Senior year changes everything for two teens in this poignant, funny coming-of-age story that looks at what happens when the image everyone has of us no longer matches who we really are. Senior year of high school is full of changes. For Hayley Mills, these changes aren’t exactly welcome. All she wants is for everyone to forget about her very public breakdown and remember her as the overachiever she once was—and who she’s determined to be again. But it’s difficult to be seen as a go-getter when she’s forced into TV Production class with all the slackers like Lewis Holbrook. For Lewis, though, this is going to be his year. After a summer spent binging 80s movies, he’s ready to upgrade from the role of self-described fat, funny sidekick to leading man of his own life—including getting the girl. The only thing standing in his way is, well, himself. When the two are partnered up in class, neither is particularly thrilled. But then they start making mini documentaries about their classmates’ hidden talents, and suddenly Hayley is getting attention for something other than her breakdown, and Lewis isn’t just a background character anymore. It seems like they’re both finally getting what they want—except what happens when who you’ve become isn’t who you really are? Spencer Hall graduated from the University of the Cumberlands in Kentucky in with a BS in English. He moved to Chicago to study improv, but soon realized when it came to being funny, he was better at writing things down than making them up on the spot. When he’s not writing, he can be found running by the lake, occasionally performing stand-up comedy at poorly attended open mic nights, and researching how to become a professional mini-golf player. Kind of Sort of Fine is his first novel. Chapter One: Hayley ONE HAYLEY If you’re going to have an emotional breakdown and stop your car in the middle of a busy intersection, let me suggest the main entrance of Groveland High School. It’s wide, there’s plenty of sunlight, and it’s also Arby’s-adjacent just in case you want to grab some curly fries after the police show up and pull you from your vehicle. You’ll want to remember to dress appropriately, because several of your classmates will be filming the entire ordeal on their phones. Maybe wear something simple like jeans and a T-shirt but also have on a Batman Halloween mask, as if to say, “Sure, I’m crazy, but I’m the fun kind of crazy!” Or maybe wear a long flowing gown and wet your hair like Ophelia à la Hamlet , act four. That’s Shakespearean crazy, arguably the classiest form of crazy. If you’re hoping to use this moment to make some kind of statement, I suggest investing in a bullhorn or at least a poster board with large, legible writing. Because despite your other numerous accomplishments, this is what you’ll be remembered for during your time in high school. Sadly, it’s too late for me to take my own advice. But even if I could go back in time and make these adjustments, I doubt it would keep me from ending up here—the school conference room with my parents and me on one side of the table and Principal Wexler and Mr. Keith on the other. Meetings like this are never good. Your school administration will never call you in two days before the start of your senior year to tell you how well you’re doing and how thrilled they are to have you as a member of the student body. No, meetings like this start with “We’re all here because we want what’s best for Hayley, and we want to set her up for a successful school year.” It sounds like they’re doing me a favor, but the tension in the room and the forced smiles make it clear this is no happy occasion. People who are already doing well in life don’t need a little committee to “figure out what we can do to get you to really thrive this year.” In this case, “really thrive” means “please don’t lose your mind again.” “You’ve certainly accomplished a lot during your three years here, Hayley,” Principal Wexler says, looking down at what appears to be my transcript. Wexler is an intimidating figure. He has the broad chest of a retired football player, and he wears his green Groveland polo like a mob boss wears a finely tailored Italian suit. My ears start buzzing as he speaks, knowing already we’re headed nowhere good. It’s like our wasp mascot has escaped the stitching on his shirt and is now circling me, vigilantly watching for the best opportunity to sting. Wexler lifts his thick black reading glasses to his face to look over my file. “Your grades are impeccable. You’re active in multiple clubs, and I understand you’re quite the asset on our tennis team.” These are the words I always imagined coming from an admissions officer at a reputable college with a distinguished premed program. They should be paired with a handshake congratulating me on admission and a good scholarship offer and then followed by a trip to the campus bookstore where I triumphantly hand over too much money for an overprice