Chapter 4

SAT day arrived. The atmosphere in the testing hall was thick with a strange mix of anxiety and cocky confidence.

Those who had bought Tiff' s answers looked almost gleeful.

I took the test calmly. I didn' t need a perfect score. I just needed a good one, a believable one.

My real ticket was already punched. A week before the SAT, I' d received the news: I was a national finalist in the Westinghouse Science Talent Search. It came with a significant scholarship and practically guaranteed admission to a top-tier STEM program, even better than my first-life Ivy.

My mother and I had kept this quiet. It was my ace in the hole.

The results came out a few weeks later.

Chaos.

Tiff Reynolds: perfect 2400.

Mark Johnson: perfect 2400.

Dozens of students from our high school: perfect or near-perfect scores. An unprecedented statistical anomaly.

Tiff threw a massive party, live-streaming her "genius" to anyone who would watch. She was insufferable, gloating about how she was "naturally gifted."

My own score was excellent, a 2350, but not suspiciously perfect. Combined with my science award, it got me early admission into MIT.

The school newspaper ran a small piece highlighting my Westinghouse achievement and MIT acceptance.

That' s when Tiff lost it.

At the next school assembly, called to celebrate the "outstanding SAT results," Tiff, after receiving her own gushing praise, grabbed the microphone.

"Wait!" she announced, her voice dripping with venom. "There' s something you all need to know about Sarah Miller' s success!"

All eyes turned to me. My heart pounded, but not with fear. With anticipation.

"Sarah didn't get into MIT because she's smart," Tiff sneered. "She cheated! Just like she helped others cheat! I have proof!"

She held up a sheet of paper. It was a copy of the SAT answers, written in what appeared to be my handwriting.

I had, of course, "carelessly" left a draft of my "study notes" – the actual answers – where Tiff could "find" them. Or rather, I' d dictated them to her under duress, making sure she copied them meticulously. She thought she was being clever, getting her own copy.

"She got these from her mother at the College Board!" Tiff shrieked. "She' s the real cheater here!"

The principal looked horrified. Murmurs rippled through the auditorium.

My past trauma flared – the shame, the accusations. But this time, it was different. This time, I was ready.