My head pops up, an idea suddenly forming.
He’s always in the library.
Is he working in here? Or is he doing more than working? Is he possibly conducting some other kind of business in here?
“Did you know,” I begin, trying to sound conversational, “that Lucinda Wallace was asked to put the money for her stolen tests in copies of Madame Bovary and The Count of Monte Cristo?”
I study his face, hoping again to catch one of those micro-expressions. A flicker of guilt. A momentary glimpse of surprise. But Dylan’s face is blank. He’s either somehow learned how to hide his micro-expressions, or I’m still not quick enough to identify them.
All he says is “Huh.”
I’m about to return to my notes when, a second later, I see something. It’s just a flash of a reaction. But it’s there.
Except it doesn’t look like guilt or shame. At least not to my novice eyes. It looks more like confusion. As though he’s trying to piece his own mystery together.
“So,” he continues after a moment, “the school is totally okay with you doing this? Snooping around trying to catch this person?”
I hesitate, averting my gaze. “Um, not exactly.”
He lets out an overdramatic gasp. “What? Unsanctioned investigative work? Going against the almighty Windsor authority? What kind of zombie are you?”
“I’m trying to convince Mr. Fitz to let me start a school newspaper,” I retort in exasperation. “He said no, but I know he’ll come around if I can break this story.”
“No, he won’t.”
I glance up at him. “How do you know?”
“Because it’s too out of the box. It requires too much free thinking. They don’t like free thinking. Free thinking leads to questioning which leads to anarchy. Trust me, I know. I have to fight with them over every single issue of Writer’s Block. They don’t want the content to be too ‘edgy.’ They just want us all to keep our heads down, study on our little computers, join their sanctioned clubs, and maintain the 89 percent Ivy League acceptance rate. Anything beyond that is a waste of time.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s absolutely true.”
“That’s not why Mr. Fitz said no to my request to start a newspaper. He told me it was because he thought I was overextended and—” I stop. Why am I explaining all of this to him? He’s my primary suspect. I shouldn’t even be conversing with him. Unless it pertains to the story. “Never mind,” I mumble, focusing back on my laptop. “Can you please leave me alone now?”
He sighs. “Sorry. No can do. If the Zombie Queen is doing something unsanctioned by the school, I can’t walk away. I’m an interested party now.” He pulls out the chair across from me and sits.
“Excuse me,” I protest, horrified. “I was sitting here.”
“Yeah, yeah, you were here first. I know.” He grabs my laptop and spins it around so he can read the document on my screen.
I stare at him in stunned silence for a few seconds before brusquely snatching back my computer. “Um, hello? What do you think you’re doing?”
“San Francisco Chronicle ‘25 Books to Read Before College.’” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, looking mighty pleased with himself.
I scrunch my nose. “What?”
“Madame Bovary and The Count of Monte Cristo. The connection. The test thief is using books taken from that list.”
My mouth falls open. “How do you know that?”
“The Chronicle is my favorite newspaper.”
I do my best to conceal my shock, but I’m certain my micro-expressions give me away instantly. In fact, mine are probably more like macro-expressions.
“What?” he asks, smirking. “You don’t think I read newspapers? Newspapers are the last great journalistic art form. Too bad they’re dying. Nothing quite compares to the tactile feel of newsprint in your hand.”
“I-I—” I try to say something but only stunted syllables come out.
Dylan Parker reads the San Francisco Chronicle?
Dylan Parker and I have something in common?
Actually, come to think of it, I do remember that he was reading a newspaper during the school assembly last week. I was just too infuriated with him to think anything of it.
“B-b-but,” I try again for words, this time managing to get out a whole sentence. “How do you know about that list?”
“Because I read it. And all the books on it.”
This might come as more of a surprise than his previous statement, momentarily distracting me from my investigation. “What?”
He gives me that patronizing smirk again. “I may not be a Windsor Zombie but I still care about going to college.”
“Where did you apply?”
He glances away, like the question makes him uncomfortable. “Columbia. Among others.”
“Columbia?” I spit, my throat constricting.
He snickers. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I … I’m sorry. That’s not why I … that’s where I applied, too.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? What do you want to study?”
I think back to the application on Watts’s coffee table. The one that said “economics” on it. I cast my gaze to the floor. “It’s … I’m still deciding.”
“Well, I applied for their writing program. They have one of the best in the country for undergrads.”
I swallow hard. “You want to be a writer?”
“A novelist. Yeah.” He gets a far-off look in his eyes for a moment and then mumbles, “But I probably won’t get in, so it doesn’t really matter.”
“Why not?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He gives his head a shake, like he’s coming out of a disturbing dream. “Never mind. Anyway. The San Francisco Chronicle’s ‘25 Books to Read Before College.’ I would check other books on that list.”
He switches subjects so quickly, it takes me a moment to keep up. “Right,” I say, refocusing on my notes. “So what makes you so sure the books are coming from that list?”
“Because the other day I found two hundred dollars stuffed into a copy of Robinson Crusoe, which is also on the list.”
I lean forward excitedly. “You found two hundred dollars in a copy of Robinson Crusoe?”
“Yeah. And until this conversation, I thought it was just some kid who had left his lunch money in his book. I mean, it is the Windsor Academy, after all.”
I stifle a laugh. “What did you do with the money?”
He shrugs. “I took it. Obviously.”
“You took it?” I screech, a little too loudly. I glance around to see if anyone heard me and then lower my voice. “You can’t just take that. It’s evidence. You messed with a crime scene.”
He laughs. “Slow down there, Columbo. It was money in a book. Not a dead body.”
“But why do you think it’s that list? Those three books are classics. I’m sure they’re on a lot of reading lists together.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Just a hunch.”
I shoot him a suspicious look. “A hunch, huh?”
He shrugs. “Check it out. Maybe I’m wrong.”
I close my laptop, rocket out of my seat, and dash back to the fiction section. I can feel Dylan on my heels as I round the corner to the Ds.
If he’s right, this could be it. The connection I’ve been looking for.
When I locate Daniel Defoe, I find three copies of Robinson Crusoe on the shelf. This was the book I’d been trying to get from the Southwest High library for the past few months but it was always missing.
I quickly flip through all three copies, finding nothing. My shoulders slump in disappointment. “When did you say you found the money?”
“Right before Thanksgiving break.”
“And there’s still no test here,” I think aloud. “Lucinda said the test appeared in the book forty-eight hours later, in a sealed envelope.”
“Yeah,” Dylan says condescendingly, like I
’m a little slow on the uptake. “Because I took the money. Why would the culprit leave the test if there was no money?”
Dang it. He’s right. I should have thought of that myself.
I point at him. “Unless you’re the culprit. And that’s why you took the money.”
“Yeah,” he says again with the same annoying inflection. “And that’s why I’m helping you. Because I’m the world’s stupidest criminal.”
I bite my lip in frustration. He makes a good point. Why would he help me if he was guilty? To throw me off? To lead me in the wrong direction?
There’s only one way to find out.
I hurry back to my laptop and Google “25 Books to Read Before College—San Francisco Chronicle.”
The result pops up right away, and all at once the article comes rushing back to me. I remember reading this list for the first time when I was twelve. I found it right after I decided I wanted to go to Columbia University and figured I better start preparing now. I did all the research, read article after article about college prep.
I scour the list of titles that I’ve been slowly working my way through since middle school.
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.
Emma by Jane Austen.
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.
Then I’m out of my seat again, running back to the fiction section. Somewhere behind me, I hear Dylan whine, “This is a lot more physical activity than I was anticipating.”
I ignore him and reach for a copy of Emma on the shelf, right as the bell signaling the end of Student Mastery Hour chimes.
I hastily flip through the book, stopping when a chill runs up my arms.
There, nestled between pages 84 and 85, right at the part where Emma says, “You must be the best judge of your own happiness,” are two crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Then I Quiz Sequoia
I would love to stay in the library all day and keep working, but I can’t miss the rest of my classes. I still have to prove to Fitz that I can handle this. That I’m not stretched too thin. And in order to do that, I need to be sure to stay on top of my schoolwork.
“Is everything okay?” Sequoia asks as we make our way to Bellum Hall for chemistry. “You’ve been acting so strange and distant since before Thanksgiving.”
“What happened on my date with Dylan Parker?” I blurt out.
“You went on a date with Dylan Parker?” she asks, looking scandalized. “When? Over Thanksgiving break?”
“No. Freshman year.”
“Oh,” she says with a chuckle. “I don’t know.”
“Did we have a good time? Did I like him?”
“Kennedy,” she says, sounding confused. “What is this about?”
“I just want to know how the date was. Was it miserable and we fought the whole time or did we … you know … like each other.”
She gives me a strange look. “Why are you asking me?”
I bow my head, averting my gaze. “Because I don’t remember.”
She laughs. “Well, I think that answers your question.”
“Do you remember anything?”
We turn left to circle around Waldorf Pond. “Not really,” she admits. “I mean, I guess you had a good time. You were going to go out with him again.”
I stop walking. “I was?”
“Yeah, remember? But I talked you out of it. Because of the boycott.”
“Right,” I say, my voice thick. “The boycott.”
The reason my name is listed in the number-one spot of that class ranking. Because I chose this. I chose me. And my future.
As it should be.
“Is that what’s been bothering you?” Sequoia asks. “Or is it something else?”
“I went to visit Lucinda,” I tell her.
Sequoia skids to a halt in the middle of the paved walkway, causing other students to have to veer around her. “What? Why would you do that?”
I don’t miss the disdain in her voice. Is she that quick to cast her off? Just because she made a mistake? Just because she cheated …
The thought catches me off guard.
Isn’t that exactly what I did to Laney? Wrote her off the moment I found out about her and Austin?
But that was totally different. She cheated with my boyfriend. The guy I’d been dating for three years.
Except now she’s dating him.
I flash back to her SnipPic feed and all of those photos of them. Photos that make them look happy together. Photos that would make anyone say they were meant to be together.
Sure, maybe in this life. But in my other life, she betrayed me. She went behind my back. That’s what counts.
“Because she’s our friend,” I tell Sequoia. “And she misses us.” Then, a little less earnestly, I add, “And because I wanted to ask her some questions about the stolen test thing.”
“WHY?” Sequoia screeches, and I can hear the break in her voice. The crack. I’m starting to sense the patterns. There’ll be tears running down her face in less than five seconds. “Are you thinking about…” she tries to ask, but a sob gets in the way.
“Cheating? No! Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just trying to figure out who’s behind it so we can turn him in and save our grades. I would never buy a stolen test.”
I expect Sequoia to wholeheartedly agree with me but she doesn’t. She stays quiet. I look to her, studying her face. “Do you think I would do that?”
“No. Of course not,” she responds. But there’s the slightest squeak in her voice, and the slightest pause before she says it.
I don’t need to be a human lie detector to decipher that.
Then I Defile the Sacred Uniform
Every day this week, I go to the library to work on my story during Student Mastery Hour. And every day, Dylan is there. At first, he pretends like he’s not at all interested in what I’m doing. He just casually stops by my table a few times, asking how things are coming along. But by the end of the week, he’s spending almost the entire period hunched over my laptop with me, pitching out ideas, helping me research, suggesting possible leads.
At first, I was reluctant to let him help, given that he’s still at the top of my suspect list, but he did kind of give me my first big break in the story. Plus, if he is the culprit, I’ll want to keep him close, right?
I don’t only work on the cheating story. I start brainstorming and fleshing out other stories as well. After all, if I’m going to put out an entire newspaper, I need more than just a front page. And Dylan actually has some really good ideas for articles.
On the following Monday, when the chime rings signaling the end of the second Student Mastery Hour, Dylan says, “I had a thought.”
I snicker. “Did it hurt?”
He rolls his eyes. “I think I might have another way to figure out who’s behind the test stealing. Do you want to meet for coffee after last period?”
The idea of spending time outside of school with Dylan is not exactly appealing to me, but I admit I’m intrigued by what he has in mind.
“Okay,” I agree. “Where?”
“There’s a little coffee shop on the other end of town. Near the public school. It’s called Peabody’s. Do you know it?”
I nod, feeling a lump form in my throat. “I know it.”
“Great,” he says. “I’ll meet you there at five.”
* * *
Sequoia drives me home that afternoon and I walk to Peabody’s. The place is packed, but I find Dylan sitting at a quieter table in the back.
He heads to the counter to order us some coffees and pastries while I boot up my laptop. I glance around the small coffee shop, a knot instantly forming in my stomach when I remember that this is the place. This is where Laney and Austin went together the morning before I caught them in the basement. Laney told me she was catching an early ride with her dad so that she could work on her newspaper story when actually she was here with him. How many more times did they come here together? Was it every morning for three whole mon
ths? Where did they sit? At this very table? Did they kiss while waiting in line for their coffees? Did they feed each other bites of muffin? Did they …
Stop, I command myself. Let it go. You have other things to worry about. Things that are happening now. In this life.
I blink and focus back on my laptop screen. Checking to make sure Dylan is still waiting on our coffees, I log in to my secret email account. The one I used to send the sting email to the test thief. The inbox is still empty.
That’s over a week.
What is taking so long?
Why hasn’t he responded?
Maybe because he’s been hanging out with you, my inner voice says. I look up to see Dylan returning to the table with a tray and quickly close the window.
Dylan takes the seat next to me so he can see my screen. He’s a little too close for my comfort. I can smell his amazing citrusy shampoo again.
He sets my Pumpkin Spice Latte in front of me and takes a big swig of his black coffee. The scent of it immediately masks all evidence of his shampoo and I’m reminded of the morning before I caught Austin and Laney kissing.
His breath smelled like coffee.
And so did hers.
A familiar pang of frustration wells up inside me. I should have put together the clues. I’m a journalist, for heaven’s sake. All the pieces were there. I was just too blind or stupid, or both, to see them.
I suddenly wish I had suggested another location to Dylan. This place is suffocating me with the memories of their betrayal.
“So, this is what I think we should do,” Dylan begins, taking a bite of muffin.
I come out of my reverie and instinctively scoot my chair away.
“Sorry,” Dylan says, wiping his mouth. “Am I chewing too loudly? My mom says I have a problem with that.”
I laugh. “I don’t remember you being so concerned about it when you were crunching carrots in my face.”
He nods and sips his coffee. “Ah, well, that was back when I still thought you were captain of the zombies. I had to take preventive measures.”
“Captain of the zombies? I thought it was queen of the zombies.”
In Some Other Life: A Novel Page 23