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He gives us thirty seconds before asking for volunteers. The same hands rise. Mr. Daniels scans over them.

“How about someone who hasn’t answered yet?” he says.

Even though I’m confident in my answer—I think it’s C: to track down—I still leave my hand down. My heart thumps uncontrollably. I almost look away until a thought strikes me. What if he calls on me because it’s obvious I don’t want to answer? I keep my head up and relax my face.

“How about you?” He points to Jase.

Jase’s mouth falls open like a puppet’s. No words slip out. That confident guitarist I watched hype up an audience has suddenly been replaced by a boy who’s frozen now that he’s on the spot.

“Remember, you have a time limit,” Mr. Daniels says.

“A?” Jase finally says. His voice is low, uncertain, a contrast from the boy who earlier countered the AP couple.

Mr. Daniels studies the page. Some people look back at their packets. A few furrow their eyebrows while others stifle a snicker.

“To draw? I didn’t know seaweed had any artistic talent,” Mr. Daniels says sarcastically.

Chuckles burst through the room. Jase hangs his head down, and red floods his face. My eyes soften. It’s hard hearing people laugh at you when you’re not trying to be funny. It’s like they see one flaw, one mistake, as a joke.

“Let’s try again,” Mr. Daniels says.

Jase slowly raises his head and freezes. Everyone’s quiet, bodies twisted into their seats, eyes narrowed at him. Gradually, people raise their hands again. Mr. Daniels calls on Klyde.

“It’s C,” Klyde answers.

“That’s correct,” Mr. Daniels says.

Jase’s shoulders sag. Oh, crap, why didn’t I tell him the answer? My eyes soften even more. When I see someone feel embarrassed, I take in everything—their red face, their lowered eyes—and their pain cuts right through me. Was I too afraid of giving him the wrong answer? Or maybe I was just too afraid of talking to him.

Eventually, we reach the last passage, which is also from a novel. The next question asks how the character’s tone changes. Once again, Mr. Daniels suggests that we read only the first and last paragraphs. The same hands rise again, but when he scans over them, my stomach tightens.

His eyes land on me.

“How about you?” he asks.

A gulp plunges down my throat. Once I gather my thoughts, I answer, “D.”

Mr. Daniels blinks, then cups his hand around his ear. “What was that?”

My stomach heaves, and I feel vomit rising as everyone stares at me. I clear my throat and repeat myself, this time, louder.

“D is correct,” Mr. Daniels says. “How did you figure that out? Please project.”

I gulp again. “Words like ‘dull’ and ‘smog’ give sad connotations. But in the last paragraph, Cara starts saying other words like ‘radiate’ and ‘freshen,’ both of which sound happier.”

Through the sea of stares, Jase’s is different. He looks at me like I’ve said something mind-blowing.

“Very nice,” Mr. Daniels says. “You’re a smart girl, so don’t be afraid to speak up.”

I nod and smile a little. Hearing project, though, makes me shift in my seat just to feel comfortable.

Finally, our lunch break starts. I decide to eat inside my car. My legs stick against my grey seat, the leather scorching my skin. My car’s window frames everything and everyone outside. The SAT prep class shares the same building as an Albertson’s, a dry cleaner, an optometry, and a salon. They’re attached to each other in the shape of an upside-down capital L. The sun saturates their white planks, their colorful signs popping out. Different people spill out of each place, flooding the air with chatter. Flip flops and sneakers scrape across asphalt. Some cars steer out of the parking lot, Olivia Rodrigo blasting out of their windows, while others stay.

Jase walks through the parking lot with his head hanging down. I turn away before he can catch me looking at him and think I’m a stalker. I pull my sandwich out of my paper bag. Sauce-drenched adobo and bay leaves are squashed between a plain sub bread. Garlic and peppercorn burn through my nose. I text Nora while I eat.

Me: Cute guitar guy is in my SAT class.

Nora: Sweet! Did you drop anything again?