Chapter 3

In the cafeteria, the whole class was reveling like it was a carnival, ordering everything—fried chicken drumsticks, braised pork belly, all the dishes they usually couldn't bring themselves to buy.

Rebecca stood in front of the serving window and waved her hand grandly. "Take whatever you want, don't be shy with me. Buy a plate and dump a plate—I've got money!"

When she saw me, she automatically had them shut me out.

"I'm not treating some fake-effort show-off. I don't want to catch her bad luck."

A classmate chimed in.

"Exactly. The top student is treating, so certain people shouldn't come mooch off her. They should take a look at whether they even deserve it."

I ignored her, bought a ten-dollar boxed lunch, and sat down in a corner.

Quiet murmurs drifted around me.

"What's up with her today? She always gets the top setup, two meats and two veggies. Why is it all vegetables today?"

"No matter how much she puts on airs, she can't change that dirt-poor look. Her parents are just trash pickers. Can they really keep spoiling her forever?"

I kept my head down and ate, saying nothing.

Over the cafeteria's noise, Rebecca's voice was especially grating, surrounded by people praising her guaranteed Ivy League admission.

As if this were her college send-off party.

Charge after charge went through, and before anyone had even eaten, my mother—the great Professor Matthews—called.

"Margaret Cox, did you eat an elephant? You spent over two thousand?"

Rebecca's smile froze, and she quickly cupped the mouthpiece.

"Mom, I'm treating my classmates..."

"Why are you treating classmates to a meal? Who gave you permission? If you don't get number one in the whole school on the monthly exam, your entire eight-thousand-dollar allowance gets cut off—do you understand?"

Rebecca's face went pale, then flushed, but she forced a smile and lowered her voice.

"Mom, I promise I'll be number one in the whole school on the monthly exam. Just this once, please..."

There was a long silence on the other end, and then four words dropped.

"Don't let it happen again!"

The students all looked at her. "Margaret, didn't you say order whatever we want? Did your mom yell at you?"

Rebecca forced out a smile. "No, my mom's just afraid I'll get scammed. Everyone keep eating, don't hold back, we have to enjoy ourselves today."

Some bootlicker said, "When the top student says her treat, it's her treat. A future Ivy League genius—what's a little money to her?"

Flattered, Rebecca got carried away again and smugly mouthed a taunt at me.

"Don't think you'll get to watch me fail. Number one in the whole school—it's mine, no one else's."

That night at home, I studied late by lamplight.

I started from the first-year textbooks. Even though the knowledge in my head hadn't come over with me,

the study habits and efficient methods I'd built up since childhood were still there.

They helped my catch-up work enormously.

Mr. and Mrs. Morton came in three or four times, bringing fruit and milk.

They wanted to ask something but didn't dare.

I looked up at them.

"Dad, Mom, I want to give it a real try."

Mrs. Morton's eyes reddened instantly.

Back when she used to push Rebecca to study, she had cried, made scenes, and pleaded.

But Rebecca just wouldn't study, and the tens of thousands in tuition every year were wasted.

She came in and stroked my head.

"Becca, don't study too late. As long as you're healthy and well, that's enough for us. Don't wear yourself out."

Mr. Morton nodded beside her. "Becca, don't push yourself too hard. Whether or not you get into college, you're still our daughter. We'd never treat you as something to brag about to other people."

My chest took a hard blow.

My own parents had never said anything like that. My birth was only ever their assignment.

Between me and them, there were only ever grades, rankings, and awards.

So it turned out this body's parents loved her far more than I had imagined.

Rebecca, how could you bear to treat parents who love you this much this way?

I fought back the sting in my nose and softly answered, "Okay."

At eleven o'clock, I got into bed right on time.

For someone like me, who for years has gone to sleep at one in the morning, going to bed at eleven was pure luxury.