The Accidental Bad Girl

by Maxine Kaplan

  He startled me out of my count at forty-two. “You know you’re moving your lips?” he said. “Are you om-ing or something?”

  I opened my mouth to deny it but then stopped and shrugged. I bent down to retie my shoe, trying to avoid his eyes.

  “I didn’t take the pictures you saw on my Facebook,” I said carefully. “I didn’t post them. I don’t even know what those pictures are of.” I straightened up and looked him in his pale blue eyes. He seemed like he was listening, so I went on. “Someone else is messing with you, using me to cover their ass. It’s not me. I’ve been hacked.”

  He nodded, looking thoughtful. “I did a little independent research on you. I found out some interesting things; coincidences.”

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “Oh,” he agreed. “And I know a bunch of kids who went to Howell, so I asked around, too. Got the scoop.”

  “That was probably pretty boring.”

  “No, actually,” he said, rocking his chair back and then forward. “People had real opinions about you. Thoughts.”

  “What did they—?” I bit my lip and blushed at the eagerness in my voice.

  Mason laughed again. It was a funny laugh, tight but drawling, going all the way up and down the register.

  Suddenly, he snapped his chair all the way to the floor with a crack and leaned forward on his knees, invading my personal space with his long neck.

  Mason said, “I hate being so dramatic, but you did come looking for me, and you’re here, so . . . I do actually need to ask you something,” his voice casual, as though merely curious. “I don’t care about the pictures. Jo was the one who got all upset about them. To be honest, there wasn’t anything in those pictures you couldn’t find out by just asking around. But when a batch of doses goes missing right after I receive incriminating photographs purportedly taken by you, I have to wonder . . . well, I have to ask.”

  I waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. It was my turn to raise my eyebrow. “You’re serious?”

  “Well . . . yeah. I guess I’m serious.”

  “You think I stole, what, ‘doses’ from you?” I asked, putting finger quotations around doses. “I don’t even know what doses are. What, like, Ritalin?”

  He grinned. “Ritalin? Pedestrian. You trying to insult me?”

  “No, if you asked around about me, you probably know that I don’t go out of my way to insult people.”

  “Tell that to Audrey Khalil.”

  “You dick.” The words flew out of my mouth unpremeditated, but they felt good, and I found I couldn’t stop them. “Audrey Khalil is a hypocrite, Grant is pathetic, Jo’s a loser, and you are, in fact, a huge drama queen. I don’t know anything about your dumb-ass little drug operation, and—” I rose out of my chair and stomped my foot. “I don’t care.”

  Mason’s head cocked to the side, and he considered me. His face was impassive as Jo bounded back into the room, fuming.

  “Jesus, could she be any fucking louder?”

  Blue eyes still fixed on me, Mason suddenly smiled, his face lighting up like a particularly sinister sunrise. “Ask her yourself, Jo,” he said. “She’s right in front of you.”

  Jo’s mouth flapped open and shut like a hungry guppy. Her eyes narrowed at me, and I flashed her a toothy grin. I had sort of run out of my supply of verbal vitriol, but I felt like I was on a roll with Mason, and I didn’t want to lose my swagger before I had a chance to get out of that basement and possibly burst into tears.

  Mason abruptly got up and headed for an old-fashioned rolltop desk in the corner. He opened it and picked out a bottle of brown liquor. He poured himself a shot and then looked at me, his eyes still shining.

  “You can go if you want,” he said, gesturing to the door. “Thanks for answering my question. Sorry if I freaked you out.”

  Moving slowly, I bent over to retrieve my backpack. I nodded at Jerry, who had slunk in, and headed for the door. My foot was at the threshold when Mason said, “You want a shot before you go? You’re having a hell of a week, I’m betting.”

  He poured a shot into a cream-colored mug and held it out to me.

  Alcohol didn’t glow with glamour for me the way it did for some other kids in my class. I had always attributed that to permissive parenting and the fact that I was given access to beer and wine from thirteen on, meaning I didn’t have what I tended to think of as Puppy-Let-Off-the-Leash Syndrome.

  But I did have a secret relationship with alcohol. A sort of friends-with-benefits thing. I didn’t get drunk often, but I did have a small glass flask of bourbon swiped from my kitchen hidden in my sock drawer. If I had a bad day or felt somehow bereft or bored, I would just look at it. Every so often, I took a swig. And it made me feel better.

  I wanted that shot.

  I walked toward Mason and extracted the mug from his fingers, briefly entangling his and mine awkwardly. I drank it in one go and started to leave.

  Before I could reach the door, my nerve endings began to bubble and fizz. Giggling, I reached out for the couch. “Whoa,” I said, every single sound in the room with the volume turned up to eleven, every detail in high-def. “Strong shot.”

  I whirled around toward the door, and then the room flickered. As quickly as the colors had brightened, the world turned black from the outside in, tunneling my vision until it disappeared completely. My legs vanished from the knees down, and I felt wiry arms catch me just before I cracked my head for a third time in as many days.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Miss Evans! Kendall Evans!”

  The voice was loud and peevish. I rolled over, cushioning my head on my arms. “Alarm clock didn’t go off, Dad,” I mumbled. “I’m not late yet.”

  “Kendall, wake up. Before the other children get here.”

  I opened my eyes. Principal Myers and Ms. Lowery, his assistant, were leaning over me, blotting out what appeared to be very bright sunshine. Shading my eyes, I looked to the side to see the glass double doors of Howell Prep looming overhead.

  I bolted upright and immediately slumped back, my head aching with the exertion.

  “Kendall, do your parents know where you are?”

  I was sitting on the stone steps of my high school. My backpack was lying on its side where my head had been moments ago. I rooted around my pocket for my cell phone, fumbling under the red hoodie spread over my waist.

  The battery was dead. I squinted up at the teachers. “I’m guessing not.”

  Half an hour later I was sitting in the principal’s office, head down on the desk, trying to draw sustenance from the smell steaming out of a mug of cheap teachers’ lounge coffee but feeling ill at the thought of moving my head to take a sip. Although, with my nose facing downward, I could smell myself, creating my own grim, bodily catch-22. I reeked of whiskey and sweat and sported a damp brown stain on my top, making the cotton stick to my chest.

  The door opened, and my parents rushed into the office, kneeling down on either side of me.

  My mother was pale and wild-eyed. “Kendall! Ken Doll, are you OK?” I nodded mutely. She narrowed her eyes at the obvious lie. “Kendall, are you crazy?” she continued in the same fast, breathless voice. “What are you doing? Are you being hazed or something?”

  I moaned involuntarily. “Mom, please take Pretty Little Liars off your Netflix queue.”

  My mother shook me by the shoulders, and when she spoke again, her voice was harder. “This is not about me, Ken Doll. You are damn lucky this is a private school and no one called the police. And no one’s going to.” Here she shot a stern look at Principal Myers, who put his hands up.

  My dad patted my head. “Judith, of course this is about us, as well. We need to have more talks with Kendall. She’s at a transitional threshold.”

  Helplessly, I swiveled in my chair to Principal Myers, silently begging him to just start yelling and get them out of there.

  “Mr. Evans, Mrs. Evans, please take a seat.” He pulled out two chairs from the row by the wall. My parents
sat on either side of me, locking me in. Dad put his arm around my shoulders, and Mom sniffed my hair, muttering, “Oh, Jesus,” under her breath.

  Principal Myers cleared his throat. “To be honest, Kendall, you’ve been the topic of some discussion among your teachers, and I’d be lying if I said they weren’t somewhat concerned about—”

  My mother cut in. “Her grades are perfectly acceptable. She got honor roll all last year, as you know, and there is no reason she won’t achieve the same level of excellence this year. That is, before she leaves Howell to attend one of the most prestigious math and science programs for high school students in the country. I believe my assistant faxed over her YATS acceptance letter. The list has also been published on the program’s website, so feel free to put her accomplishment in the alumni magazine.”

  He grimaced and continued, ignoring Mom’s barbs. “I know that last year we made the decision to put the incident at graduation behind us, but . . . I may have been misguided there. Especially as it seems to be the harbinger of a somewhat worrying new pattern of behavior—‘acting out,’ if you will.”

  “What sort of behavior?” my dad asked calmly. Even I had to give him a “you kidding me?” face.

  “I’m not interested in rehashing the incident at graduation,” said my mom tersely. “Let’s focus on the situation we find ourselves in this morning, please. What are you saying in real terms, Principal Myers? Is Kendall going to be suspended?”

  “I’d like to interject one thing here,” I said. All three of the grown-ups looked at me.

  I struggled to find the words. “Last night wasn’t my fault. I didn’t get drunk. I mean, I had one drink,” I admitted, looking into the unbelieving eyes of my parents, “but that’s not why—”

  Principal Myers cut me off, waving my mouth shut with his hand. “I understand that things get out of control sometimes, Kendall. Everyone knows that you’re a well-intentioned and bright young woman. But we can’t ignore present behavior just because you’ve always been a good kid.”

  “No, I swear, this wasn’t me, it was—”

  This time, my mother cut me off, squeezing my arm and entering the conversation in the deep, authoritative tone that meant she was going to get her way. “Kendall, I think you should go wash your face and get ready for school while your father and I finish our conversation with Principal Myers. Since you’re not getting suspended.”

  My mother’s agenda clear, I left the room and headed for the little bathroom in the main office, wanting to avoid gen pop for as long as possible.

  I looked in the mirror. My bruise had healed a little over the last couple of days, but I looked wrecked on a whole different level now. Feeling slightly ashamed, I shucked off my sweatshirt and wiped my underarms and chest down with damp paper towels.

  I was still wearing Jerry’s tie around my neck. I threw it into the trash. As I swung my sweatshirt around my shoulders, a piece of paper, neatly folded into a cootie catcher, tumbled into the sink. My name was written on it in black Sharpie.

  Here’s what the note said:

  Hi Kendall.

  Don’t be mad.

  I slammed my fist into the mirror and then swore as I examined the raw skin of my knuckles, followed by the completely undamaged mirror. I took a long, deep breath and continued to read.

  Don’t be mad. I mean, be mad for a little while, sure, why not, but don’t stay mad.

  I believe you when you say you have no idea where the missing doses are. I am even willing to give you the benefit of the doubt on the pictures. You probably have nothing to do with this, or you didn’t mean to anyway.

  But here’s my problem: Someone at Howell does have the doses. And someone at Howell has decided to pin their shit on you. And as I don’t have the time or desire to trawl high school social media tracking the activities of everybody at that school who’s got issues with you and cross-reference any connection with me, I have a proposition for you.

  I want you to find out who took my doses. I don’t like getting robbed. If you do this for me, you’ll have a new friend—and I can be a very good friend.

  If you refuse, I can get you kicked out of YATS.

  I sucked in my breath and blinked a few times, sure I couldn’t have read that right. How could he even know about YATS? I hadn’t told anyone. But I looked again, and there it was: I can get you kicked out of YATS.

  I kept reading.

  I bet you think I’m bluffing, the letter went on. Like, how would I even be able to do that? But, the thing is, it would actually be easy. This is your bad luck, but I spent all summer in Houston, specifically on the campus of Rice University. I had some business with a post-grad who’s going to be a TA at YATS. This TA owes me a favor. And there are any number of ways I can cash in. Would you rather you get caught cheating or failing a test? Would you rather it happen once you’ve already gone out there, or should I have the TA in question get an anonymous tip from a teacher at Howell about how he suspects you cheated on the entrance exam, trigger a re-test, and have you fail that one, so your parents save on airfare?

  Think about it, Kendall. What won’t people believe about you at this point?

  Do you really want to test it?

  —Mason

  There was a knock on the bathroom door. I knew I needed to answer, but with each new, horrifying word, icicles had formed in my head, blocking rational thought.

  There was no solution except the one Mason had given me. I could keep my dignity and do what he said and go to YATS. Or I could refuse and be even more disgraced than I already was. Principal Meyers had just made clear that my school was already primed to believe the worst of me. They were expecting more scandal, not less.

  Fear is a zero-sum equation, I told myself sternly. Fear has a value of zero.

  “Kendall!”

  “Yeah,” I said, stuffing the note in my jeans pocket and turning on the faucet. “I’ll be out in a second.” I counted a full four seconds, one for each month until YATS. When I was done, all I felt was determined.

  I looked up at the mirror and tucked my hair back behind my ears. My face looked calm. My eyes were bright. “Here we go,” I whispered at my reflection.

  I reentered the office and stood behind my parents.

  Principal Myers looked exhausted and annoyed. “Well, Kendall, you are not to be suspended. And please do accept my congratulations on YATS. But all three of us want it understood that you’re on a very real probation. Any more disciplinary problems at all and you will be suspended, at the least. Is that clear?”

  “Yes. Thank you for not suspending me.”

  He sighed. “I think I interrupted you earlier. If you have something you would like to tell us, please do so.”

  Voices from the hallway began to pour in through the open door. Naya Muñoz, our sharp-eyed student council president with uncannily sleek, pitch-black hair, walked in to drop something off with Ms. Lowery. She stopped in her tracks when she saw me.

  Naya looked at me with an expansive, all-seeing gaze. “Good morning, Kendall,” she said, in her loud, bell-like voice. “Should I tell Mr. Krieger that you’ll be late to homeroom?” I pictured that voice reverberating against the ceiling and careening endlessly throughout the school like a ping-pong ball.

  “Nope,” I said, cheerfully. “I’ll be right there.” I turned back to Principal Myers and my parents.

  “It wasn’t important. Thank you for your understanding. I’m going to do my best to make this better. I promise.”

  I meant it. Whatever it took, I would get myself out of this. I fingered the note in my pocket and made myself a promise:

  Whatever it takes.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  By fifth period, all I had to do was lean back in AP American History and all eyes were on me. It had been a long time since Howell had seen a good downward spiral. And now there was blood in the water. If anything, my sophomore effort was even more exciting than sleeping with Grant Powers in the gym—just where had I been last n
ight?

  “She was definitely out with Grant. He’s still in the city.”

  I was in the locker room bathroom when I heard the first rumor. Of course, Naya had busted me right away.

  “No way. Audrey’s got him on lockdown.” That was Ellie Kurtz—I’d recognize her whitewater rapid of a voice anywhere. “But you’re right, I’m betting it was some NYU freshman orientation thing. Where else is she going to find a party that doesn’t card on a Wednesday night?”

  “Did you see her before homeroom?” Naya again. “Totally wrecked,” she went on. “I can’t believe they didn’t send her home right then and there.”

  “Wait. I just thought of something. You don’t think she did anything? Like, on the steps?”

  “Well, we know she’s not conscientious about cleaning up the condom wrapper, so my guess is, we’ll find out.”

  “Oh god, that’s traumatizing. You should send a PSA out in your student council minutes, suggesting we all exit out the back, at least until it rains.”

  “Ugh, if only.”

  As soon as they swung out into the locker room proper, I banged my head against the wall. Now I had slept with some college guy on the steps of Howell. At least I was still using protection.

  It was a relief when I finally got to lunch—a blessed free period. I headed to the computer room and pulled up my Facebook profile. Facebook had sent me a new log-in that morning, so I had access to the whole account, but I stopped at the profile picture. Again, I studied it closely, but this time for clues.

  I copied and pasted it into Photoshop. Blew it up. Tried to ignore my giant, glowing face and focus on the background. I highlighted the negative space between my tilted head and shoulder and zoomed in.

  There was something there. I squinted at the screen and tried to make it out through what seemed like a cloud of brown-black dust. It was as if someone had laid a film over the image.