Conversion by Katherine Howe

texted back.
    Mikey is this your new number? I’m gonna need that back when you’re done.
    But there was no answer.
    A hall’s length of rumor yawned between advisory and first period, and Emma and I shoved through it with our arms linked, as if our doubled number made us safer. But it didn’t.
    Did you hear the Other Jennifer’s hair fell out? Clara’s dad is suing the school. Elizabeth can’t even walk, can you believe it? I’m so glad my mom didn’t think I should get the HPV vaccine. What, did you get it? You did? Ohmigod, you did?
    Clawing our way out of the rumor stream, Emma and I collapsed in our chairs in AP US.
    “I can’t believe the day just started,” I moaned.
    “I know.”
    “You going to the meeting tonight?”
    She nodded. “Of course. I’m curious. My mom doesn’t think we should go, though. She’d rather we all just stay home. She thinks the rumors just make everything worse.”
    “Mine thought it was about drugs,” I said, and Emma laughed.
    “Mike and Linda are adorable.”
    “Aren’t they?”
    We sighed in companionable silence, staring at the ceiling.
    Ms. Slater elbowed through the door and strode to the front of the classroom, her arms full of ominous-looking papers.
    “Hi, gang,” she said.
    Emma frowned, glanced at me, and frowned deeper.
    “Hi, Ms. Slater,” a few of us chorused.
    I frowned back at Emma, shrugged, and mouthed
What?
    She shook her head and waved me off. Weird. Just when I felt like we were getting back to normal, Emma would do something that I didn’t understand.
    “So. How’s everyone doing?” Ms. Slater asked, leaning on the lectern with her elbows.
    Silence as we collectively shrugged.
    “Ms. Carruthers? How’re you doing?”
    Leigh sank a little lower in her chair, hunching her shoulders. “Okay, I guess,” she said.
    “Your mom’s not very opinionated, is she?” Ms. Slater asked.
    “Um. What do you mean?” Leigh feigned ignorance in a way that I found particularly grating.
    “I don’t mean a thing,” Ms. Slater said, turning her attention to the papers in her hand, riffling her fingers through them. “Not a goddamn thing.”
    I smiled before I could help myself, and brought my sweater sleeve up to hide it.
    “You all seem pretty wiped, if you want to know the truth,” Ms. Slater said. She started to move among our desks, slapping down a paper before each of us.
    “All the more reason to shake things up. What lies before you now, and which you are not to touch until I say the word, is a pop quiz.”
    Universal groans of “Oh, God” and “Oh, come on!” rose to the dark oak rafters of our former convent classroom. A few bolder voices even said things like “Mr. Mitchell never gave pop quizzes. College doesn’t have pop quizzes!”
    “Oho!” Ms. Slater grinned her gap-toothed grin and crossed her arms. “Who are you who are so wise in the ways of college? Have you been?”
    Begrudging silence.
    “Didn’t think so. First of all, I’m not Mr. Mitchell.”
    A few of us muttered that we knew
that,
and frankly we wished he’d come back already.
    “And second of all, even college occasionally has pop quizzes. And third of all,” she said, smiling broadly, “this one’s a cinch. If you’re caught up on the reading, it’s an easy A.”
    This time we glanced at each other under our eyelashes. The promise of an easy A was intoxicating. Those of us who were deferred from early decision at our preferred colleges were in the habit of calculating our GPAs down to tenths of a point from week to week. Behind a dozen sets of tastefully lined girls’ eyes, wheels turned as grade point averages were quickly tallied anew. Eyelashes blinked as tantalizing numbers were arrived at. Wolfish teeth peeked from fruit-glossed mouths as small smiles flickered into being on the faces of AP US History. Many of those smiles were slowly aimed at our substitute teacher.
    She eyed us each in turn.
    “The honeymoon period had to end sometime,” she