Hearts are fragile things. That’s why you have to be so careful.

It will be hot today, I can tell. It’s already hot in the bedroom, and when I crack the window to sweep out the smell of orange, the air outside feels as thick and heavy as a tongue. I suck in deeply, inhaling the clean smell of seaweed and damp wood, listening to the distant cries of the seagulls as they circle endlessly, somewhere beyond the low, gray, sloping buildings, over the bay. Outside, a car engine guns to life. The sound startles me, and I jump.

“Nervous about your evaluation?”

I turn around. My aunt Carol is standing in the doorway, her hands folded.

“No,” I say, though this is a lie.

She smiles, just barely, a brief, flitting thing. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.

Take your shower and then I’ll help you with your hair. We can review your answers on the way.”

“Okay.” My aunt continues to stare at me. I squirm, digging my nails into the windowsill behind me. I’ve always hated being looked at. Of course, I’ll have to get used to it. During the exam there will be four evaluators staring at me for close to two hours. I’ll be wearing a flimsy plastic gown, semitranslucent, like the kind you get in hospitals, so that they can see my body.

“A seven or an eight, I would say,” my aunt says, puckering her lips. It’s a decent score and I’d be happy with it. “Though you won’t get more than a six if you don’t get cleaned up.”

Senior year is almost over, and the evaluation is the final test I will take. For the past four months I’ve had all my various board exams — math, science, oral and written proficiency, sociology and psychology and photography (a specialty elective) — and I should be getting my scores sometime in the next few weeks.