Page 6 of We’re All Going to Die Tonight!

My eyes slide to Avery, who’s closest to Emerson, to the way she’s stomping next to him. As far as the team goes, I probably trust her the most—even after she screwed up. Maybe even more because she screwed up. Ever since we left the hotel, she’s been beating herself up for it. I can see it in the way her foot bobs and how she picks at her cuticles. Which is why it’s probably a good thing we were interrupted before I could tell Avery what I wanted to earlier. The words nearly slipped out, and I wouldn’t have been able to pull them back. And I didn’t need to add another burden to what she’s already dealing with, even if I know she would’ve wanted to help me. Plus, even if she was understanding, she also would’ve been very Avery about it. She would’ve tried to fix it, and this…Well, this is beyond her ability to fix.

Above us, thunder rolls again, and I shiver. My hoodie’s not helping, seeing as it’s completely soaked through and sticking to my skin.

Maybe Ms. Villaseñor was right. Maybe I should’ve done chess club instead.

My mind zips back to that first meeting with her in her tiny office. It was after my transfer, during my first week of school, when she wanted to see how I was settling in, and I wanted to tell her I would’ve been doing better if she hadn’t called me out of class with everyone watching. Everyone knows she’s the school counselor, and I didn’t want anyone getting any ideas about me. Not that they hadn’t already started formulating their own. I felt the whispers, after all. I’d been the new kid before. I knew what to expect. I just wish Ms. Villaseñor had realized what would happen when she tapped on the door of my math class and asked to speak to me “real quick.”

It was not “real quick.” It never is.

During that meeting we also went over my “academic profile” up to that point. I had good grades—“Excellent grades,” she admitted—but that wasn’t enough, apparently.

“You want to start working on this stuff now,” Ms. Villaseñor told me. “Colleges want you to be someone special, someone who stands out. Someone well rounded.”

I shifted in my seat, avoiding her eyes. “Isn’t it kind of early to be talking about this?”

She laughed in a way that made my skin itch.

“I know students who’ve been working on their college apps since seventh grade,” she told me. “Writing drafts of their PIQs with tutors. Participating in programs. Volunteering at hospitals and animal rescues. And of course, that’s all with strong grades.”

I thought of Avery. Even though I hadn’t met her then—didn’t even know her name, technically—I’d seen her. She’d been in the office when I checked into the school in July, talking to the people at the front desk about her schedule. They’d been trying to keep her from taking five AP classes, and she’d been arguing her case. Politely but firmly, the way I’d later see her handle herself in a debate.

Clearly, Avery was the type of student Ms. Villaseñor was referring to. Someone who’d had life planned out on color-coded sticky notes while I’d been drawing chalk animals on the sidewalk.

“They want to see you’ve been doing something for at least two years, but preferably three to four,” Ms. Villaseñor said. “And really, they’ll want to see you take on a leadership role as a junior. Which means you need to seriously think about these things, especially since you’re starting from scratch as a transfer student.”

“Starting from scratch” was an interesting way to put it. A way to gloss over everything that had led me to be sitting in her office in the first place. But I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. I was too terrified of crying, of letting my eyes get red and puffy. It was the last thing I needed people to see.

“Who are you, mija?” Ms. Villaseñor asked me, reaching across the desk to touch my hand. When I pulled away, keeping my eyes on the desk, she clucked at me.

“They need to know what you’re interested in,” she told me. “They need to see a full person in that application. They need to know you.”

But that isn’t really true, is it? If they wanted to know me, then just me would be good enough. But it isn’t. Ms. Villaseñor could say that colleges want us to be well rounded, but what they really want is a sob story. Something to break their hearts just enough that they add me to their admissions list, but not anything traumatic enough that they have to alert CPS.

In other words, something I refuse to give them.

Ms. Villaseñor sighed. “We have clubs you could join. Test a few out, see what you like. We have a Cosmetology Club—that’s brand-new—and the Environmental Club. That one’s loads of fun. Beach cleanups, helping out at food banks. Or there’s Chess Club, Book Club…What am I forgetting?”

She pulled a list from her overflowing desk organizer and passed it to me. It was laminated, with new additions in messy Sharpie at the bottom. One of them was circled.

“Debate Club?” I asked.

“Oh, you don’t want to do that,” she said, waving her hand. “You need to be very comfortable with public speaking. Quick with it, you know? Confidence is key—”

“I want to do that,” I told her.

I could tell she saw what everyone at this school sees: a quiet girl scared of her own shadow. They might as well have slapped a Handle with Care sticker on my folder when I transferred. Which, given everything that’s happened since I officially enrolled at Coastal Canyon in late July, is more than a little ironic.

Handle with care…right before you throw her into the wolf den.

“I want to learn how to speak up for myself,” I said, meeting Ms. Villaseñor’s gaze. “I’m not afraid.”

She smiled, revealing a smudge of mauve lipstick on her teeth. I didn’t tell her, but I did accept the sticky note she gave me with the Debate Club’s head coach’s email on it.

If I’d done anything else, picked anything else, I wouldn’t be trudging through the mud right now, backpack on, worried about a serial killer lurking in the bushes. Maybe I wouldn’t—

My feet slip underneath me, and I nearly tumble forward. I’m caught at the last second, a steady arm keeping me upright. I cling to it as I fight to catch my breath.

“It’s okay,” says a low voice next to me. “You’re safe with me.”