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“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion.” He sets my story on his desk. “You’re a good student, Max. And from everything I’ve seen of you so far, you have a good moral compass. I’m ashamed I even considered that you might have helped someone cheat. I apologize.”

“Okay,” I say quietly.

Still, being accused of cheating doesn’t sit right with me. Especially by my favorite teacher.

“You can take your seat now.”

I do as I’m told, pulling my textbook and notebooks out of my bag, still a little salty that Mr. Collins seems to have the same opinion of me as everyone else in this school. That I’m no good.

Maybe Sienna was right. Maybe it doesn’t matter how hard you try to prove yourself. Fairhope High will always find some new way to knock you down a peg.

“Good morning, class,” Mr. Collins greets with the same troubled frown still etched across his face. He perches on the edge of his desk and folds his arms across his chest, waiting for everyone to settle down before continuing. “Today, I want to talk to you about authorial voice. Or, more specifically, something I like to call an author’s fingerprints.”

“Jesus, Mr. Collins. Is this English class or CSI?” Troy says, earning a few laughs.

“Something like that,” Mr. Collins answers, though his usually friendly demeanor is nowhere to be seen. “As I was saying, every writer leaves fingerprints on their work. Little markers that make their writing distinctly theirs. Let’s take syntax, for example. How a writer structures their sentences. Some writers favor long, flowing sentences. Others keep them short and sharp. Some start sentences with conjunctions like and, but, or because. Others avoid doing that altogether.” He pushes himself off the desk and begins walking slowly across the front of the classroom. “Then there’s diction. Word choice. Every writer has certain words they naturally gravitate toward. Sometimes they’re what we call crutch words—words or phrases we use so often that we don’t even realize we’re doing it.”

“You mean, like, how Kimball’s allergic to the word isn’t and always says ain’t instead?” someone calls out from the back of the classroom.

A few heads turn in surprise, mine included, when we realize it was Brandon Sockabasin who made the observation.

Brandon rarely says a word in class, preferring to spend most of his time slouched in his chair, looking like he’s far too cool to be bothered with the rest of us. With his jet-black hair, dark eyes, and the leather jacket he wears like a second skin, he certainly looks the part. So hearing him actually contribute to a class discussion, even if it is to poke fun at Dylan, is a novelty.

Dylan, however, doesn’t seem the least bit surprised. If anything, he looks downright amused as he twists around in his seat to face Brandon.

“So you’ve been paying that much attention to the way I talk, huh, Bran?” He slowly licks his bottom lip. “Nice to know.”

Laughter ripples through the room, but Brandon only runs a hand through his black hair, completely unfazed.

“Hard not to notice when you never shut up.”

“Keep listening. You might learn something.”

“Pass. I’m the one who likes doing the teaching, Kimball. Remember that if you ever want a lesson in good manners.”

“Just good manners?”

Brandon’s mouth pulls into a sly grin before winking at Dylan.

“Interesting.” Dylan smirks.

“Oh, my God, just get a room already. The sexual tension is too much to handle this early in the morning,” Laura exclaims beside me before dropping her head back onto her crossed arms, looking like she partied a little too hard over the weekend.

“All right, you two. Save it for after class,” Mr. Collins says, fighting a smile of his own. A few lingering chuckles follow as everyone turns their attention back to him. “Though Brandon actually helped make my point. The words we choose are part of our individual voice. So are our sentence structures, our rhythm, our imagery, even our punctuation habits. Put all of those things together, and you start developing something that can be remarkably distinctive.”

He then proceeds to pick up two books from his desk, one in each hand.

“Take the Brontë sisters. Charlotte Brontë wrote Jane Eyre, while her sister Emily wrote Wuthering Heights. Both novels were published in the same year, so it stands to reason that the sisters were writing their books around the same time, perhaps even side by side.”

“And don’t forget Anne Brontë,” Holly interjects excitedly from behind me. “She published Agnes Grey the same year as her older sisters, too.”

“Excellent point,” Mr. Collins replies, looking pleased that someone is paying attention. “Three sisters, three novels, all published in 1847. These women grew up under the same roof, were educated together for portions of their childhood, read many of the same books, and were surrounded by many of the same influences.” He holds up the books. “And yet, despite everything they had in common, each sister developed a writing style distinctly her own. If I were to give you an anonymous passage from each of their novels, and you were familiar enough with their work, you’d likely be able to tell me which sister wrote which passage. Why do you think that is?”

“Because they were different people,” someone calls out.

“Exactly. Three people can be shaped by the same upbringing, share many experiences, and still see the world completely differently. It’s that difference that eventually finds its way onto the page.”

My earlier sulking is forgotten as I lean forward in my seat, completely absorbed by what Mr. Collins is saying.