1

October was late enough in the school year for Ted to accept that summer was over, but still early enough for him to be annoyed about it. He slumped in the passenger seat of the family minivan and glowered at the backpack by his knees.

It was a Monday morning, which was bad enough, and the radio was stuck on a station playing “Monster Mash” even though Halloween was weeks away.

His mom hummed along and patted the beat on the steering wheel.

Ted did not do early. What he did do, quite well, was sleep. That was what he’d been doing at this time every morning during the summer, before tenth grade came around and ruined it.

Whoever it was who said change was a good thing must have been a morning person, Ted thought.

Not being a morning person, he took a few seconds to process it when, as they stopped at a red light, his mom pulled a drawing of a penguin out of her pocket.

It was a plump little penguin, a bit crumpled now, with a round belly, a snowflake electric guitar, and a Mohawk made out of icicles. Ted had drawn him on a napkin at dinner the night before. There was still a fleck of lasagna clinging to the corner of the napkin, by one of the webbed feet.

Ted stared at the penguin.

Ted’s mom looked over at him. “The shading is good, kiddo.”

He sighed. “Thanks.”

The light turned green.

“Is this why it took you half an hour to clear the dinner table last night?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

They swerved slightly to avoid a pothole, making their way toward school.

“I love the way you draw, Teddy, you know I do.” His mom pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I’m just hoping that you will spend a little more time on other things too.”

Like my grades, Ted thought.

“Like your grades,” she continued. She flicked the turn signal. “You’ll need good grades when you start to apply for college scholarships, and it’s never too early to start standing out.”

Ted opened his mouth to respond but then closed it. Unless there was a college scholarship for doodling or for sleeping until noon, standing out wasn’t exactly on the table, but he wasn’t going to push the point.

They rolled up to the front of the Thomas T. Tenley High School, a squat one-story building held up in the front by a set of blue columns and held up everywhere else by pure will. The last renovation, Ted’s friend Adam liked to say, had been in the ugly Stone Age.

Adam and Jenn were waiting for him out by the bike rack at the main entrance. Jenn, who was on the school’s undefeated girls’ soccer team, held a pair of purple cleats in one hand and a bagel in the other. Adam, a whiz at the piano and most video games—he had the second-highest Robo-Gorilla Showdown score in the whole state—was doing something on his phone.

The three of them had been friends since third grade, and Ted knew that when it came to scholarships, Adam and Jenn would stand out without question. They were better at music and soccer, respectively, than he was at drawing on napkins. Or anything. He didn’t quite know why they kept him around, but he was glad that they did.

Ted leaned over and gave his mom a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry. I’ll try, Mom. Thanks for the ride.”

The car behind them beeped.

“All right already, enough!” his mom snapped into the rearview mirror. “Not you, Teddy. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

Ted slid out of the minivan and closed the door behind him.

His mom waved and drove away.

* * *

“Sup, Ted?” said Jenn, finishing a bite of her bagel as Ted walked up to them.

Adam slid his phone back into his jacket pocket and grinned. “You’ve got some major Ted-Head going on there. Have some shame.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Ted said with a chuckle. “People would drive miles to see this hair.”

“People would drive miles away from that hair,” said Jenn. “Come here.” She handed the cleats and the bagel to Adam. “If you finish my bagel, Adam, you’re dead to me.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he replied, taking a small bite.

Jenn patted down the top of Ted’s head. “Okay, it’s a bit better. Now we can be seen with you.”

“Thanks,” said Ted.

“Yeah, Nina Alvarez is going to take one look at you and fall deeply in love,” said Adam as he passed back Jenn’s things.

Fine by me, thought Ted.

The warning bell for first period classes rang.

Jenn stuffed the rest of her bagel in her mouth. “All right,” she said in a muffled voice. “History class, here we come.”

* * *

By some scheduling miracle, Ted, Jenn, and Adam had all been placed in the same first-period history class. They sat close enough to the front to hear what Ms. Stevenson was saying but far back enough to goof off. That had been Jenn’s idea. She had desk picking down to a science.

Back here, Ted could also see the back of Nina Alvarez’s head, which was also a plus. Getting to look at Nina’s neck and sometimes her left ear when she turned to talk to somebody was one of the only things that made first period tolerable.

Ted hadn’t worked up the nerve to actually talk to her yet, but he was getting there. He was getting to getting there, anyway.

“Good morning, everyone! I hope you all had a fun weekend.” Ms. Stevenson beamed from the front of the room. She always said good morning like she meant it.

“We ended last week’s class by talking about what life was like for mining families who moved west during the California gold rush,” Ms. Stevenson said, handing an armful of worksheet packets to each of the students in the front row. “Take one and pass the rest down, thanks. Today,” she continued over the rustling sound of the papers, “we’re going to take a closer look at how the California gold rush changed the lives of the people who were already living in the area.”

“Five bucks says that this is going to put us all to sleep,” murmured Jenn.

“No deal,” said Ted.

“Good call,” whispered Adam.

“Want to play tic-tac-toe?” Jenn drew a large hashtag on the corner of her worksheet packet. “Bet you can’t beat me.”

Ted nodded, trying to keep listening to Ms. Stevenson, who was now reading a super sad letter from a dead guy out loud. He reached over and drew a small circle in the corner space.

Fourteen games of tic-tac-toe and four worksheets later, Ms. Stevenson checked her watch. “Okay everyone, let’s stop here. I have an announcement.”

The clock on the wall, just past Nina’s neck, showed five minutes left in class.

Ms. Stevenson cleared her throat. “The California gold rush unit test will be held this Wednesday.”

Jenn dropped her pencil.

Nina raised her hand.

Even the way she raises her hand is perfect, thought Ted.

“Yes, Nina?”

“What will the test format be, Ms. Stevenson?”

“Great question! The test will be fifty multiple choice questions,” she replied, picking up another crisp stack of papers. “They will all be about what we’ve learned these last few weeks in class and in the textbook readings. This study guide will list what you will need to know, but everything should already be in your notes.”

Ted’s stomach lurched. He looked down at his sparse notes, covered in tic-tac-toe games and a drawing of a pumpkin in a prospector’s hat.

This is not good, he thought.

Ted pictured the look on his mom’s face when he would bring this unit test home, covered in red ink and failure, letting her down again.

Behind him, he heard Adam groan.

“I have that big piano recital on Thursday night. How am I supposed to practice enough if I have this thing to study for instead?”

“Yeah, and I have that soccer game on Saturday,” Jenn hissed. “We’re playing Melville High. If I mess up our team’s winning streak because I’m sitting around studying instead of doing drills, our coach is going to kill me.”

“My notes stink,” Ted murmured. “It’s too bad that there’s no way to go back and get all of the answers.”

The bell rang, ending class.

“Don’t forget to grab a copy of the study guide on your way out,” called Ms. Stevenson, “and to have a great rest of your Monday! Go Tenley Toads!”

* * *

Ted came home from school and tried to delay the inevitable by watching game show reruns until dinner, ignoring the tingling in his chest and the study guide in his backpack.

At dinner, he slowly chewed his meatloaf and listened to his mom talk about work.

After the dishes were cleared, though, Ted knew that he couldn’t put off studying any longer. He excused himself and went up to his room, closing the door to muffle the sound of the TV downstairs.

Time to get to work, he thought.

Ted’s desk had always been more shelf than desk—a pine-colored plastic surface for plates, comic books, markers, and papers to sit until he got around to dealing with them. He pushed everything to the side and laid out his history textbook, his study guide, and his notes.

I can do this, Ted thought. I can totally do this.

He ran his hands through his hair and exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “From the top.”

Ted looked at the terms at the top of the study guide, letting his pencil tap against the paper, leaving tiny flecks of graphite on the page.

Uh, maybe from the bottom.

Ted flipped to the end of the study guide and sighed. No luck there either. He could recall Ms. Stevenson talking about some of the terms, but the details were fuzzy—too fuzzy. He drew a brain on the edge of the study guide, lying on a head-shaped couch and talking to a long, blobby alien with a notepad.

What else do you remember? he wrote in a speech bubble above the alien’s head.

Ted traced another speech bubble above the brain.

I really can’t say, said the brain.

It was going to be a long night.