I didn’t know much about LostAxis, but he’d told me he was seventeen, same as me, and also starting grade twelve tomorrow.
LostAxis:Brains like ours don’t need to rest. Tomorrow night? Now that we have our staffs, we can probably get the bonus egg in the Aegean nest.
GreenEggsAndSam: Tomorrow works.
LostAxis:Looking forward to it. Before you go—did you know that most power outages in North America are caused by squirrels?
GreenEggsAndSam:You’re kidding.
LostAxis:Look it up. See ya tomorrow.
I was probably blushing when I got to the dining table. Actually, not even blushing, but full-on swooning, truth be told. It was the heart emoji. I was pretty easy to please ... most of the time.
“Samaya, why are you looking like that? Who are you texting?” My mother was bringing a tray of biryani from the kitchen. I put my phone facedown on the dining table.
“No one. Just a friend,” I said.
Last spring my parents, who had decided we all needed more family time, insisted that at least once a week, all four of us had to eat at thesame time in the formal dining room of our two-story house. The “no phone” rule was new, too—and hard to remember.
Dad came up behind me and ruffled the top of my head. “Nice to see you laughing again,” he said. Dad ruffled my hair a lot. Especially lately. I smoothed it back into place.
My sister, Tahira, joined us in the dining room, holding her phone. “You wouldn’t believe who’s in my tailoring class. Remember that reality show with the guy who—”
“Tahira,” Mom interrupted. “No phones at the table. Sit, then talk.”
Tahira rolled her eyes and tossed her phone on a side table. Tahira was a year older than me and had just finished orientation week at college. She was in the fashion program at the Ontario College of Art and Design and was exactly as dramatic as one would expect a fashion student to be.
When we were all seated, Mom started interrogating me.
“Did you find out who your physics teacher is?” she asked as she spooned biryani onto my plate. It smelled heavenly—rich with spices and fried onions.
“Not yet. The system still shows ‘TBD,’” I said.
Mom shook her head. “It had better not be Mr.Weiland. He’s agymteacher. At parent-teacher night last year, he didn’t know what an adiabatic process was.”
“Mom, do you know what an adiabatic process is?” Tahira asked.
Mom was the director of HR for a hotel company, so no, she didn’t know anything about advanced physics.
“I’m not claiming to be a physics teacher, am I? This year is too important for Samaya to blindly trust that all her teachers know what they’re doing. That reminds me, Samaya: I made an appointment for you to talk to Mrs.Singh at ten tomorrow morning about your community service hours. You’ll have to leave first period early.”
Mrs.Singh was my guidance counselor. Mom had apparently been in contact with her a few times last week to “discuss” my “situation.”
“That’ll be good, Samaya,” Dad said as he served his own rice. “She’ll help you put a plan together to get back on track.”
My family was very big on “making a plan,” but even they’d been at a loss about how to fix everything after my life went so far off course last June. But I really didn’t want to talk about (or think about) that right now. Time to try for a topic change.
I turned to my sister. “So, who’s in your tailoring class?”
Tahira grinned. “Remember that show about the Northern Ontario sour-pickle dynasty? The son was—”
Mom interrupted, of course. “Samaya, tell Mrs.Singh that you’re only looking for volunteer placements that will look good on your college application. None of these make-work-for-teens projects. I know you didn’t have a lot of choice, but spending this summer scooping ice cream didn’t help anyone. You needleadershipexperience. Something high profile. I hope you’re also considering which extracurriculars to focus on this year.”
“I know, Mom, I know,” I said, glad that I actually had an answer for this. “I’m thinking of starting a game-dev club at the school. This organization called the National Youth Developers have this annual mobile-app competition—”
“Startinga club is a great idea, but I mean real clubs, Samaya,” Mom said. “Academicclubs. Like math club. Not playing video games.”
I frowned. I couldn’t join the math club because Devin had been voted president at the end of the last school year. I’d helped my boyfriend campaign—and then he dumped me a week after the elections. “This isn’t playing video games, it’screatingthem. I just need to find a teacher to be the adviser.”
