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“Your friend Kenzie dropped fast, then Heather, then me and Jason Franklin. It was you and Lyle Hunter still hanging,” she says. “Your fingers were dead white, and your skin was turning blue where your shirt had pulled up. It was the middle of January, and you were a couple minutes shy of frostbite. But you weren’t going to let go.”

I do remember, and I don’t need her to remind me.

Lyle and I had hung face-to-face, little bodies dangling, effort turning our cheeks red as the wind whipped around us. At some point it had turned from a game into a battle of wills, and I was not about to back down. My arms had trembled, and my feet had twitched in midair as I’d battled gravity, begging it to give me a single second longer of reprieve than it did my opponent. And then I’d decided to take matters into my own hands.

Or, rather, my feet.

“You kicked him in the balls,” Bristal says. “Solid strike to the sweetmeats.”

“And you told on me,” I say. “You and Jason ran to the monitor.”

“And they didn’t believe us,” Bristal finishes up. “Because I’m a Jamison and Jason is a Franklin, and you are Lydia Chass. So, no, you’re not nice, and I damn well know it. You’ll go along to get along until you’ve got to put your foot down in order to get ahead. And I want to know if that includes stepping on my neck if things don’t go the way you want.”

“I told you earlier—I don’t assault people.”

“Anymore,” Bristal corrects, then narrows her eyes again. “That I know of.”

“It’s not . . .” I sigh, waving away another cloud of vape when she exhales. “Look, you’re right—I’m not nice. And that’s exactly the problem, because I’m supposed to be.”

“Which is why your podcast is all puff pieces and party streamers,” she says.

“Uh, you’re the one who listens,” I stab back.

“Mr. Blanloss gave us extra credit,” she says with a sniff.

Oh, great. While I appreciate the hometown support, that means that the little boost I saw midweek wasn’t from reaching eager organic listeners. Instead, it’s exactly what Bristal is accusing me of—charity work.

“I’m not handing this to you to make me look good,” I tell her. “I know that what I’ve got isn’t exactly lighting fires and making waves, and I’m tired of pretending like everything is fine. That recess monitor didn’t believe you back in kindergarten because of who you are and who I am, but twelve years later we’re both in the same boat, and it’s sinking. We need to graduate, and we might not because our guidance counselor is an alcoholic. But nobody wants to say that—except you. You said it loud, and you said it to everyone.”

“And you want to cash in on my voice,” Bristal says, putting it together. “Add a little edge.”

“Which you benefit from,” I remind her. “Like I said, win-win. Now, what do you think?”

Bristal shifts in her seat, folding her legs into a pretzel and resting them against the dashboard while she considers my words.

“I think no one from my family has ever graduated from high school,” she finally says.

I stare back at her for a moment, weighing my options. Bristal Jamison has a lot of things—a bad reputation, a crappy car, and a dirty mouth. But she’s also got gravity. I’ve felt it before when the crowd parts for her in the hallways, when teachers backed down from her dead-eyed stare, and when a hush fell over the entire school as she used the PA system to vent a personal diatribe.

I could try to sell her again, give her a speech about being an unlikely duo overcoming their dual obstacle and bridging the social divide between them in their shared best interest. I could do that; and I could even make it convincing. But I have a feeling that Bristal Jamison would call me out on my bull, then get out of my car and leave me in her wake of strawberry-scented vape cloud.

“I don’t just need a history credit to graduate,” I confide to her. “I’m the valedictorian of Henley High School. . . . Do you know what that means?”

“To say farewell, in Latin. Don’t be too impressed,” she says. “I only know that because in seventh grade I thought my dog was possessed and I tried to exorcise him using a homemade speech and Google Translate. Turns out he just had rabies.”

I shake my head, trying to recall my point. “It means that I’m the smartest person out of sixty-eight people. That’s not a huge pool.”

“No, it means you have the best grades out of sixty-eight people,” she contradicts me. “That doesn’t mean you’re the smartest.”

“Oh yeah?” I bristle. “How many keys are on a piano?”

“Eighty-eight,” she says smoothly. “How much does a gallon of milk cost?”

“I . . .”

“Somebody else buys your groceries for you, don’t they?” she asks, looking smug.

I feel the blood rising in my cheeks. “I don’t care what you think of me, and we don’t have to like each other,” I tell her, straightening in my seat. “We just have to work together. It’ll be good practice for adult life.”