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CHAPTER 1
My mom used to say: Your mind is your weakest muscle. There are no rest days. Don’t use it, and it’ll weaken.
A direct opposite perspective from my dad, who often countered with: We live on a floating rock. I think we’re allowed to take it easy.
I used to think I was a sweet balance of them both. That it’s better to slow down before burnout, catching warning signs of fatigue before they get worse, and it’s just as important to work hard—harder than everyone else—because the world is only kind to the successful.
Which is why I didn’t panic when I missed school. For the first four days. Then a full week passed, and no amount of at-home studying made my withering brain feel like it was being put to good use. This panic lit through me, starting at my chest and burning through every muscle under my skin, branching off until it spread to every part of my body, and now I knew I was more like Mom.
My off-brand smartwatch vibrates against my wrist, sending my heart into a panicked high gear. It’s set to go off every ten minutes to keep me on track, reminding me that if I spend any longer on a problem, I cut off time for another. A domino effect that will ruin the quick math I did when I scanned the number of questions on the test.
It’s my own fault I’m sloppy here. I should have drank another energy drink last night and combed through my best friend’s notes on the Industrial Revolution.
But it also doesn’t help that Lexie’s notes drifted off to her trailing thoughts, moving from helpful, detailed accounts from the teacher to playing tic-tac-toe with herself or listing meal ideas for dinner, so I wasn’t too inclined to sort through them all night. It would have been better if she had typed notes on a Word doc because her sloppy handwriting gave me a headache, but most teachers don’t allow laptops for fear of cheating or AI use.
A bead of sweat pools at the base of my neck. I’m losing my focus.
I suck in a breath, hold it for four seconds, then let it out. At my exhale, I reread the question, trying to separate the actual problem from the wordy paragraph the teacher must have padded to confuse us all.
If the question simply boils down to how the spinning jenny affected the textile industry, then we didn’t need five whole run-on sentences before that introducing us to the inventor of it and their life story. Why can’t Mr. Curtis keep his questions succinct?
Waste of time, you’re wasting more time.
My pen digs too deeply into the paper, and the ink blots too much ink. I slap my hand, loosen my grip, and write out my answer.
My heart sinks as I reach the next question. Another mass of unnecessary words that hides what’s actually being asked.
This time, I save my criticism of Mr. Curtis’s long-windedness and lock in. My watch hasn’t alerted me of another failed checkpoint, so I need to make up time here. Luckily, it’s a question from last week, a lecture I took my own notes on and studied between taking care of my father.
My handwriting grows sloppy at the tail end of my paragraph, but I make it just before my watch goes off. A sigh of relief soothes me only a moment before I slice through it—no time to relax. Five more questions remain.
By the time I reach the end, my long bangs cling to the side of my face—they’ve grown too long from the time I hastily chopped them off when they kept falling over my eyes as I tried to study. I rub my palm against my chest to help remind my heart of the rhythm it’s supposed to follow.
“All right, kids,” Mr. Curtis says from behind his mahogany desk. “Pens and pencils down, packets flipped over. If I see anyone writing anything more, I’m docking points from the test.”
My pen isn’t even in my hands and my stomach still turns over at the threat.
“Simon, that’s two points off,” Mr. Curtis snaps. “Another two if you finish that eye roll.”
Again, not directed at me, but my body stills. No sudden movements means no accusations thrown my way. I’d rather the teacher shave my head bald than take off any points.
The bell rings. Everyone hurriedly shuffles out. I take my time getting ready for study hall. I close my eyes, pull the sleeve of my blazer, and wipe the sweat from my face.
When I open them, I catch a hand, a thick silver band wrapped around the pinkie, dropping a small golden-wrapped candy on the edge of my desk. My gaze scans their back, but a group of girlfriends rushes through the aisle and blocks my vision.
Maybe my classmate Amy? I let her borrow my notes last week.
I take the gift, unwrapping its contents, and plop the candy into my mouth. It’s minty and sweet, and the shock of sweetness helps clear a little of the residual nausea my test anxiety wrapped around me.
By the time I make it out of class and let myself into my secret sanctuary—an always-empty classroom during my study hall period—the mint is almost completely gone.
Immediately, I get comfortable at a desk near the windows, pull out my iPad, and scan through my notes for another upcoming test.
“Hello to the second-prettiest girl I know,” Lexie says as she enters. (The first is herself, of course.)
I don’t look up from my notes. “Hello to the number one most-egotistical girl I know.”
The chair beside me squeaks as Lexie makes herself comfortable, as per our routine. She immediately turns on music—at a low decibel, as she knows not to distract me—and I comb through the notes I’ve revised three times and rewrote three more times because repetition helps the brain remember things.
