In Some Other Life: A Novel

by Jessica Brody

  “So, you put the money—how much was it?”

  “Two hundred dollars. Cash.”

  I swallow hard. “Okay, so you put the two hundred dollars in the book and then what?”

  “Then forty-eight hours later, you check the same book and the test is there. In a sealed envelope.”

  “That’s it?”

  She squints at me, a knowing look flashing on her face. “You’re going to try it, aren’t you?”

  My head pops up. “What?”

  “That’s why you’re here. There’s no newspaper. You’re not writing a story. It’s all a ruse, right? Columbia early decision is coming up. They’re going to be looking at your second quarter grades and you want a little boost. Let me guess. AP history. No. Chem. Chem is the worst.”

  I gape at her, feeling flustered. “N-n-no!” I stammer. “I really am writing an article. I’m not the kind of person who would cheat just to get ahead.”

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. That was mean. And insensitive. I search her face for signs of insult, but I honestly don’t find any. All that stares back at me is smugness. A trickster who knows a secret and can’t wait to tell you what it is.

  Then she lets out a low, unnerving chuckle that rattles my bones. “Crusher, no offense, but you’re exactly the kind of person who would cheat to get ahead.”

  Then I Get Domestic

  I’ve only cheated once in my life. I was playing Uno with Frankie two years ago and I was just so tired of losing to a nine-year-old that when he got up to go to the bathroom, I rearranged the cards so that I would be dealt the most awesome Uno hand in the history of mankind.

  Needless to say, it was a slaughter of mass proportions. Frankie lost in less than a minute. I waited for the glee to kick in. That satisfying sense of accomplishment. The pure, unadulterated glory. But all that came was the guilt. It was relentless, chasing me around like a cat chasing a mouse, batting at me, teasing me, playing with my emotions.

  I admitted my crime to Frankie the very next day, in an attempt to ease my conscience. I expected him to reprimand me. His moral compass is even straighter than mine. But he didn’t. He just smiled and said, “No more Uno for you, Kennedy. Obviously the pressure is too much.”

  I think about that day the entire way home from Lucinda’s house. I think about how I stacked the deck because I was tired of losing. Because I just wanted to win.

  But that was a game. It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t some huge, significant moment. It wasn’t my life.

  I would never cheat at school. I’m not that kind of person. Lucinda doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t know me.

  But then that small voice in the back of my head gently reminds me that she does. She knows Other Me. She’s one of her best friends. She might even know her better than I do.

  Would she really cheat?

  Would she really purchase a stolen test?

  Has she already?

  When I get home, I’m anxious to go straight to my room and start researching some of these new details I collected for the story, but I’m stopped when I hear my mom in the dining room, yelling at someone on the phone again. At first I think she must be on with another poor legal assistant about her latest case, but then I hear her say, “You think I want this? You think this makes me happy? You being in New York for Thanksgiving?”

  New York?

  Thanksgiving?

  Is she talking to Dad?

  Curious, I take a step closer.

  “I don’t give a crap about the money!” Mom bellows into the phone. “I want a husband who lives here. I want the man I married back.”

  My head swims with questions.

  What is going on? Why is Mom yelling at Dad? Are they fighting? But they never fight.

  There’s silence as my mom listens. Then she lets out an indignant snort. She seems to be doing a lot of snorting lately. “Yeah, sure. Fine. I’ll tell the kids. I’ll tell them that you’d rather be in New York for Thanksgiving than be here with them.”

  There’s another long pause before Mom snaps, “To be honest, Daniel, I don’t know what the truth is anymore.”

  Then I hear a crash. I assume it’s her cell phone hitting something, because a moment later she comes storming out of the dining room empty-handed. When she sees me she freezes, her jaw tightening.

  “Your father won’t be coming home for Thanksgiving tomorrow,” she says flatly. Then she grabs her laptop from the kitchen table and vanishes down the hallway. A moment later I hear footsteps plodding up the stairs.

  I stand speechless in the middle of the kitchen.

  What just happened?

  And how could Dad not be home for Thanksgiving? It’s his favorite holiday. He would never miss it. Every year he cooks an epic over-the-top feast in an attempt to outdo his last year’s dinner. He takes it very seriously. He makes us all fill out score sheets rating the turkey, the side dishes, the decorations, the entertainment, even his choice of music. He started with a ten-point scale, but over the years, it’s evolved to a sixty-point scale because none of us can bear to give him a lower score than the previous year.

  I drop my bag on the table and collapse into one of the chairs.

  I can’t believe he’s going to miss it. It won’t be Thanksgiving without him. It’ll be just … Thursday.

  I dig my phone out of my pocket and send him a quick text, asking him if it’s true. He replies almost immediately.

  Dad: Unfortunately, yes. I’m so sorry. The client hates the campaign we’ve been working on and wants a complete redesign. We’re going to be working all weekend and next week.

  Then, a moment later, he adds:

  Dad: Take care of your brother. And tell your mom I really am sorry.

  I drop my phone back into my bag and glance around the kitchen. There are dishes stacked in the overflowing sink, crusty food stuck to the counter, and used pans still sitting on the stove. Dad would hate this mess. He’d freak. Not that he’s going to be around to see it.

  But still, I do the only thing I can think to do. The only thing that momentarily distracts me from the fact that tomorrow we’ll be celebrating Thanksgiving as a threesome.

  I start cleaning.

  Then I Get Quantumly Entangled

  We end up ordering pizza for Thanksgiving dinner because nobody wants to cook. Dad always cooked. I suppose I could Google a few recipes and give them a try, but what would be the point? It’s not the same without him here.

  I don’t see much of Mom. After she disappeared into her room with her laptop yesterday afternoon, she barely came out at all, except to say “We’re ordering pizza” and then to actually eat the pizza.

  I haven’t had a chance to work on my cheating story because I’ve been too busy keeping the house clean and trying to distract Frankie so he doesn’t fall into a depression, too.

  On Thursday night, after I’ve cleared the pizza plates, broken down the box, emptied the dishwasher, and folded the three loads of laundry I started this morning, I head upstairs to find Frankie sitting on the floor of his bedroom with his board game spread out in front of him. After moving one of the game pieces, he crawls to the other side of the board and draws a card from the deck.

  “Are you playing against yourself?” I ask.

  He doesn’t look up. He stares at the new card he’s just plucked and taps his teeth in concentration. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night. About how you don’t understand how to play. I’m trying to figure out how to make the game more user-friendly.”

  He sets the card in the discard pile and moves the game piece three squares.

  Then he crawls back to his original seat.

  With a sigh, I plop down across from him and assume the second player’s hand.

  Frankie picks a card, puts it in his hand, and then plays a different card, moving his pawn six spaces. “I want to make sure that everyone can play. Not only scientists. What’s the Matter? is a family gam
e.”

  I pick up the cards in front of me and fan them out in my hand. Then I pick a new card. It’s a Quark card. I have no idea what that means. “Frankie. I think you should know your audience. I don’t think this game will ever be played by anyone but scientists.”

  “That’s not true!” he argues. “I just have to make a few tweaks.”

  I sigh and toss my Quark card into the discard pile.

  Frankie’s eyes grow wide. “You can’t play that card now! It’s a building-block card. You can use it to create matter if you get stuck in a black hole. This is one of the most valuable cards in the deck!”

  I shoot him a look and pick the card back up. I study my hand again. But I must take too long because Frankie grows impatient and says, “Just play your Inertia card and stay where you are.”

  I do as I’m told.

  “Frankie,” I begin cautiously as he scribbles something down in a nearby notebook. “Have we ever played any other games? Like, I don’t know, Uno?”

  He twists his mouth to the side as he studies the game board. He plays a Speed of Sound card and moves forward five spaces. “Not in forever.”

  I immediately play a Speed of Light card and move ahead ten spaces. “So, I never cheated at Uno two years ago.”

  He peers at me from over the top of his cards. “No. But if you did, I would tell you you’re not allowed to play anymore.”

  I stifle a smile. “So, what about other types of cheating?”

  He sets down a Quantum Entanglement card and swaps places with me on the board. “What about it?”

  I study my hand, trying to figure out what to play next. But I honestly have no idea what I’m looking at. I turn my cards around and Frankie chooses for me. “Have you ever known me, I mean Other Me—this me—to cheat?”

  “Like Lucinda?”

  I suck in a breath. “So you know about that?”

  “Yeah, you told me. You were really upset about it.”

  “Do you think I’m capable of cheating?”

  “Like at school?” Frankie asks.

  I’ve completely given up on the game. Frankie has gone back to playing each of the hands alternately.

  “Yeah.”

  He shrugs. “I guess it depends on what you consider cheating.”

  My forehead crinkles. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he goes on, pulling a card from my hand and playing it, “what are the definitions? What are the parameters? Do sleeping pills count as cheating?”

  I scoff. “No.”

  “Does coffee count as cheating?”

  I shake my head. “No. Don’t be silly.”

  “It cheats your body’s natural chemistry.”

  “I mean, like cheating on a test.”

  He thinks about that for a second. “I don’t think you’ve ever cheated on a test.”

  I feel the knot in my stomach unravel slightly.

  “But,” he adds thoughtfully a moment later, “I honestly wouldn’t be very surprised if you did.”

  Then I Question Myself

  Later that night, I open my Windsor Academy email account and click on the sent folder. With my heart in my throat, I scan the list of sent emails. Most of them are to teachers or Sequoia. There are no emails sent to TSM4@youmail.com.

  Not that you would keep them in your mailbox for anyone to find, my inner voice remarks.

  To be honest, I’m starting to grow a little tired of that voice.

  Nor would you use your school email address to send them, the voice adds indignantly.

  As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right.

  I open up the web and navigate to my personal email address. I type TSM4@youmail.com into the search box and hold my breath.

  No results.

  With a huff, I close the lid of my laptop and lean back in my chair.

  What if Lucinda and Frankie are right? What if this version of me is the kind of person who would purchase a stolen test? What if she already has?

  I launch out of my chair and start scouring my room. I empty drawers and bags and boxes. I check pockets and under the mattress and inside books. And then I end up in the exact same place I did a week ago: staring down that ugly black lockbox in my bottom drawer. The one I still haven’t been able to open.

  I shake it next to my ear, trying to gauge what’s inside. The mystery contents make a swishing sound. Like paper.

  Oh God.

  My heart starts to thud and I feel a jolt of desperation stream through me. I need to get inside this box. I have to know what’s in there. It’s a stolen test, I just know it! Maybe even multiple stolen tests.

  Maybe I’m a repeat customer. Maybe I have a freaking loyalty card.

  I dial combination after combination to no avail. I try wedging everything I can find in the metal gap, but nothing seems to make a dent. I even watch a YouTube video on picking locks, but I’m decidedly unskilled in that department.

  There’s a small amount of comfort to be found in that. If I have resorted to cheating at school, at least it’s not likely I’ve become a car thief as well.

  Finally, I toss the box aside in a fit of rage. I watch it roll twice before finally coming to rest against the frame of my bed with a clank.

  What is in there? What did Other Me want so desperately to hide that she had to lock it up in a box with an impossible-to-guess combination? It has to be a stolen test, right? What else would she go through so much trouble to hide?

  But then an absolving thought comes to me.

  Why would I keep it?

  If I purchased a stolen test and used it to get an A, why not destroy it instantly? Burn it. Shred it. Erase all evidence that it ever existed? Why lock it up for someone to find and incriminate me with later?

  If Lucinda was caught with a stolen test and expelled from school, you would think Other Me would be smart enough to destroy all evidence of her own guilt.

  If she was guilty.

  Which I’m still not convinced of.

  I sigh, pushing myself to my feet, and sit back down at my laptop. The box is a dead end. I need to get back to the story. I need to find out who is selling these tests. I can worry about my own culpability later.

  I grab my notebook, flip it open, and start typing up my notes from Lucinda’s interview. Then I make a decision.

  I’m going after the test stealer. I’m going to catch him red-handed. If you want to catch a criminal, you have to act like one. Cops don’t catch drug dealers by being cops. They catch drug dealers by being drug buyers.

  I navigate to YouMail.com and click the button to start a new account. I pick a random string of numbers and letters and choose a password.

  Then, once my new address is set up, I compose my first email.

  To: TSM4@youmail.com

  From: PPYU991@youmail.com

  Subject: Help

  Hello. I’m a Windsor Academy senior and I’m struggling with AP biology. We have a test coming up next week (12/1) and I’ve heard you can help. Please reply at your earliest convenience. I’m desperate.

  Thank you.

  Then I Get My Exercise in the Fiction Section

  By Monday morning, I’m eager to go back to school. The trap has been set. The email has been sent. So far, there’s been no response but I’m not discouraged. I know it’s only a matter of time before the culprit responds with directions on where to leave the money. Then I’ll set up the sting. I’ve already ordered one of those nanny cam things online. It arrives tomorrow.

  This will work.

  I will catch Dylan Parker red-handed.

  In the meantime, I’ve typed up all my notes in a document on my laptop, so I can keep them organized and searchable when I need to quickly reference anything.

  And now it’s time to see if Madame Bovary can offer me any leads.

  During our first Student Mastery Hour, I tell Sequoia I’m going to work alone in the library again. She gives me an almost-hurt look, like she’s offended that I don’t want to study wi
th her, but eventually she brushes it off.

  I head straight for the fiction section and make a beeline for the Fs. Gustave Flaubert is the famous French author of Madame Bovary and the Sanderson-Ruiz Library has five copies. I check each one, surreptitiously flipping through the pages, but I find nothing. I do the same with all three copies of The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, but those pages are empty, too.

  Maybe the test thief only chooses books by French authors. Maybe that’s the connection.

  I move through the fiction section, checking every French author I can think of from Balzac to Proust, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary in any of the books.

  There has to be a pattern. There’s always a pattern. If you think about all the great journalists in the world and all the epic stories they’ve broken, it was because they found the pattern. They linked things together. They connected dots.

  But I only have two dots. Yet I know there’s some connection between the titles. I can feel it.

  I check my new anonymous email account on my phone. Still no response from TSM4@youmail.com

  Frustrated, I find a table near the back and sit down. I open my laptop and review the notes I typed up over the weekend.

  Facts That I Know for Certain:

  • Lucinda Wallace was asked to leave money in copies of Madame Bovary and The Count of Monte Cristo

  Questions:

  • Were other test purchasers asked to leave money in other books? Or other places around school?

  • What’s the connection between Madame Bovary and The Count of Monte Cristo?

  “Whatcha doing?” a voice says, startling me out of my thoughts. I look up to see Dylan leaning on the table, trying to peek at my screen.

  I angle it away from him. “None of your business.”

  “Still playing detective?”

  “If by detective you mean still trying to prove you’re guilty? Then, yes.”

  He grins. “Maybe I can help.”

  “Doubtful.” I roll my eyes and focus back on my notes, hoping eventually he’ll take the hint, go back to his sacred little corner, and mind his own business. Why is he always in here when I’m trying to work anyway? Does he live in the library or something?