Chapter 3

The next few months were a blur of SAT prep. Or so it seemed.

I bought all the books, attended all the study groups, my desk piled high with practice tests.

"USC or bust!" I declared loudly to anyone who would listen, especially Olivia.

"You' re going to ace it, Em! I just know it," Olivia would say, her eyes gleaming. She imagined swapping my perfect score for her lazy effort.

She barely studied. I saw her at parties, shopping, always "too busy" for the library.

"I'm just not a good test-taker, you know?" she' d sigh dramatically. "But I'm trying!"

Liar. She was relying on the Switcher.

I' d "accidentally" leave my high-scoring practice tests where she could see them.

Her confidence grew with every "A" I "achieved."

My parents, bless their working-class hearts, were so proud of my dedication. They didn' t have money for expensive tutors, but they cheered me on, making sure I had quiet time to study.

It was a performance, every bit of it.

The real work I was doing was secret. Late at night, after everyone was asleep, I wasn't studying for the SATs.

I was writing. Small, sharp short film scripts. Polishing my old ideas, generating new ones. Building a portfolio.

The SATs were a means to an end, but not the one Olivia thought.

The day of the exam arrived.

I sat in the vast, quiet hall, the booklet before me.

I remembered the crushing disappointment of my first life' s abysmal scores. The scores Olivia had gifted me.

This time, the failure would be hers.

I opened the booklet.

Section 1: Reading Comprehension. I skimmed the passages, then methodically filled in the bubbles. C, A, D, B, A, A, C. Random patterns.

Math. Easier to flunk. I knew the answers, but I carefully chose the wrong ones.

The essay. I wrote a rambling, incoherent piece about the importance of squirrels in urban ecosystems.

It was almost liberating.

I finished early, handed in my paper with a serene smile.

Olivia caught up with me outside.

"How was it? You look like you nailed it!" she chirped, already anticipating the switch.

"It was tough," I said, feigning exhaustion. "But I think I did okay. Hopefully good enough for USC."

"I' m sure you did, Em!" she squeezed my arm. "I, on the other hand, probably bombed."

Her act was flawless. But I knew.

She was already counting on my score.

Her second switch was as good as used.