In Some Other Life: A Novel

by Jessica Brody

  I bristle and spin on my heels. “Don’t bother!” I call back over my shoulder as I march toward the door. “I don’t need saving.”

  Then I Question My First Suspect

  By lunch the next day, I’ve made a decision. I’m going it alone. I don’t need a faculty sponsor. I don’t need approval from the school. Some of the best articles in history were written undercover. Corporate sponsorship just leads to censorship. If I do this on my own, the news will be that much more organic.

  And who knows? If I’m able to break this cheating-scandal story, maybe Mr. Fitz will reconsider. Maybe he’ll realize the error of his ways and sponsor my club. And if not, then I’ll just release it on the down low. I’ll start some anonymous tell-all website. I’ll be the information vigilante. Let them try to uncover my identity. Let them try to take down my site. I’ll just create a new one. I’ll pop up somewhere else. With a new URL. My readers will follow me. They’re loyal like that.

  Or at least they will be after I release my first issue.

  What’s most important is that I provide legitimate, trustworthy news.

  And I know exactly where to start.

  When I march into room 117 of the Fineman Arts Center, Dylan is already there, typing into his laptop. Thankfully, the rest of his magazine club hasn’t arrived yet, which is perfect because my business is with him. Not them.

  He glances up briefly before grabbing a baby carrot from a little plastic bag on the table and popping it in his mouth. “You again?” he asks with his mouth full. “I’m still not letting you onto the magazine.”

  I try not to let my disgust for his loud, openmouthed chewing get the better of me. I’m here as a journalist now. And I need to act like it. Journalists don’t let their sources get them all riled up. They stay calm and professional.

  “For your information,” I reply as politely as I can, “I’ve formed my own club. A school newspaper.”

  He lets out a bark of a laugh. I fight every impulse not to let this offend me.

  “What?” I ask, staying calm. “What’s so funny?”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

  “Anyway,” I go on, clearing my throat, “I’m writing a story on the cheating scandal and I was hoping to interview you about it.”

  I keep my eyes fixed on his face, searching for clues. A flash of a grimace. A hint of recognition. They’re called micro-expressions. Detectives rely on them to catch guilty criminals. They’re brief involuntary facial movements that only occur when a person is deliberately or unconsciously trying to hide their true reaction.

  But it takes a shrewd eye to be able to spot a micro-expression, and I obviously miss Dylan’s because all I see is confusion. “Why me?”

  I play innocent. I can’t let on that he’s my number-one suspect. Otherwise, I’ll get nothing out of him. I plaster on a smile. “I’m interviewing a lot of people. Just to see where it leads. Sometimes people know things that they don’t realize are important. It’s my job to extract those details and piece them together.”

  He squints at me, like he’s trying to figure out whether or not I’m being serious. Then he pops another carrot into his mouth and begins chewing languidly, like a cow with a mouthful of cud.

  I try to keep my smile intact, but every chomp on that carrot is like nails on a chalkboard. What is with this guy? Does he not know how to chew like a normal person? Was he like this on our date? If so, I should be grateful Sequoia convinced me not to go out with him again.

  I take his silence as an invitation and sit down next to him at the table, pulling out a brand-new Windsor-monogrammed notebook that I picked up in the student union this morning.

  “So,” I begin breezily, “when did you first become aware that tests were being stolen and sold to students at school?”

  He’s still staring at me, like he’s trying to piece together his own front-page story. “You think I did it,” he announces after a long, torturous moment.

  “No,” I splutter helplessly, laughing off his accusation.

  “Yes,” he maintains, pointing a carrot at me. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “I told you. I’m interviewing lots of people. Not just you.”

  He nods at the notebook in front of me. “Then why is that thing empty?”

  I glance down at the first page and berate myself. I should have flipped to some random spot in the middle. “I…” I flounder. “I already filled another notebook.”

  “Yeah, I’m so sure. You think just because I dress like a slob and dis the school on a daily basis that I’m the most obvious suspect. Now, I’m not a professional journalist like you, but that doesn’t seem like very good journalism work to me. It actually seems pretty biased. And a bit lazy.”

  I take deep breaths, reminding myself to stay calm. Journalists are composed. And objective. They get to the story. They don’t let the story get to them.

  He smirks. “Why don’t you look at one of your zombie friends like Sequoia? She’s got guilt written all over her.”

  “She does not,” I reply, a bit more harshly than I would have liked. I quickly reel myself back in. “Sequoia is completely distraught over this whole thing. She has a lot to lose. Unlike you.”

  “So you do think it’s me.”

  I press my lips together. Maybe I went too far with that last part. He obviously can see my distress because he starts laughing.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as civilly as I can, “are you laughing at me?”

  He stops and looks me straight in the eye. “Yes.”

  The grip on my pen tightens. “To be honest, I don’t appreciate that.”

  He flashes me that stupid smirk again. “Well, to be even more honest, I don’t really care what you do and don’t appreciate.”

  My temper flares. I can feel my face getting hot. Why does he have to be so impossible? “Look,” I seethe, “I know it was you. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it. With or without your help.”

  He sticks a baby carrot in his mouth like a cigar before chomping down. “So, then why are you sitting here? Why aren’t you marching over to Dean Lewis’s office yourself to turn me in? I mean, if you’re so sure I’m the culprit.”

  This is pointless. I’m not getting anything from him. With a huff, I close my notebook and return it to my bag.

  “Ah,” he says, chewing loudly. “I get it. You don’t want to implicate yourself. You’re afraid if you turn me in, Dean Lewis will suspect you of buying the tests from me.” He nods like he’s solving a big murder case. “Very shrewd.”

  I shove my chair back and stand up. “I shouldn’t have to turn you in. You should turn in yourself.”

  “And why should I do that?”

  “Because you’re guilty!” I say exasperatedly, throwing my hands in the air.

  He sighs and looks at something on his laptop screen like he’s already finished with this conversation. “If you say so.”

  I grunt. “I saw you.”

  He glances at me. “You saw me selling tests?”

  “No,” I amend impatiently. “I saw you smirking during Dean Lewis’s speech. Like you were so proud of yourself.”

  “So you were watching me,” he says, like this is some big breakthrough. “Do you have a crush on me? Is this something we should talk about? You know, get it out in the open. I’m flattered, truly, but you’re not my type. I’m not really into the whole zombie-chic thing.”

  I feel my breathing growing heavy. “I do not have a crush on you.”

  He sighs. “I don’t know. You were getting really cozy with me on that couch in the library the other day.”

  I stomp my foot. “I was there first!”

  “Whoa. Easy there, Crusher,” Dylan says, and I don’t miss the condescension in his voice. “I wouldn’t want you to burst a blood vessel or anything. Besides, you were wrong.”

  “About what?” I demand.

  “That smirk you saw when you were checking me out.”

  “I wasn’t—�
�

  “Hey, I’m not judging. It’s a free country. You can lust after whoever you want.”

  I close my eyes, trying to regain my composure. “You repulse me,” I say through clenched teeth.

  When I open my eyes, I swear I see a flash of genuine pain flicker across his face, but it’s gone so fast I can’t be sure. “Ouch,” he says in a mocking tone. “That was harsh.”

  An apology bubbles to my lips, but I swallow it down. Why should I apologize to him? He started it. He called me a zombie!

  “Anyway,” he continues. “It wasn’t pride.”

  I squint at him.

  “The smirk,” he reminds me. “It was mirth.”

  “Mirth,” I repeat in disbelief.

  “Yes. It means amusement.”

  “I know what it means,” I snap.

  “Just checking. You seemed a little confused there.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “And why were you smirking mirthfully?”

  He grabs another carrot and points it at me. “Good question. Allow me to elaborate.” He gestures to the chair I vacated. “Care to sit back down?”

  “No,” I snap.

  “Suit yourself. You see, the only way I’ve been able to survive in this zombie factory is by creating little games for myself. One of these games is to score zombies on the level of their mental breakdowns. I rate them on a scale of one to ten, one being fairly benign, ten being like full-on looney-tunes crack-up. Crying over a test grade? That’s a minor offense. I give that a two. Adderall addiction?” He teeters his head from side to side. “Common but not earth-shattering. A three. Pulling a Lucinda Wallace? That gets you a solid seven. But this illegal-test thing. I mean, this has kind of blown my scale out of the water. If this person has cracked as much as I think they have, then I might have to create a brand-new scale. Hence, the reason for my mirthful smirking. I’m simply impressed by this zombie’s ability to blow my mind. After everything I’ve seen around here, I thought my mind was explosion-proof.”

  I let out a sigh. This conversation is clearly going nowhere. I don’t know why I even bothered. “So you’re denying it,” I confirm.

  “The mirthless smirking? Oh, no. I fully confess to that.”

  “No,” I growl. “Stealing the tests.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, I’m afraid I just don’t care enough to steal exams.”

  “That’s exactly why you would do it! Because you don’t care.”

  He doesn’t seem to follow my logic. He pops the last of his carrots in his mouth and chews pensively. “But why? What would I get out of it?”

  “Watching everyone around you fail, for starters.”

  He twists his mouth to the side. “I admit, that’s a plus.”

  “Not to mention bragging rights.”

  “Bragging rights? Who would I brag to?”

  I gesture to the still-empty classroom. “I don’t know! Your magazine people. You must have a friend in this group. Someone as warped as you.”

  “Ah, see, that’s where you’re wrong,” he says. “These people aren’t my friends. They’re my mask.”

  “Your mask?” I repeat dubiously.

  “They help me blend in. After six years at this school, you learn to be a real expert at blending. As long as it looks like you fit in and have friends and are ‘involved’ in something, the administration pretty much leaves you alone.”

  “So the magazine is fake?” I ask, taking out my notebook, poised to write something down. “A cover? To distract from your other operations?”

  He grins, like this is all a big game to him. “Touché. But no. The magazine is very real.”

  “I’ve never read it,” I challenge.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  I scowl. “So let me get this straight. You have no friends? You just pretend to have friends.”

  “I do what I have to do.”

  “You do realize that’s kind of pathetic.”

  I notice his tongue jab against the inside of his cheek and I feel a small twinge of satisfaction. But it fades away the second he fires back with, “Not as pathetic as holding on to a crush for three and a half years. I mean, we had one date. And it was a long time ago. I think it might be time for you to move on.”

  With a huff, I pull my bag onto my shoulder and lean onto the back of the chair, trying to look as menacing as I can. “You can joke all you want, but I’m going to prove you’re behind this. I won’t let you take down this school.”

  “Ooh,” he says, sounding extremely interested. “Does this mean I’ll be seeing even more of you?”

  “Oh, shut up!” I snap, turning on my heels to march away. But before I even get to the door, he calls out, “I’ll give you a four.”

  “What?” I ask, spinning back around.

  “Your breakdown. It’s a four. But I’d be willing to reexamine in the future. If you want to try again.”

  Then I Make a Plan

  Dylan Parker is guilty. There are no two ways about it. But he’s obviously also a master manipulator and a very good liar. I just need to figure out a way to prove that he’s lying.

  The good news is tomorrow is the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, which means school is out until Monday and I have plenty of time to work on my investigation. The bad news is my Windsor Achiever app has been dinging incessantly ever since I got home from school today.

  I really don’t want to study, but I figure I should probably knock out some schoolwork before I get too consumed with this story. So I make a bargain with myself. I set a timer on my phone for two hours, vowing to work until it goes off, and then I’m free to do whatever I want.

  I check my Achiever app. The second drafts of our personal essays are due at the end of next week. That should be easy enough. Mr. Fitz gave me an A on my first draft and his comments were light. I should be able to revise it in less than an hour.

  Thinking about Mr. Fitz makes my muscles coil with frustration. I can’t believe he had the nerve to call me an “at risk” student. The only thing I’m at risk of is succeeding brilliantly and becoming a world-famous journalist. And do you think I’m going to thank him in my speech when I win my first Pulitzer? I don’t think so.

  I open my laptop and do a search for my personal essay document. I’m surprised, however, when two results appear on the screen:

  Kennedy Rhodes—Personal Essay—Version 1

  Kennedy Rhodes—Personal Essay—Version 2

  Version 1? Other Me wrote two versions? The first must be a rough draft because it’s in the trash folder, while the second is in the AP English folder, meaning it’s the most recent one. I click on it and get to work implementing Mr. Fitz’s notes from the paper he handed back yesterday.

  As I suspected, it only takes me forty-five minutes to finish. I check it off the list and continue on to the next item.

  By the time my two hours are up, I’ve managed to complete my problem sets for AP chemistry, my new schematics for the Robotics Club, my weekly stock trades for the Investment Club, and thirty pages of reading for AP history.

  I’m really starting to get the hang of this Windsor Academy thing.

  Cracks under pressure? Ha! Take that, Mr. Fitz!

  More like excels under pressure. Kicks pressure’s butt. Eats pressure for breakfast!

  Eagerly, I close my schoolwork and pull out my new notebook. Unfortunately all the pages are still blank after my unsuccessful first interview today, but I try not to let that deter me.

  I flip to the first page and start writing.

  Facts That I Know for Certain:

  • Someone has been stealing tests and selling them to students

  • Lucinda Wallace and three others were caught with stolen exams

  • The administration has forced teachers to change their log-in passwords

  Speculations:

  • Additional students who haven’t yet been caught might still be in possession of stolen exams

  • The culprit most likely hacked into the teache
rs’ server to access the test files

  Suspects:

  • Dylan Parker

  I carefully read back over what I’ve written. If Dylan won’t talk, then I’m going to have to find another way to get enough information to nail him.

  I tap my fingernail against my teeth before adding:

  Next Steps:

  • Find out how students contact test thief to purchase stolen exams

  • Determine how stolen exams are delivered

  I pause and take a deep breath before adding the final bullet point. The thing I know has to be done before anything else. Although I’m definitely not looking forward to doing it.

  • Interview Lucinda Wallace

  Then Frankie Is Enlightened

  “I’ve got it!” Frankie barges into my room in the middle of the night. His hair is sticking up in a hundred different directions, like a model of an atom.

  I roll over and check the clock on my phone. “Frankie,” I moan. “What are you doing? It’s two in the morning.”

  He sits on my bed with a bounce, ignoring my complaints. Then he switches on my lamp. I blink against the bright light, squinting at him. It’s only now I notice his notebook is open on his lap and the page is covered with diagrams and symbols.

  Oh, no. It’s way too early for Frankie’s diagrams.

  I pull a pillow over my head. “Go away,” I mumble.

  Frankie promptly removes it. “I’ve been up all night. You have to hear this.”

  “Is this about your board game? Because if it is, I don’t understand how to play anyway, so you’re wasting your breath.”

  “Don’t understand how to play?” Frankie says, aghast, as if I’ve just admitted I’ve never seen Star Wars. “What’s the Matter? is only the easiest game in the world. You pick a Cosmic card, it tells you what to do. It’s basically Candy Land.” He stops, thinking for a moment. “Well, except if you land in the Forest of Relativity and you don’t have a Time Dilation card or a Space Contraction card, then you have to wait until someone crosses the Bridge of Dark Matter and offers you an Electromagnetic Radiation Boost. Or if you get stuck in the Absolute Zero Tundra. Then you’re pretty much screwed unless you can manage to find the Thermodynamic Key. But let’s face it, no one ever found it so—”