Me: Dad was okay.
She doesn’t answer.
Me: I like Call Me Steve.
Mel: Me too.
I put my phone back on my side table to go to sleep, but it buzzes again.
Mel: What’s going to happen to Meredith when we go?
Me: She’ll be better than all of us. The only one who won’t need therapy.
Mel: I don’t trust ANYONE who doesn’t need therapy.
Me: You don’t trust anyone period.
Mel: I trust you.
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH, in which Satchel’s love for the Prince grows real and true and like nothing she’s ever known before; second indie kid Finn feels her distance and is hurt, but she tells him, “No one can provide the heart its own peace; you have to find it yourself”; Dylan, to her surprise, is the one who gives her space; even better, no one else has died; they follow the Prince’s instructions on where and when to be, and all danger is avoided; Satchel and the Prince kiss again, but he respects her too much to demand more.
The word “finals” makes it sound like a bigger deal than it is, at least for us. We’re all College Prep, so most of the hard work had to be done early enough to prove to colleges we’d be worth indebting ourselves forever to them. The “final” for US History was just that Civil War essay, for example, which we all managed to get turned in on time, splitting the questions so me and Mel didn’t do the same one. The rest of our major tests have at least two of us in each class, so lunches turn into study sessions. For me, my only real worries are Calc and English.
“What is the limit as x approaches one of one minus x-squared over x to the fourth minus x?” I read.
“Iambic pentameter,” Mel says.
“You are?”
“Minus two-thirds,” Henna answers.
We look up to Jared. “Yep,” he says.
“It’s not iambic pentameter?” Mel says.
“You’re definitely bic pentameter,” Henna says. “In those shoes, anyway.”
“Because they look like four feet?” Mel says.
“Can I squeeze in?” Nathan says, appearing at our table.
Why does he do that? Always arrive late? He never comes with anyone, just wanders in after we’re all together. What’s he up to?
“I brought that essay I did last year on Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” he says, handing it to me. Me and Mel are the only two in AP English, and that awful, awful book is one of our exam texts, so he’s really helping us out here.
“Thanks,” I say, a bit surly.
“Don’t be too thankful, I only got a B and I still don’t have a clue what the hell the book was about.”
“No one does,” Mel says. “I think that’s the point.”
“Did you even finish it?” I ask her.
She hesitates. “Ish.”
“Listen–” Nathan says.
“This is…” I say, flipping through his essay. “Long.”
“They called it Core College in Tulsa,” he says, “and they really weren’t kidding. Listen–”
“Let me see,” Mel says, reaching over for the essay.
“Is this right?” Henna asks Jared, showing him some Calc work. He scans it in an instant.
“All fine,” he says. “I don’t know why you’re worried, Henna. You’re as good as me.”
“Meredith isn’t even as good as you,” she says, frowning at her paper.
“Guys?” Nathan says.
“Crap,” Mel says, reading his essay. “This is really smart. Like really smart. So much smarter than me.”
“I doubt that,” I say.