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“Wow, Lydia Chass. I didn’t know that was in there.” She shifts her gaze back to staring out the windshield, her fingers drumming on the center console. Her nails are stubby and bitten to the quick, and the knuckles on her right hand are scraped, like she’s thrown a punch recently. I really hope it wasn’t at any of the staff; I could be making some dangerous liaisons here. But the scrapes are scabbed over, and I mentally chalk it up to something I don’t want to know more about.

“You think it was just us?” Bristal asks. “We’re the only ones who got called in today.”

I’d noticed that, too. And it’s the reason why I was creeping in the parking lot, waiting for her to come out of the school and hoping it wouldn’t be in cuffs.

“Yes, and I have a proposition for you,” I say.

“’Kay,” she says, disinterested.

I turn in my seat to face her, put on my sale smile, and even pop out the jazz hands from those early days of dancing lessons that came to a screeching halt when I corrected the instructor on the pronunciation of chassé.

“How would you like to cohost my podcast?” I ask.

“Why?” Bristal asks, the single word escaping with another lungful of vapor.

“Walton didn’t just give me a pass,” I tell her. “They want me to do a few episodes that focus on local history, and they’ll call it a credit.”

“Why?” she asks again, and I’m left with my hands held out to either side, my smile fading as she remains completely unmoved.

“So you can get your credit, too,” I say. “It’s a win-win.”

“No, I get that,” she says, tapping the vape pen against my dashboard. It leaves little indentations in the leather that I try to ignore. “I mean, why are you offering? What are you getting out of it?”

“I’m just . . . I’m being nice,” I say, somewhat flustered. Dad is the county public defender, and Mom the head of every fundraising group in the area. I’m not accustomed to having to explain the concept of being nice; I’ve always moved in circles where kindness was the social contract, the assumption that allowed you through the door.

“Nah, this isn’t about that,” Bristal says. “You said it yourself. Win-win. So, what are you winning by handing a Jamison girl a microphone, other than an FCC violation?”

That sets me back, and I’m not quick enough to cover it.

“Yeah, I’m not stupid, Chass,” she says. “I know what the FCC is.”

“Perfect,” I say, crossing my arms and leaning back into my heated seat. “You know what else? It’s been kind of a long day, so instead of me trying to convince you that I’m doing a good deed, why don’t you show me exactly how smart you are. You tell me why I asked you.”

“So now I’m auditioning?” she shoots back.

“Call it what you want,” I say, my breath coming in heated gasps. The car is too hot, the air filled with stale vape. My head is starting to spin, and I’m wondering what exactly she’s got in that pen when she tilts her head and holds my gaze.

“You made sure that Phillabrant mentioned your volunteer hours at the food pantry in that episode. Mrs. Levering got in a great plug about you spearheading the Backpacks for Brats—”

“Prepacked Packs,” I correct her, but she sails on.

“And you definitely dropped the fact that you’re the organizer of the blood drive into that ep. It’s not a podcast about Henley, it’s a podcast about Lydia Chass and how wonderful you are. And no, I didn’t say how nice you are. Because you’re not. You’re calculating, and I’m willing to bet that the angle you’re working right now is a charity piece.”

“A charity piece?” I repeat, truly lost.

She puts her hands out to either side, shaking them in a clear mockery of my enthusiasm from earlier. “Valedictorian throws a rope to struggling fellow senior, hauling her along for the ride to graduation.”

“That’s not—”

“A story that ends well for me,” Bristal says. “And I don’t need your help.”

I’m quiet for a second, weighing my options. When I finally speak, I don’t try to push my better qualities, pitch the pros, or argue that she can’t come up with anything better on her own. I drop the formalities and ask an honest question.

“How do you know I’m not nice?” I ask her.

“Kindergarten, playground, Lyle Hunter,” she says automatically. “Back before any of us did a good job of checking each other’s clothing labels and before we decided who we sat with at lunch. A bunch of us were hanging from the monkey bars, seeing who could hold on the longest.”

“I remember,” I tell her. “You don’t have to—”