<b>Chapter </b><b>42 </b>
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“Go on,” I told Max, softening my voice. “I’ve got this.”
Max nodded. Then I turned and walked unhurriedly toward the entrance.
<b>42 </b>
In the exam room, I tapped my pencil against the desk, ncing around. The air was thick with anxiety–dozens of students hunched over their test booklets, foreheads glistening with sweat, pencils moving frantically across paper. The ssroom clock ticked loudly, each second amplifying the collective stress.
Except for me.
I’d alreadypleted the reading and math portions of the SAT, and now stared at the essay section. The prompt asked for a personal narrative about oveing adversity. I almostughed. If I wrote honestly about my previous life–about learning to kill before learning to drive, about surviving the Shadow Organization’s training–they’d either think I was insane or call the police.
“Thirty minutes remaining,” the proctor announced, causing several students to gasp.
I closed my test booklet and stood up. The scrape of my chair against the floor made several heads snap in my direction, eyes wide with disbelief.
The proctor looked up, brows furrowed in confusion. “Ms. Morgan? You still have time.”
“I’m done,” I said, walking to the front and cing my test booklet on her desk.
She flipped through it quickly, her expression shifting from surprise to disapproval when she reached the nk essay pages.
“You’ve left the entire essay section empty,” she whispered.
<b>I </b>shrugged. “I know.”
“That’s two hundred points,” she insisted, as if I’d made some mistake.
“I’m aware.” I turned and walked out, feeling the weight of twenty pairs of eyes drilling into my back.
Max was waiting under a tree outside, his thin frame leaning slightly topensate for his limp. His <b>face </b>brightened when he saw me, then immediately fell when he noticed the time.
<b>10:10 </b>Wed, Sep 17
“You’re out early,” he said as I approached. “Like, really early.”
“Test was simple.”
“Did you finish everything?” He fell into step beside me, his gait uneven but improving since I’d
started his treatments.
“Most of it.”
<b>42 </b>
Max stopped walking. “Most of it? What does that mean?”
I kept walking, forcing him to catch up. “I didn’t do the essay.”
“What?” His voice cracked. “Jade, that’s two hundred points! The total is sixteen hundred, and Princeton’s average eptance scorest year was fifteen–twenty. You just threw away two hundred points for no reason!”
“Not for no reason,” I replied. “I didn’t feel like writing that much.”
“You didn’t feel like-” Max sputtered, his face flushing. “Are you serious right now?<b>” </b>
I spotted a coffee shop across the street. “Let’s get something to drink.”
The café was filling up with other test–takers, their voices rising in a chorus ofints about the exam’s difficulty. Max and I imed a small table by the window, away from the crowd.
“The reading section had this passage about economic theory that made no sense,” one girl moaned to her friends. “And that math problem with the parab? Impossible.”
Max leaned across our table. “Why wouldn’t you write the essay? It asked about oveing adversity, right? You could’ve made something up.”
I took a sip of my ck coffee. “It’s boring. Why write about fake struggles when my real ones would get me institutionalized?”
“But Princeton-”
I set my cup down. “If they reject me, I’ll just go there with that physics problem. Is that okay.”
Max stared at me for a long moment before his expression softened into reluctant eptance.
10:10 Wed, <b>Sep </b>17
<b>42 </b>
Over the next two weeks, I took the rest of my standardized tests with the same approach–minimal effort, maximum efficiency. ACT, AP Calculus, AP Physics–I was always the first to finish, often using less than half the allotted time.
After each exam, Max would check College Confidential forums, reporting back that everyone thought this year’s tests were “brutal” and “the hardest in years.” His concern for my scores grew.
“At least you have that special recruitment thing with Princeton,” he said after my final exam.
He was waiting for me outside the testing center with a small bouquet of flowers. A school reporter mistook him for someone’s boyfriend, making Max blush furiously.
“These are for you,” he said, thrusting the flowers at me awkwardly. “To celebrate finishing all your
exams. And, well, everyone else gets flowers from someone.”
I epted them, realizing it was the first time anyone had given me flowers. Well, except for Night at that formal dance years ago, when he’d ced a single rose between his teeth and made a show of <ol><li>it. </li></ol>
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.
Before we could leave, a girl with a microphone and a boy with a camera approached <b>us</b>–the school
media team.
“Can we get your thoughts on this year’s SAT and AP exams?” The girl shoved the microphone
toward my face. “Everyone’s saying they were incredibly difficult.”
I looked directly into the camera. “They were fine. Anyone with hands could do it.”
The reporter blinked, clearly thrown by my arrogance. “But even the top students are worried about
their scores. Do you really think-”
“You’re in my way,” I cut her off, stepping around her.
“But-”
“Move,” I said coldly. “You’re crushing my flowers.”
The clip went viral that night. My dismissive “Anyone with hands could do it”ment was trending on Instagram and TikTok. Students from across the district were posting angry responses, calling me everything from “delusional” to “the most arrogant bitch alive.”
…
<b>42 </b>
Someone on Reddit imed I’d been at the bottom of my ss for three years and had cheated on a
math test. Another anonymous ount posted what they imed was my previous report card, along
with other “dirt” from my past.
“They’re all waiting for your scores toe back low,” Max told me as he scrolled through his phone. “There are betting pools.”
That evening, Frank came home with news that interrupted our daily routine.
“Your Uncle Patrick called,” he announced, hanging his jacket by the door. “He’s invited us to y golf at the Grand za Hotel tonight.”
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