It was Friday. I’d been at Hardwicke for two weeks. It was probably too much to hope that the teachers would continue skipping over me indefinitely.
“Almost,” I lied through my teeth. Mr. Wesley—who was sixty if he was a day—didn’t call me on it. He just gave me a long, assessing look, then asked for a volunteer.
The assignment was an eight- to ten-minute “persuasive speech” on a controversial topic. Icelandic, never-turns-down-a-dare Di volunteered to go first, followed by a boy whose name I didn’t know, followed by Henry. The last speech of the day came from John Thomas Wilcox. He’d rigged a projector to throw pictures onto the whiteboard as he talked. His topic was stem cell research. I wasn’t paying much attention until he flashed a picture of my grandfather up on the board.
“Alzheimer’s disease is progressive, debilitating, and ultimately fatal.”
I stopped breathing and had to force myself to start again.
The picture was maybe five years old. I couldn’t tell where it was from, because John Thomas had cropped the photo close up on the face. Hazel eyes. Lips set in a firm line. My grandfather’s skin was tan and weatherworn. No one but me would have seen the softness in his expression: the warmth in his eyes, the humor dancing around the edges of that nonsmile.
“Let me tell you about this man,” John Thomas said. As he continued, each word sliced into me, like a dull knife forcibly carving up flesh.
We’d been told to personalize our arguments, to appeal to emotions, as well as reason. From an outside perspective, that was exactly what John Thomas was doing. He was using a real human example to make his audience care.
This man was degenerating. This man was losing his memory. This man was going to continue losing cognitive capacity and parts of himself until he died.
John Thomas took us through it in excruciating detail. And the entire time, he was staring straight at me. “Imagine the pain of knowing that someone you loved was going to degenerate to the point where they would lose the ability to walk, to talk, to communicate in any meaningful way.” John Thomas’s expression was so solemn, so impassioned, but his eyes—his eyes gleamed. “Now imagine the months—or maybe even years—leading up to that. Imagine someone you loved forgetting you, not even recognizing you, blaming you . . .”
At first, I thought the room was shaking. Then I realized that I was. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from my grandfather’s picture. I’d known, objectively, that his condition was going to get worse. I’d known that—
My fingers dug into the sides of my desk.
“Stem cell research won’t provide a cure for Alzheimer’s,” John Thomas was saying. “But it might allow for treatments that stave off the inevitable brain cell death. And if it can buy precious days, months, even years with a loved one . . .” He changed the picture on the screen.
Gramps, with his arms around me.
“I’d say it’s worth it. Wouldn’t you?” John Thomas mimicked compassion perfectly as he nodded toward me—as if I’d known he was doing this, as if he’d done this for me instead of to me.
My ears rang. I barely heard Mr. Wesley dismissing the class. I bowed my head as I gathered my things, my jaw clenched so hard it hurt. I pushed my way out of the classroom. I made it to my locker, opened it, and leaned forward, shutting out the noise. Degeneration. Inevitable. Fatal. I couldn’t block out those words.
“My father told me about your grandfather.” Without warning, John Thomas was there beside me, his expression morose. He crowded me, bringing his face down to mine. “I hope you don’t mind that I did a little internet sleuthing for some photos. The visuals really make the presentation.” I tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. He leaned into me, his lips so close to my ear that I could feel his breath on my face as he whispered, “My condolences.”
I could hear the smile in his voice.
Something inside me snapped. My hand balled itself into a fist, but just as I started to swing, there was, without warning, nothing to swing at. John Thomas wasn’t where he’d been standing a second before.
It took me a second to register the fact that he was on the floor, and another second after that to realize that the person who’d helped him onto the floor was Henry Marquette.
“My apologies,” Henry said. The expression on his face was oh so proper and oh so polite, considering he’d just knocked the other boy’s legs out from beneath him. “I didn’t see you standing there, John Thomas.” He reached down and offered John Thomas a hand. “Let me help you up.”
He held on to John Thomas’s hand a little longer than necessary—and, I was guessing from the expression on John Thomas’s face, a little harder than necessary.
Once he had his hand back, John Thomas gave Henry a look that was just as proper, just as polite. “You, too?” he said. “I knew Tess here was, shall we say, servicing Asher, but I had no idea she offered a two-for-one deal.”
For one horrifying moment, I thought Henry might actually punch him. “I’d defend your honor, Henry,” I cut in, “but he’s not worth it.”
Henry gave a curt nod. “His own father would be the first to tell you—he’s not worth much.”
John Thomas’s veneer of control evaporated the moment Henry said the word father. He lunged at Henry, slamming him back into the locker. This time I really did come to Henry’s defense.
Some people just need to be flying tackled.
“Would any of you care to explain your behavior to me?” Headmaster Raleigh glared at the three of us from the other side of his desk. I was sitting to his left, John Thomas to his right. Henry was in the middle.
“I believe someone must have spilled something in the hallway,” Henry said. “It was terribly slippery.”
He had quite possibly the best poker face of anyone I’d ever seen.
“You expect me to believe you fell?” the headmaster said.
“Well, first John Thomas fell,” Henry said diplomatically. “Then I helped him up. Then I fell. I think that must have thrown Tess off balance.” Henry offered the headmaster the same polite smile he’d given John Thomas. “She fell last.”
“Ms. Kendrick?” Headmaster Raleigh raised an eyebrow at me.
I adopted an expression that mirrored Henry’s. “I do believe Henry is right. I fell last.”
The headmaster was not amused. He turned his attention to John Thomas. “If you would prefer we talk alone . . . ,” he started to say.
“No.” John Thomas’s voice was stiff. “There must have been something on the floor. We slipped.”
John Thomas Wilcox might have been a psychotic jerk, but he was a psychotic jerk who didn’t want any blemishes on his permanent record.
The headmaster clearly did not believe us, but just as clearly, he didn’t seem to fancy the idea of dealing with any of our parents. So instead, he launched into a lecture on personal responsibility, which I tuned out approximately five seconds in.
My eyes drifted to the photograph on the wall behind him—the same one I’d noticed the last time I was here. Six men: three in the back row, two in the front, one off to the side. I recognized William Keyes. But this time, I also recognized the man standing beside Headmaster Raleigh. Balding. Early fifties. Deep-set eyes.
Judge Pierce.
And in front of Pierce stood Vivvie’s father.
CHAPTER 34
I needed to get another look at that picture. The president’s physician. An appeals court judge from Arizona. The idea of them being in the same place at the same time, in that small of a group . . .
Your sister’s just trying to establish a timeline, Vivvie had told me. How my father got involved, when he got involved, how he and Pierce know each other, if they know each other.
I wanted to know when that picture had been taken, where it had been taken. I wanted to know who else was in it. And I wanted to know what Adam’s father had been doing there.
And that meant that I needed to arrange another visit to the headmaster’s office.
> “You look like someone who’s thinking deep thoughts.” Asher slid in beside me at lunch. “Deep thoughts about telling me what you’ve spent the past two days not telling me, perhaps?”
Asher probably wasn’t expecting an answer, but I gave him one. “When I called the second number on that phone, someone answered. I know who it was, and I might have found a clue that could tell us how that person and Vivvie’s father know each other.”
“This new, forthcoming Tess is a strange and wonderful thing,” Asher remarked. “Should I be suspicious?”
I answered his question with a question. “How good are you at getting sent to the headmaster’s office for something that won’t actually get you expelled?”
Asher smiled beatifically, as if he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to ask just that question. “How would you feel about some Mentos and Diet Coke?”
As it turned out, the Hardwicke administration was not terribly fond of explosions. Asher and I sat outside the headmaster’s office, awaiting judgment.
The headmaster’s assistant shook her head at the two of us. “Weren’t you just in here a few hours ago?” she asked me.
I did my best to look ashamed—and probably failed miserably. She turned her attention to my companion. “Asher Rhodes. What are we going to do with you?”
“Win me over with patience and gentle correction?” Asher suggested.
In retrospect, I probably should have taken the fall for this particular explosion myself, but I needed to get a good look at the photo on Raleigh’s wall, and that meant that I needed someone to distract the headmaster while I did it.
“Mr. Rhodes?” Headmaster Raleigh appeared at the door to his office. “I’ll see you first.”
Asher and I glanced at each other. The plan required us to go in together.
“Ladies first,” Asher said. “I insist.”
The headmaster sighed. “All right,” he capitulated. “Ms. Kendrick, I’ll see you first.”
“Don’t you think that’s kind of sexist?” I asked the secretary. She froze.
“I’m sure it’s not,” she said, not sounding sure in the least.
“Chivalry isn’t sexist,” Asher told me.
“If you’re suggesting that females need special treatment because they’re female,” I replied, “it kind of is.”
Headmaster Raleigh still hadn’t quite recovered from the accusation of sexism. “Asher,” he started to say. Then he changed his mind. “Tess.” He scowled. “Both of you, my office, now.”
The headmaster turned around. Asher winked at me, then followed the man into his office. I entered the room last and closed the door behind us. Immediately, my eyes found the picture I was looking for on the wall.
William Keyes. Judge Pierce. Major Bharani. A glare off the picture frame made it difficult for me to see any of them clearly.
“Ms. Kendrick, are you listening to me?” Headmaster Raleigh asked.
Not in the least. “Yes, sir.” The sir seemed to appease him somewhat.
“We have a zero tolerance policy for weapons here at Hardwicke,” the man continued.
“Can it really be considered a weapon if you can eat it?” I asked.
“Or drink it,” Asher added.
“If it explodes, it’s a weapon,” the headmaster declared. “I’m afraid the two of you have put me in a very difficult position.”
“I can only imagine,” Asher said consolingly. “You’ll probably have to suspend me from the lacrosse team.”
The headmaster hesitated slightly.
“And,” I added, “I’m sure you’re going to want to talk this incident over with my sister.”
“You’ll probably have to field all kinds of answers about the contents of Hardwicke’s vending machines,” Asher continued solemnly. “If only we’d considered the ramifications before deciding on this as our Yates Fellowship entry.”
“Yates Fellowship?” the headmaster repeated.
“I came in second last year,” Asher replied. “They appreciate the ability to walk the line between scientific exploration and performance art—but this was really inexcusable. I thought setting up outside would be enough to mitigate any administrative concern, but clearly, I should have checked with someone.”
“Yes,” the headmaster said sternly, “you should have.”
Asher and I sat quietly.
“Do you think they’ll have to review security protocols?” I asked meekly. “If you consider the Mentos weaponized . . .”
“Oh God.” Asher turned to me, wide-eyed. “What if the media gets ahold of it?”
The headmaster stood suddenly, as if sitting had become severely uncomfortable. He walked toward the window and stared out, clearly aggrieved. Asher gestured to me, and I nodded, slipping my phone out of my bag. I took a picture of the photo on the wall. A quick glance at my phone told me the glare was a problem. I glanced over at the headmaster.
“I’m a reasonable man,” Headmaster Raleigh said, still staring out the window. “I hope I’ve impressed upon you how serious this is . . .”
I leaned to the side and tried to get a picture from a different angle as the headmaster droned on. The glare was still there. I rose up slightly on the balls of my feet, my butt leaving the chair, as I leaned over farther.
The second after I snapped the photo, the headmaster started turning back to face us. I thrust my phone into my pocket and tried to retake my seat. Asher thought fast and opted for a distraction: he leaned back in his chair and toppled over, yowling like a cat in a tub full of ice water.
Headmaster Raleigh startled. I leapt to Asher’s side.
“Don’t sue!” I yelled.
“Sue?” Raleigh repeated in horror.
“Where am I?” moaned Asher.
Mission complete.
CHAPTER 35
Ivy picked me up after school, which I took to be a bad sign. Worse, she’d driven herself.
“Probation?” she said, the second I got in the car. “You’ve been at the school less than two weeks, and you’re already on probation?”
She started to pull out of the parking lot, and I hastily buckled my seat belt, remembering what Adam had said about her driving.
“What were you thinking?” she demanded.
Somehow, I was gathering intel on a political conspiracy you told me to stay away from didn’t slide right off the tongue.
“You know what’s going on right now, Tess. You know what I’m working on. Do you really think I have time to be dealing with some teenage discipline problem?”
That cut deeper than I would have expected. “I wasn’t trying to be a problem.”
“Can you at least tell me why?” Ivy’s voice was terse. “Is it because you feel like I’m ignoring you? Are you angry about the way I took care of Vivvie’s situation?”
“It wasn’t about you.”
“I have been trying so hard, Tess.” Ivy’s voice was softer now. “And I thought—” She cut herself off, then cut someone off in traffic. A horn blared behind us. “I thought we were doing okay. I thought you were starting to trust me. I thought . . .”
My eyes stung. I wasn’t sure if the tears were because she was acting like I’d crossed some uncrossable line or because a big part of me couldn’t help wanting to get somewhere with Ivy, wanting things to be like they used to be.
Wanting them to be better.
“Sorry if I’m complicating your life.” I stared out the windshield, my eyes on the road. It only hurts if you let it. I pushed back against the emotions building inside of me.
“Tessie,” Ivy said.
I stared down at my lap, willing myself not to care. It’s Tess.
Ivy’s grip tightened around the steering wheel. “Nothing is more important to me than you are.”
I felt like she’d slammed a knife into my gut. I pressed my palms flat against my stomach. I couldn’t do this. Not with her. We sank into silence like a drowning man sinks into water. Neither one of us could come up for
air.
“I love you.” Ivy chose those three words to break the silence. “Whether you believe that or not, whether you even hear me saying it or not, I do. You’re my . . .”
Sister, I thought, the muscles in my throat clenching. For so long, that word had come tangled with meanings.
“You’re my family, Tess. And family isn’t something I have ever been good at. I wasn’t a good daughter. I haven’t been a good granddaughter. But I am trying to be the kind of sister you deserve.” Ivy pulled onto her street and slowed. “Consider yourself grounded.”
“Grounded?” I repeated incredulously.
Ivy pulled into the driveway. “Don’t plan on going anywhere for the next two weeks.” By the time she finished that sentence, her attention was clearly elsewhere. I followed her gaze to a dark-colored sedan across the street.
“Stay in the car,” she told me, unbuckling her seat belt.
A second later, she was standing in the driveway, and William Keyes was striding toward her, like this was his house and she was the visitor.
My hand went to the door handle. Ivy told me to stay in the car. I pulled the handle and cracked the door open. She never said I couldn’t listen from here.
William Keyes had the kind of voice that carried. “We need to talk.”
“You need to leave.” Ivy’s voice went up on the last word.
“I thought we’d reached an understanding. When the president came to you for your thoughts on Edmund Pierce, you were supposed to back him.”
Keyes wants Pierce to get the nomination. My mind raced. I thought about the photo on my phone. William Keyes had been there—wherever there was—with Pierce and Vivvie’s father. My hand curled tighter around the door handle.
“I never agreed to anything,” Ivy told the older man calmly. I wondered if she suspected him of being involved. I wondered if Adam suspected him.
“You were supposed to get your president in line.” Keyes clearly meant those words as an indictment.
“He’s your president, too,” Ivy replied.
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