But this is academic stuff. These people study it their whole lives, they got special schools and shit for it. My high school counselors told me not even to take the SAT. Said it would be a waste of money anyway. If I can't pass a test that's half English, how can I do somethin' like this?

[ She looks up and scoffs, picking at the quilt on the bed. Nothing she's ever learned feels very valuable or good. Surviving the end of the world was just dumb luck, luck being immune, luck that most of the dangers and competition died out around her. Being good with people is mostly telling them what they want to hear and then doing whatever you want anyway. Be cheerful, be helpful, get yours and get out. Isn't that how all women learn to move through the world? To protect themselves from men?

It's not that she thinks Nadine is lying to her; it's more about feeling afraid to believe what she says. Afraid that, if she actually does have potential, then she has to accept that no one ever loved her enough to see it before. Afraid that, if she doesn't, they were right about her. It feels like two bad options. Is this what therapy is? This shit sucks.

She yanks up a thread, loosens a patch that she knows she'll have to stitch back up later, but she can't seem to care very much. ]

I can... I can feel it, y'know. Magic. I can feel it there, but it's like tryin' to carry water in my hand.