on the Velasco-Pentz household.

When the enemy advances, we retreat. When the enemy camps, we harass. When the enemy tires, we attack. That’s what Chairman Mao said, and it’s my strategy for surviving Western Civ.

But Mr. C. attacks first.

The second week of school has hardly begun when he asks me to come in to see him after school. I’m wary, but I show up. He makes me stand there waiting for about five minutes until he’s quite through writing the year’s first column of grades in his grade book.

“Serena.” He caps his pen and stands up. “I’m afraid this year won’t be much of a challenge for you. And I know how deadly boredom can be. I’ve been thinking about your essay. About Mao.” He pauses as though I’m supposed to say something, but when I open my mouth, he doesn’t give me a chance. “So—I’d like to offer you a yearlong independent study. Should you choose to accept, you’ll still have to come to class and do the reading and the homework and participate fully, but instead of the regularly assigned papers and tests, you’ll produce progress reports of your work. I’ve run it by your mother, and she said it sounded fine. What do you think?”

“No, I … I don’t—”

“An independent study is a college-level challenge, requiring self-discipline and initiative. And it has to be local.”

“Local?” I repeat stupidly.