Chapter 1
Cara
I try to look calm, or at least not pathetic, as Professor Stewart decides if I can take a retest. He seems to be able to smell my fear, and he’s so cruel I’m sure he feeds off of it.
“You know I have a strict rule about this,” he reminds me. “If a student of mine fails a test, they simply have to work that much harder to bring up their grade for the rest of the semester.”
I suppress the world’s longest sigh. How can I possibly work any harder? I could study this stuff until the sun burns itself out and still not understand it. I’m not supposed to be in this class at all. It was a very simple, understandable mistake. Well, understandable to someone who has a heart, which this teacher does not.
“I really studied,” I tell him. “But I tried to transfer out of this class because I knew it was above my level, remember?”
He raises his eyebrows, and I know it’s over for me. “Ah, yes, I do remember. After the transfer window had already closed, because you didn’t show up to the first two classes.”
Damn his massive brain and steel trap memory. I can’t cry because that will trigger his attack instinct. I already know begging won’t help, because, believe me, I did that when I was trying to transfer. I gather myself and look him straight in the eye.
“Professor Stewart, I promise you, if you give me a make-up test, then I will pass it. I really need this passing grade. My parents will stop helping me if I get any failing grades, and I won’t be able to continue my other classes.” He doesn’t need to know I mean the fashion design courses I take at night.
The eyebrow slowly lowers, and I feel a flicker of hope. “I hope you mean it, because I don’t normally make any exceptions. I’m taking ten points off the top of the test, and you’d better actually study this time, because it’s going to be harder than the original. That’s only fair to the students who passed the first time.”
I feel like an overfilled balloon that someone slowly lets the air out of as I slump with relief. “Yes, of course, that’s completely fair. Thank you.”
He tells me to return to his office in three days. Three years wouldn’t be enough for me to learn this gibberish. I do a little quick research and make up my mind. It’s the only way. It’s time to call in the big guns.
My twin sister, brainiac extraordinaire and world class athlete, answers the phone right away. It’s as if she already knew I was in deep trouble.
“What’s up?” she asks.
“How’s your ankle?” I ask, trying to ease into it.
“It’s still sprained, same as yesterday. I’m off the ice for at least a week.”
“Good,” I say. “I mean, not about that. That’s awful. But I need us to pull a switch.” I hold my breath. We haven’t done a switch since tenth grade.
I hear some male voices in the background. Someone’s asking her about her injury. Is my baby sister by four and a half minutes talking to a boy? Apparently not, because she doesn’t answer him. I cringe, wanting to shake her out of her shell. Next thing I hear is several guys yelling at each other.
“What’s going on over there?” I ask.
“Just stupid hockey players,” she mutters. “Did you say you want to switch? You realize we live on opposite sides of the country now?”
“There’s a budget flight I can afford, and you can stay in my apartment. I failed an important test, and I need you to retake it for me, or mom and dad will make me come home. My design teacher liked my fall fashion show entry so much, she’s setting me up to interview for an internship at Bailey Hall, so I really need this.” I quickly explain how Bailey is an up-and-coming local designer here in Boston.
I know that Lorelei lives in skate gear or jeans and collection of librarian cardigans when she’s off the ice, but if I can get her to help me out here, then I won’t have to worry. I can get into Bailey Hall, and things could really start taking off for me. Our parents might finally see how dedicated I am to fashion design and stop torturing me with their outdated notions that the only path is a bachelor’s degree or being an elite athlete like Lorelei, even though she got all those genes.
“What’s the class?” she sighs after I make her see how I absolutely can’t fail.
“Calculus.”
“Calculus?” she shrieks. “You didn’t even pass pre-algebra. Why did you sign up for that in the first place?”
“It was meant to be a super easyCalculationsclass. Basic math, and the best part is I was allowed to hand the work in online, with no penalties if I missed a class. Which, I missed two because there were also no deadlines, and I figured if it was so easy, I could just do it all at once and then hand it in. But this class is run by a tyrant who wouldn’t let me transfer and expects me to learn his ancient foreign voodoo in the next three days.”
She snorts a laugh. “Yeah, fine. I actually like calculus.”
“Of course, you do.”
“But you have to come here, because Coach wants me at the exhibition, which is also in three days.”
I wait for her to figure out how insane that is, but she remains silent. “Are you kidding? You know I can barely stand on the ice.”