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schedule where people worked a total of two hours a day, three if she stayed after school to join a club.
    “A club ?” her mother groaned.
    “THAT’S MY GOAL. I WANT TO JOIN A CLUB AND MAKE TEN FRIENDS.”
    Nicole loved goals. She loved evidence-supported theories and data-driven techniques. Say the word goal , Amy knew, and her mother would be looking to check it off.
    At least this used to be true. This time, though, her mother surprised her. A shiny line of tears appeared in Nicole’s eyes. She shook her head. “Did we make some terrible mistake? Did we not prioritize socialization enough?”
    Yes, Amy wanted to type. We never prioritized it at all. Not when academic successes came so easily. Why bother with friends when there were As to earn and state-mandated tests to ace? Why bother with movie outings when Amy had such a knack for languages that her French teacher once joked that she’d be nonverbal but fluent in three languages before she graduated? Amy filled every summer with extra courses and reading because it never occurred to her she had any other options. “YES, MOM. I NEED TO MAKE THIS A PRIORITY.”
    She thought about Matthew, a little taller than her, with freckles and curly, dark brown hair that fell in his face, sweating as he argued his point: You’re not really lucky. Get out more and you’ll see. It’s a hard life out here. She almost laughed out loud remembering it, and then had to catch herself. Her mother would hate this being another person’s idea. You’re not like other children, Nicole always said. You don’t need to act like them, so please don’t.
    A far better argument, Amy knew, was this: “IF I’M GOING TO GO TO COLLEGE, I NEED TO PRACTICE RELATING TO PEOPLE MY AGE.”
    College had always been the number one goal. Ivy-covered walls. Dorm mates. Nicole had talked about it since Amy was in elementary school. “You might be right,” her mother said. “This might be more important than I thought.”
    Over the summer, a letter was mailed by her guidance counselor to a small group of handpicked students, mature enough for such a job. When response was low, another letter went out to a wider group, including all student council members and everyone in the leadership society, meaning anyone with a B plus average or better.
    That was when Amy first wrote to Matthew and urged him to apply:
    I promise you won’t have to do anything embarrassing. I want you to apply because I want someone who will talk to me honestly about things. You’re the only person who ever has. Maybe you don’t know this, but when you’re disabled almost no one tells you the truth. They feel too awkward because the truth seems too sad, I guess. You were very brave to walk up to the crippled girl and say, essentially, wipe that sunny expression off your face and look at reality. That’s what I want you to do next year. Tell me the truth. That’s all.
    Amy

CHAPTER FOUR
    T HAT WHOLE FIRST DAY of school, Matthew was grateful that Amy’s mother hadn’t liked him enough to put him on duty from the beginning. He saw Sarah Heffernan, one of Amy’s other peer helpers, from a distance, standing outside the bathroom holding two backpacks and looking uncomfortable.
    The next day, he saw Sanjay Modhi, another peer helper, leave Amy alone for most of lunch period in the cafeteria. Matthew told himself he’d never do anything like that. He’d spent enough time miserable and alone in the cafeteria not to let that happen to Amy.
    The problem (or one of them anyway) was expectations. Matthew couldn’t figure out what to expect or, even worse, what Amy expected of him. When he read that first email she wrote him in July, he thought, She’s wrong again, about pretty much everything .
    He wasn’t brave. He was the opposite, actually. He was afraid of everything and had been for years. The worst of his fears started in sixth grade and only got worse in middle school when everyone, seemingly overnight, changed. Boys