“Miranda Anderson?” The crisply-dressed woman at the desk asks.

Miranda nods, clutching her suitcase.

“Welcome to the Washington Academy for troubled adolescents.”

Miranda looks at her mother in anguish. No one had told her that this was a school for “troubled adolescents”! She wasn’t troubled…she didn’t think…

“Mom,” she said quietly, but her mother shushed her as the woman continued talking.

“You will live in Building Four, Room 23. Your roommate’s name is…” here she consulted a chart, “Hannah Carter.”

Miranda and her mother stepped out of the building, and Miranda exploded. “Mom! I am not a troubled child! What is up with this!”

“Miranda, honey, it’s going to be fine,” her mother soothed.

“No, Mom. No, it’s not!”