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I don’t mind living in a small town; I just don’t want to die in one.

I also am not interested in serving time in one, either, but that possibility is growing exponentially, as I seriously consider murdering the guidance counselor’s secretary. But, of course, I’m not allowed to do that. For one thing, it’s illegal. For another, I’m Lydia Chass, and being a Chass in a small town like Henley means something . . . mainly that you’re good and kind, earning the respect of everyone around you.

“I’m sorry, what?”

I say it the right way, the nice way. With a smile. But my eyes must be hard, or maybe my smile is showing too many teeth, because Mrs. Pascale can’t quite meet my gaze.

“We don’t know how it happened, Lydia, truly,” she says, her hands fussily rearranging things on her desk. A coffee mug that reads pencils but holds only pens. A photo frame that proudly announces My Grandchildren! that exhibits only one child. A red Expo marker cap that sits loosely over the tip of a black Sharpie. Nothing makes sense here, and everything is wrong, yet Pascale still somehow manages to seem struck with wonder that a mistake has been made in this office.

A very big one. One that could stop me from graduating.

“Walk me through this again,” I say calmly, leaning forward. “I don’t have enough history credits to graduate, is that right?”

“Yes,” Pascale says, nodding in apparent relief that I have grasped the conversation so far. “And we’re very sorry about that.”

She adds a quivering smile to this, maybe hoping that that particular silver lining will be relayed to my parents, along with the news that their only child just got screwed—even though I’m still totally a virgin. Which has nothing to do with morality; it’s much more a factor of having overloaded myself with courses, college credits, extracurriculars, teams, boards, and advisory committees. I put my sex drive on hold in order to organize blood drives, food drives, dog-adoption drives, and anything else that would look good on a résumé. Because Ivy Leagues aren’t impressed when you’re the valedictorian of a graduating class of sixty-eight students.

And they’re definitely not impressed when you don’t even graduate.

“I’m very sorry about that, too, Gladys,” I say, glancing at the plaque on her desk for her first name before dropping it.

She winces, and I know that particular bomb hit the target, as it should; Gladys is a terrible name.

“But being sorry doesn’t put me any closer to what I need,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “So, before I go home and tell my parents that the guidance department at Henley High has ruined any chance I have of getting into a first-class journalism school, why don’t you tell me how this is going to be fixed?”

There’s a rapping of knuckles on the door behind us, which stands open. I know it’s Principal Walton without turning around in my chair. He’s exactly the kind of person who doesn’t have the confidence to walk through an open door without permission.

“We have an idea about that, Lydia,” Walton says, coming around to Pascale’s side of the desk.

She visibly relaxes, like having a witness means I will back down. The Chass veneer has always kept me on the safe side of social acceptability, but while I might have my dad’s eyes, the volatility that lurks beneath them can’t always be hidden.

“Which is?” I ask.

“The board and I came to an agreement that this is a very unfortunate incident,” he says, leaning back against the wall, like we’re buddies having a chat about baseball. Not discussing my future, or the fact that Henley High just went to town on it with a chain saw.

“And we came to the conclusion that no one is really at fault here,” he finishes up, giving me a quick shrug like, Things happen, Lydia. You understand.

Things happen. They do. They just don’t happen to me.

“‘No one is really at fault here,’” I repeat, narrowing my eyes. “It’s an interesting point of view. I guess, if we want to worry about blame—which, I can see why that would be a topic of conversation—we wouldn’t want to put it on a particular person, right?”

Principal Walton is nodding along, like he’s sure the words I’m saying are in agreement with his own, but for some reason the tone is making him uneasy. It’s called being facetious, and I might explain that later. But right now I have a point to make, and I’m about to drill down.

“Because if we said a particular person was responsible for this mistake, that would probably be Mr. Benson, the former guidance counselor, right?”

Gladys nods quickly, like I’m doing a good job of identifying school staff. I tilt my head toward the closed door to the right, which has the words Guidance Counselor painted in black on the window. Underneath that, the outline of Mr. Benson’s name can still be made out; a janitor scraped it away only a few days ago. The room beyond is darkened, the square of the window a black hole that my GPA is about to be sucked into.

“And if Mr. Benson were responsible, that would reflect poorly on the people who hired him, wouldn’t it?”

Walton shifts against the wall, recrossing his arms.

“Lydia.” Glady’s jumps in, eager to deflect. “You know that Mr. Benson has been going through a really tough time.”

I do know. Everyone knows. It’s Henley. But the fact that his wife left him for another woman doesn’t strike any real chords with me. My grandpa died holding my hand, and I still took the SAT the next morning.

And got a 1600, thanks.