I was about to text Sketch when Mom’s voice cut down the hall.

  “Diana. In here. Right now.”

  She didn’t sound mad—no sharp edges—but there was a tightness to it that made my stomach fold anyway.

  “Diana.”

  “Coming!” I stuffed the phone in my pocket and headed to the kitchen.

  The mail was laid out on the counter like evidence—envelope, letter, brochure—all aligned with the edge, corners squared. Mom stood with her hands planted on either side, eyes fixed on the letter like it might offer a second ending if she stared hard enough. Her bar polo was still on; her hair had escaped the bun in tired wisps.

  She didn’t look up. “Did you apply to a school without telling me?”

  “What?” I blinked. “No. I can’t even pick an elective without you signing a form.”

  She pushed the envelope toward me with one finger. Thick paper. Forever stamp. Mom’s name written in actual ink, not printed. Fancy. Calligraphy. Who writes in calligraphy outside a historical romance? The return address was dark green, the color they use to print money: Northbridge Academy, with a little crest I’d seen on bumper stickers around Roland Park.

  I lifted the letter laying next to it. The paper felt expensive—heavy, a little tooth to it, topped with a bumpy embossed seal. The letter said:

  Dear Ms. Sinclair,

  We are writing to invite your daughter, Diana, to interview for admission to Northbridge Academy for the current school year. Our algorithms and her teacher recommendations indicate she would thrive in our Upper School. Should she be offered admission, Northbridge will extend a full scholarship covering tuition, fees, and, if you choose, room and board. Transportation is available for day students.

  We would be delighted to meet with both of you soon. Please contact my office to schedule the appointment.

  Sincerely,

  Ellen Cho

  Dean of Admissions

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  I read it twice, then a third time in case the words rearranged themselves into “just kidding.”

  “I didn’t apply,” I said. It came out thin. “I swear.”

  “I called the number,” Mom said, tapping the brochure she’d lined up like it needed to be reminded of its place. “It’s real. Voicemail for Admissions with Ms. Cho’s name. I’ll call again tomorrow morning from work.” Her lips pressed together. “Diana, did you submit anything at school? An interest form? A teacher recommendation? Did someone talk to you?”

  I shook my head. “No. I mean—counselors come in sophomore year, right? That’s… next year. And it’s almost November. Shouldn’t something like this come at the end of the term?” I flipped the brochure open. Smiling kids in blazers. Sunlight on a quad. The pool gleaming like a promise. A glossy photo of a fencing team looking like an ad for self-assurance. My fingers left the faintest smudge on the edge and I wiped it like that could fix it.

  “Northbridge,” Mom said, and even in her tired voice I could hear it—the weight that name has in this city. “Do you know how much it costs there?”

  “Too much,” I said, because that was the only number that mattered for us. “It says full scholarship. Room and board.” The words felt fake in my mouth, like saying them would make them bounce.

  “Why me?”

  She stared at the letter again, eyes tracking the lines like she was memorizing them. “It says ‘algorithm and teacher recommendations.’” Whatever that means. Her voice softened a fraction. “Maybe somebody noticed you. Maybe your grades. Maybe you made an impression.”

  I thought about Mr. Halpern’s attendance and my lab reports and the way teachers said “thank you” when I cleaned up the mess no one else had caused. I thought about a week of being very average, invisible, normal, and how none of that added up to a crest-embossed envelope in our kitchen.

  “I don’t—” I started, and stopped. This was one of those moments where any sentence felt like a trap. “Do you want me to—should we—?”

  “We’re going to call tomorrow,” Mom said, defaulting to the part she could control. “We’ll ask how they got your name. We’ll ask what the interview entails. We’ll ask about the scholarship. If this is real—if they want you—we’ll go. We’ll see. We don’t turn down opportunities because we’re scared of them.”

  Her eyes were bright, the tiniest bit. Pride and worry in the same breath. It made my chest feel tight.

  “What about…everything else?” I asked, helpless to keep the question small. Community service. Trash bags. Parks & Rec schedules. The library. Whatever had happened in that alley with the shield-headed thing. “Can I even—”

  “Community service doesn’t vanish because a brochure arrives,” she said, practical again. “You’re going tomorrow and Thursday and next Wednesday. None of that changes. If Northbridge is interested, it will still be interested next week.”

  “Right.” I looked back down at the letter. The words sat there calmly, like they weren’t threatening to rearrange my entire life. Full scholarship. Room and board if I wanted. Transportation if I didn’t. Interview. I pictured myself in one of those blazer photos and immediately pictured tripping in front of everyone.

  Mom reached out and straightened the top edge of the brochure even though it was already straight. “I’m proud of you,” she said, quiet. “No matter what they say.”

  Something hot prickled behind my eyes. I blinked hard and nodded. “I’ll text Sketch,” I said, grasping for a safe thing. “He’ll—he’ll help me not sound like an idiot if they ask questions.”

  Mom almost smiled. “Door open,” she said automatically, then shook her head at herself. “Go call your friend.”

  I took the brochure and the letter back to my room like they might disintegrate if I let them out of sight. Sketch’s text popped onto my screen before I could type: Status?

  Me: Two things. One gross. One… insane. Come over? I’ll explain.

  Sketch: On my way. Pencils locked and loaded. Monster sketchbook at the ready. Should I wear a tie?

  Me: You’re an idiot.

  Sketch: You like me anyway.