by Katie Zhao
My phone lit up with a string of unread texts.
Akil: Um . . . bad news guys. I checked Tip Tap. The Proctor strikes again.
As I squinted at Akil’s screenshot, my stomach plunged to the floor.
Police said J.R. died of overdose, but she was rly stabbed in the back . . . by A.L., A.P., N.L., or K.C. Wonder how they’ll react when Jamie stabs them back from her grave? There’s one way to stop it . . . and that’s to confess to the school what you did two years ago, before you all pay a steep price. Jamie already did. —The Proctor
Akil: Yo, who the hell is “The Proctor” and what is their goddamn problem?
Alexander: A.L., A.P., N.L., K.C. . . . those are OUR initials, right?
Akil: Yeah and I’m pissed. This person won’t leave us alone
Krystal: Wait . . .“two years ago” . . . is this about Em?
Nancy: Nobody knows what happened two years ago tho. Nobody except us knows about the Incident. It was all covered up
Two years ago. “The Incident”—named by Jamie—that had happened during our freshman year. The Incident that cemented the five of us into a tight-knit group. The Incident, the beginning.
The number one rule of our group was that we didn’t talk about the Incident. More than grades, more than extracurriculars, more than similar classes or ambitions or anything else, the Incident was what bound us together. We were friends, and sometimes we could forget why, really, but after something like that happens, there’s no getting away. Ever.
Even when I attempted to reach that far back into my memory, my mind shut me out. The past was in the past. It didn’t matter what dirt the Proctor had on us. We were going to figure out their identity, track them down, and bury them. Figuratively, of course.
Nancy: If this person rly knows this much about us, it’s probably someone we spend a lot of time around. Be wary of who’s hanging out around you these days.
Alexander: But the most important question is . . . how does everyone have time for this shit? Is NO ONE studying for exams? I know they didn’t all take the SAT back in March like we did
Akil: Nah, everyone’s talking about junior-senior prom in 2 weeks
Nancy: I totally forgot prom was coming up
Alexander: You mean you don’t have a hot date, Nancy?
Peter’s face swam in my head, but I didn’t even let myself go there. That was completely out of the question.
Nancy: Do YOU have a hot date?
Alexander: Of course
Krystal: UM, SPILL?
Alexander: . . . with my textbook
Akil: Gtfo. Unlike u losers, I do happen to have a date
Alexander: Your physics book doesn’t count
Akil: Ok nvm, I don’t have a date
Nancy: We shouldn’t be worried about prom dates, we should be worried about finding the killer. And chem . . .
Akil: Ahhh yes, good ol AP Chem, the real murderer at our school
The thought of the looming AP Chem exam caused a pounding headache to develop at the back of my head, but I was determined to push through.
This was nothing. Nothing compared to what my parents had endured to rise to the top of China’s exponentially tougher educational system, only to come to the States and have to work in manual labor anyway. Nothing compared to what they’d sacrificed to bring me here, to this day, to this moment.
Everyone wanted to hear success stories about those who came from nothing, working hard to become something extraordinary.
Nobody would want to know the gritty, unpleasant details about what it took—what it really took—to get there.
DECEMBER, SOPHOMORE YEAR
Everyone thought Jamie Ruan was perfect.
Nobody knew what she was willing to do, how far she was willing to go, to maintain the flawless image she’d crafted.
When our choir teacher, Ms. Rudzel, announced auditions for a solo in our Winter Showcase, nobody wanted the part as desperately as Jamie.
I was the only one who knew that Jamie came in an hour before school started, every morning, to practice singing the solo part. The only one who knew that she stayed an hour after school ended, every afternoon, to continue singing in empty classrooms.
The day of solo auditions, Jamie sang like her life depended on it. She sang the part almost perfectly.
“Our soloist for ‘Carol of the Bells’ is . . . Pam Jensen!” announced Ms. Rudzel. “Our backup soloist is Jamie Ruan. Congratulations, girls!”
Everyone clapped. The redheaded, freckled Pam Jensen beamed, basking in the applause, looking as though she could hardly believe the position she’d found herself in. Nobody beat Jamie at anything, ever. Nobody. Pam’s expression took on the slightest trace of smugness, as though she knew this, as if she reveled in the knowledge.
Jamie attempted a smile, but it came out looking like she’d gotten a root canal.
I was torn between feeling happy for Pam, who sang like an angel, and feeling awful for Jamie, who’d practiced harder than anyone. I settled for putting my hands together two times, and then shooting Jamie a sympathetic look that she didn’t return.
“I need you to do something for me,” Jamie whispered when the bell rang, signaling the end of class. “You’re headed to lunch now, right?”
“Yeah, aren’t we all?” I gave her a strange look.
“I’m skipping. Come with me.” The corners of Jamie’s lips turned up into a familiar grin. A cruel grin. Jamie was up to something, and it would end in disaster for some poor, unsuspecting student. “Pam Jensen leaves the school grounds every day during lunch.”
I didn’t ask how she knew this. Jamie knew everything about everyone.
“You and I are going to trail her and find out where she’s going, what she’s doing. I would’ve left her alone, but . . .” Jamie shrugged. “She’s in the way, now.”
And people who got in Jamie’s way tended to disappear.
My stomach growled, but I nodded. Turning down a request from Jamie was never a good idea. And even though I didn’t want to admit it, my pulse quickened with the thrill of being part of another of Jamie’s schemes. Jamie had come to me, after all. Chosen me.
Jamie led us to a yellow cab parked outside the front entrance. We piled into the car in time to see a sleek black Volvo pull up a few feet in front of us. Pam got in, sitting shotgun.
“Where to?” asked our taxi driver, a middle-aged man.
“Follow that black Volvo,” Jamie commanded.
We followed Pam’s ride down West Ninety-Third Street, until the car stopped at the intersection of Ninety-Third and Amsterdam. Pam got out at an Italian restaurant called Carmine’s Pizzeria. An older man got out of the car with her. His hair was graying, but I could tell he had once been very handsome, and he still carried himself with an air of arrogance. The man wore a white dress shirt and black slacks and looked like he’d come out of an important business meeting.
Jamie started snapping away with her phone camera. “Get pictures!” she hissed at me. “Make sure you get Pam’s face!”
Startled, I obeyed without thinking, taking a few photos with my phone.
The man put his arm around Pam, too low to be fatherly or friendly. Held her to his side, like a lover. As I watched, heart pounding, mesmerized, he bent down to kiss her on the lips, a long, deep kiss.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Tip Tap, of course, was the surefire way to spread the incriminating pictures. I AirDropped my photos to Jamie, and she composed the post on the ride back to the school, fingers typing madly away.
I stared at Jamie, at the dark bags under her eyes that seemed to grow more prominent. Looked almost like bruises. I stared at my phone, in awestruck horror of what it had done to poor Pam Jensen. Though Pam’s fate was sealed the moment our choir teacher awarded her the solo over Jamie.
The gossip spread through school like wildfire. Everywhere I turned, Pam Jensen and her much older lover was the topic of conversation. A Tip Tap photo showed Pam and
her tearful parents going into Principal Bates’s office. The next, and final, showed them leaving the halls of Sinclair Prep forever.
Regret, bubbling up in the pit of my stomach. I forced it down. After all, the rules at Sinclair Prep were different. Like I said—people who got in Jamie’s way tended to disappear.
“You didn’t have to go so far,” I said to Jamie. “Why did you?”
Jamie turned to me. Those eyes, freezing. Those eyes, burning. “Daddy said he’s coming to see me sing. He promised. Daddy expects me to be the best singer there.”
Three weeks later, on the night of the Winter Showcase, proud families and friends crowded the school’s ancient auditorium to listen to all the choirs perform. Mama didn’t come early enough and ended up sitting toward the back.
And Mr. Ruan sat in the very first row, front and center. Eyes freezing. Eyes burning.
When it was the girls’ choir’s turn to perform, Jamie sang the solo for “Carol of the Bells.” She hit every note. She brought a few audience members to tears.
She was perfect.
CONFESSION EIGHT
Spotted: L.W. making out with N.W. behind the Richard Sinclair statue. That statue’s seen more action than our dear Richie saw in his whole lifetime lmaooo —Anon
*****
A mournful melody drifted from inside the chemistry classroom. With one hand on the door, I paused and closed my eyes, taking in the music. It sounded like the violin strings were crying. Reaching up, I wiped away a tear that had trickled down my cheek.
Peter Shui’s music was magical, had always been. His senior year at Sinclair Prep, he’d captured plenty of hearts with that violin. Broken them, too.
The science hallway was empty. School had been over for a while now, and most people were studying in the library or headed to their extracurriculars. I should’ve been in the library too, if it weren’t for the text I’d received earlier today.
Peter: Remember to come to the chem classroom after school. 4 PM. I have to talk to you about something important
When the song ended, I knocked on the door.
“Come in, Nancy,” came that soft, familiar voice.
I entered the empty chemistry classroom and shut the door behind me. The lab in the back was cluttered with the instruments from an experiment. Posters of the periodic table of elements and bad science jokes plastered the walls. As with most of the classrooms in this school, there was a white banner at the front of the room with Richard Sinclair’s motto: In inceptum finis est.
And there was Peter, sitting on the teacher’s desk, holding his violin. Closing his eyes, as though listening to an ongoing tune only he could hear.
“That was beautiful,” I said. “What’s that piece called?”
“Nothing, yet.” Peter opened his eyes, and the spell was broken. He set his violin beside a huge stack of paper and hopped down from his desk. “Why don’t you help me come up with a title? You’re the one who’s good with words.”
A memory stirred. “I’ll compose the song, and you’ll write the lyrics,” I said. Words Peter had spoken to me during my freshman year, and his senior.
Peter’s eyes lit up. “Glad you remember our promise.”
Self-conscious of how alone we were, and the fact that I was supposed to be studying, I said, “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Prom is coming up soon, isn’t it?”
I started at the unexpected topic. “Oh yeah, I guess it is. I don’t really pay attention to that stuff.”
“No? You don’t have a date?”
First Alexander, now Peter. Why was everyone so curious about my date-less prom status? I narrowed my eyes, wondering if Peter was testing me. His serene expression revealed nothing. He may as well have been asking me about the weather. Infuriating. That was the only word for Peter Shui. “What if I said yes? Would you be jealous?”
Peter slid his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. He leaned forward, his lips passing so close to my ear that I could smell the fresh mint on his breath. “Why would I be jealous, Nancy?”
He was baiting me. I wouldn’t fall into his trap. We hadn’t actually talked about this—put a label on this thing we were doing together. Talking about it would mean admitting it was happening, that we were breaking rules on every level, from school to social class.
But what I knew was that I could never show Peter any weakness. And emotions were a weakness. Whoever showed emotion first would lose this game.
I cast Peter a sidelong glance. It was obvious why half the girls in the class had a crush on him. The half who didn’t probably weren’t into Asian guys, which, frankly, was their loss. Boyishly handsome, well-dressed, intelligent, and charming, Peter was only twenty. A Stanford would-be sophomore who’d nearly been kicked out of the school after a drug scandal last year. The Shui family pulled a few strings and donated a new building to the school. After that, “getting kicked out of Stanford” turned into “taking a gap year to teach.”
Peter and I were from different worlds. We would never work. Yet an invisible, magnetic force drew us together. I couldn’t stay away, no matter how hard I tried to resist.
I’ll compose the song, and you’ll write the lyrics. A promise I couldn’t forget. A promise carved into my soul.
“What did you want to talk to me about? Was it only prom?” My voice came out husky. My cheeks heated, and I cleared my throat.
“No, I wanted to talk to you about Jamie. My aunt and uncle have totally melted down over her death, of course. As their nephew and Jamie’s cousin, and as your—friend—”
I coughed.
“—and devoted . . . teacher,” Peter amended, his smile crinkling the edge of his eyes, “I had to find out the truth for myself, as well as give you a warning, given the . . . Tip Tap stuff.”
It took a moment for Peter’s words to sink in. Then, anger flared through me. “I didn’t kill Jamie. None of my friends did.”
“I didn’t say you did—”
“You were getting there.”
“Well, can you blame me for being curious, given the rumors flying around?”
“You of all people should know how baseless rumors can be at this school,” I said flatly, glaring at Peter. His eyes narrowed. Finally, I’d broken through Peter Shui’s emotionless exterior. “When you, Richard Li, and David Kim were the Golden Trio here, there were all kinds of rumors flying around you guys. Sneaking into clubs and warehouse raves. Having sex in your parents’ beach houses.” They’d been the ones who caught Eric Lin red-handed with the answer key to the AP World History final exam, too. Scandal trailed the three boys like their dark, twisted shadow. Yet thanks to their families’ wealth and influence, they always seemed to get off with a slap on the wrist, if not scot-free. “Are all those rumors true?”
“Funny you should mention Richard and David,” Peter said.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “That’s the real reason I wanted to talk to you. They’re both coming back to town for Jamie’s funeral. Thought I’d give you a heads-up.”
“Well.” Peter’s words had caught me off guard, but I refused to show my surprise and apprehension at this piece of information. “That’s good, isn’t it? The Golden Trio will be reunited.”
Peter studied my expression. I kept it carefully arranged into an emotionless mask. “Only briefly. David has to fly back to L.A. the day after for his shoot. Richard has finals at Columbia. Nancy, I’m telling you because I—well, the way things left off two years ago . . . after . . .”
The Incident, I filled in silently.
“Richard and David hate my friends and me. I know.” The Golden Trio had gotten involved the night the Incident happened. And I knew Richard and David blamed the Incident on my friends and me.
“ ‘Hate’ is a strong word, but . . . well. My friends aren’t good at letting old grudges go. Be careful, okay?”
I stifled a gasp when Peter re
ached up and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear and gently brushed my cheek. As he lowered his hand, I caught it in mine. Our eyes met for an eternity that lasted only seconds.
“Mr. Delaney!”
The door flung open, and Peter and I sprang apart. I recognized the flustered junior at the door as Nathaniel Goldman, the heir to Natasha Goldman’s fashion label. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice how close Peter and I had been standing. He was too busy searching for the teacher who wasn’t here. “Oh. Where’s Mr. Delaney?”
“Thanks for your help on the homework, Mr. Shui.” I said quickly. My heart was beating rapidly. That had been far too close.
An amused glint entered Peter’s eye. “You’re welcome, Miss Luo.”
Without looking at Peter, I left the room, brushing past a clueless Nathaniel. The skin on my cheek and hand, tingling where Peter touched it. The beautiful melody he’d arranged, still spinning through my head.
FEBRUARY, FRESHMAN YEAR
Peter Shui had an effect on me that I couldn’t explain. There were plenty of girls who liked him, and for good reason. Popular, handsome, rich, smart, talented—he checked all the boxes as a perfect Sinclair student, not to mention the perfect Asian son.
Sinclair Prep swam with handsome, rich boys. But it was Peter I liked best.
A few weeks ago, an anonymous user on Tip Tap ran a poll ranking the Golden Trio boys from most to least desirable. It was widely agreed that Richard Li, the tallest and most muscular of the three, came in first. David Kim, who told jokes that could make even strict Principal Bates laugh, polled at second. And Peter Shui, quiet, bookish Peter, who played the violin, came in third, trailing David by a few votes.
Peter seems really mysterious, someone commented below the poll. I bet he’s keeping a lot of secrets.
Probably keeping them in that violin case he’s always carrying around, replied another commenter.
Peter was keeping many, many secrets. And I was one of them. The knowledge filled me with glee. With exhilaration.
The downside to being Peter’s secret was the fact that in public, there were always other girls with him. Prettier girls. Older girls. Richer girls. Girls with whom I couldn’t compete. Girls who didn’t even know I was part of the competition.