Facts & Figures: Basic Reading Practice

A month before the SATs, I, Jenny Reid, could see my score. Literally. It was just floating right above my head. But there was a catch. Every time I cracked open a prep book, my score would drop by ten points. But if I skipped a day of school? It jumped right back up by ten. So, I played the system. For a whole month, I barely lifted a finger. And on the day of the test, the number glowing over my head was a solid 1560. When the scores finally dropped online… I'd scored a 500. And the 1560? That was my little sister Patricia's score. My parents lost it. As punishment, they got me a grueling night-shift job at a local electronics factory. That first night, a bunch of guys I'd never seen before cornered me in the parking lot and beat me half to death. Fading in and out of consciousness, I heard my sister's voice right by my ear. "You just had to one-up me, didn't you? Thought you were so smart… but you never figured out I was the one controlling that number over your head." The truth hit me like a physical blow. The score had been her trick all along. I opened my eyes—and I was back. One month before the SATs. The number above my head read exactly 1300. "Hey," my sister said, all fake sweetness. "Want to study together tonight? We can go over the practice tests." I looked at the stack of papers in my own hands. Without a word, I pulled out my lighter and set them on fire right there in the driveway. "Exams are coming," I said, watching the flames. "I'm not studying." My score ticked up to 1310. My sister's face was this perfect mask of disappointment, but the second I turned away, I caught the sly smile she couldn't quite hide. She had no idea… the real performance, the one I'd been rehearsing just for her, was finally about to begin.

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My family's company was on the brink of bankruptcy—its cash flow severed, the entire operation teetering on collapse. My fiancé, Andy Goor, was prepared to lend me money to keep things afloat. Just as I was about to say yes, a barrage of floating comments swept across my vision. [Don't agree—no matter what you do!] [The company's bankruptcy and cash flow crisis are all part of Andy's scheme!] [He's after your family's assets. If you accept, your whole family will end up sleeping under bridges for the rest of your lives!] [Your father will die after jumping off a building because he can't afford treatment. Your mother will be beaten to death by debt collectors. And you—you'll be sold into a nightclub. Just thinking about it is tragic!] A cold smile curved my lips. Without hesitation, I reached out and took the bank card Andy had sent over. Because in my previous life, I had believed those very comments and refused his help. After that, the company slid into bankruptcy, beyond saving. My parents were driven to their deaths, both forced to jump from buildings. And I was sold by creditors to an underground clinic, where my heart and kidneys were harvested before my body was dismembered. Only after I died, my soul drifting aimlessly, did I learn the truth—this had all been orchestrated by my so-called best friend, Chelsea Beatriz. Every single one of those comments had been fabricated by her. Disillusioned with me, Andy turned his investment to her company instead. She took my place—effortlessly stepping into my life—and married him. This time… everything I went through? Someone else gets to carry that weight now.

I have always had an almost pathological sense of paranoia. Ever since I was a child, I was convinced that the people around me were out to get me. Back in elementary school, when everyone was lining up for their student ID photos, I flatly refused to have mine taken. I insisted that the district office was going to use my picture for identity theft. The situation escalated so badly that the principal had to personally sit me down and spend half an hour trying to convince me otherwise. Then, there was the fingerprint registration system in middle school. The school required every student to submit their fingerprints to access the campus buildings. I was so terrified that someone would steal my biometric data that I literally rubbed the skin off all ten fingertips to make them unreadable. Even when my fingers were bleeding, I kept shouting that they were trying to steal my identity. I would rather climb over the school fence every day than cooperate. Every relative I had called me crazy. My parents were so fed up that they seriously considered having me admitted to a psychiatric hospital. I did not care. I guarded my privacy with obsessive determination, gritting my teeth and holding my ground all the way up to the eve of the final exams. Then came the day before the exam. That afternoon, our homeroom teacher, Tracy Collins, walked into the classroom carrying a metal lockbox. A warm, motherly smile spread across her face as she set it down on the desk. "Everyone," she said, "to make sure nobody forgets their documents tomorrow, I'd like you to hand over your IDs and exam admission slips for safekeeping tonight." She patted the lockbox reassuringly. "Tomorrow morning, I'll personally return them to each of you outside the testing center. This way, there's absolutely nothing that can go wrong." The class was deeply moved by her thoughtfulness. Some students even looked close to tears as they eagerly pulled out their documents and lined up to hand them over. Everyone except me. My hand clamped down over my pocket so tightly that my knuckles turned white. Cold sweat poured down my back. A sharp alarm bell was ringing in my head. Trying not to attract attention, I fished out a spare flip phone from my bag, ducked beneath my desk, and dialed emergency services. As soon as the call connected, I lowered my voice and spoke into the receiver. "Hello. I'd like to report a crime. My name is Charles. "I believe a teacher at St. Alden High is working with an identity-fraud ring and is planning a large-scale operation tonight involving examination fraud and identity theft."

My childhood sweetheart, Samuel Burton, once promises that he will marry me the moment we graduate from college. But on our wedding day, he shows up late. When we finally find him, he's tangled in bed with my stepsister, Vivian Holcomb, in a hotel room. In front of everyone, Ethan Fuller, the heir to the wealthiest family, steps forward and boldly declares that I am the one he has secretly loved for years. Five years into our marriage, he remembers every little thing I say, and I truly believe I am the person he cares about most. Until one day, when I'm doing housework and accidentally find a confidential folder hidden deep in his desk drawer. The very first page is Vivian's resume. On it is his own handwriting. He has written, "Priority. Above everything else." Behind it is a hospital operations report I have never seen before. The date matches the night of my car accident. I was rushed to a hospital owned by Fuller Group, yet no surgeon ever came. By the time I woke up, the baby I'm carrying was gone because I had lost too much blood. I cried in Ethan's arms until my voice broke, but I never told him the full truth. I didn't want him to worry even more. But now I finally know. Vivian was also injured that night, and the order Ethan sent to the hospital was— "Pull every specialist available. Treat Vivian first." My tears soak into the page, blurring the ink. "If I'm not your top priority, I'll disappear from your life then."

My mother was a veteran HR director, so she built a performance scorecard for my entire childhood. A perfect test score earned me ten minutes on my phone. Finishing first in school earned me a milkshake. Whatever I wanted, I had to earn with grades. After I entered Crestmont Institute of Technology, I spent three straight years at the top of my program. According to her rules, that was worth one thousand dollars. When I came home, she tossed a single dollar bill at me. "So what if you're still first? Your GPA has slipped by a tenth of a point every year. You have the nerve to ask for a reward?" Beside her, my brother lounged with the keys to his new Hawthorne sedan spinning around one finger. My stomach sank. "When I got into Crestmont Tech, you said I wasn't valedictorian, so all I deserved was a used scooter. "Why does he get a new car for barely making it into community college..." Mom's eyes flashed. "You and Tyler are completely different. "He went from having no chance at college to getting accepted somewhere. That's progress. You're moving backward. "Since you've chosen to coast, I'm cutting off your living expenses next semester. We only invest resources in people who improve. "Raise your GPA by finals, then come trade your grades for money." I walked outside without another word and made a call. "You really are me, ten years from now. You were right. Her performance system only applies to me." Future me answered calmly. "Tomorrow, sell the artwork Dad left you. Three of the pieces are genuine old masters. "Put every dollar into your research project. No matter what anyone says, don't abandon it. That project is your way into Crestmont's tech elite. "Let this family lose a future multimillionaire over one thousand dollars."