"Put the stone in a drawer. Take the D. Rip the jacket. Cry with your mom. Apologize to Priya even before you say the mean thing. Live the failures. They’re not the end of your story. They’re the ingredients."

"I know because I lived it," the voice continued. "You’ll get a D. Mom will cry. Dad won’t speak at dinner. And then, next week, you’ll trip going up the school steps and rip your favorite jacket. And in a month, you’ll say something mean to Priya by accident, and she won’t talk to you for a year."

The crack of lightning came again. The stone went cold.

Priya blinked, then smiled. "Okay. You’re weird today."

"What?"