Wetherby’s face went gray. “Where did she learn that?”
Duckquack Preparatory Academy wasn’t on any map Carter trusted. It was nestled in a crook of the Hudson Valley where cell service went to die, behind a wrought-iron gate shaped like a stylized duck’s beak snapping shut. The brochure—mimeographed, smelling faintly of pond scum and ambition—had promised “a revolutionary kinetic-phonetic curriculum for the atypically gifted.” duckquackprep
“You know,” Carter said, “duckquackprep might have been the weirdest bookmark in my browser. But you? You’re the whole reason I clicked.” Wetherby’s face went gray
“Where will you go?” Carter asked.