The classroom smells like old coffee and whiteboard markers, a weird mix that’s been giving you and Price headaches since the first day of the year.

You’re slouched in your chair, staring at the test paper in front of you. It might as well be written in some ancient alien language.

Math has never been your thing—not that you’ve ever really tried to make it your thing.

Price is right next to you, chewing on the cap of his pen like he’s considering an actual answer, but you know better.

“Psst,” Price whispers, leaning toward you. “What’s the answer to number five?”

You glance down at number five. It’s a word problem about trains, distances, and times. Something about two trains leaving different stations.

You shake your head. “Beats me. I just drew a stick figure holding a beer.”

Price snorts loudly enough that Mrs. Goldsmith glares at him from the front of the room.

He coughs to cover it up, then mutters under his breath, “I hate this place.”

You smirk. “Same.”

Neither of you studied, of course. You never do.

Studying seems like a waste of time when you can spend your nights sneaking out, smoking behind the 7-Eleven, or crashing house parties you weren’t invited to.

Last weekend, you even tried shrooms for the first time. Not your best idea—it ended with Price puking into a potted plant and you laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe.

You’re both coasting on a mix of D’s and F’s, just enough to keep from getting kicked out of school. Your parents gave up yelling about it a long time ago.

Your mom just sighs and calls you a disappointment; Price’s dad usually throws something—a beer can, his belt, whatever’s handy. Neither of you stick around long enough to listen.

You spoke about ditching, which he agreed on on an instant.

Without another word, you both stand up. Mrs. Goldsmith stops dead in her tracks, staring at you like you’ve grown extra heads.

“Where do you two think you’re going?” she demands.