But, unlike last night, there’s no need to smoke out this fox. Haven’s already outside, sitting on the front steps, head in his hands. My heart skips a little, but more in the holding-back-tears way than from actual palpitations. He’s probably been out here since they took his dad, and he watched his only parent get cuffed and stuffed into a van.
As I shut my door, headlights pull in behind me. Haven finally looks up. His face is pale, and the red around his eyes is worse than usual. I take a deep breath so I don’t break down. What good is a supportive friend who can’t keep her own shit together? I give him a little wave and he half smiles, patting the stair next to him. We don’t say anything; we just wait in silence as Rad cuts her engine and the lights dim.
I feel Haven’s whole body tense before I see that Rad isn’t alone.
Nikki trails a step behind her as they approach.
Nikki says, “Hi, guys,” her voice barely above a whisper.
It seems to trigger something in Haven, because he literally leaps from the step, his skinny body uncoiling like a spring, and wraps Nikki in a big hug.
I hear a muffled, “I’m so sorry, Nik.”
Nikki wipes at her eyes as the two of them pull apart. “I know. I know it wasn’t you.”
“I’m gonna find out who did this, I swear,” he says. “And if Mattie’s dumb enough to show his face in school tomorrow, I’ll kill him.”
Nikki groans, “No more death threats, please.”
“Besides, Mattie deserves a fate worse than death,” I say, linking my arm through Nik’s.
“For real,” Rad agrees. “Like, something medieval—oh, or that bottomless chair in Casino Royale.”
Haven shudders noticeably.
“Perfect,” Nikki says. She leans her head on Rad’s shoulder.
Nikki turns to him. “Wait, you’re coming to school tomorrow? How?”
Haven shakes his head. “Not sure. My dad called right before you guys got here. He should be released soon, just finishing up the paperwork—he’s so pissed. I guess there’s an emergency Prep parents’ meeting tonight. He’s going there to tell Nichols it wasn’t me. To clear my name. Said he can prove it. And I can’t miss any more school or I’ll lose my spot at MIT.”
“How can he prove it?” I ask.
Haven grimaces. “I don’t know. Especially since he’s been away for a week. Whatever it is, I don’t care. Just as long as he helps me get out of this.”
“What time’s the meeting?” Rad asks.
“It’s parents only, Rad,” Nikki says.
Rad shrugs it off. “Doesn’t matter. We need to find out what’s going on, if Haven really is safe to go back tomorrow.” When we all hesitate, she adds, “It’s basically a matter of life and death.”
“I’m in enough trouble as it is,” Haven says.
“I’ll stay here,” Nikki says, putting her arm around Haven.
Before I can come up with an excuse or important task for myself (aka not trespassing on school property and spying on a bunch of powerful adults), Rad says, “Looks like it’s you and me, Anna.”
“Not gonna lie,” I say. “This sounds like an awful idea.”
“See you there at seven-oh-five sharp” is all she says.
—
On the drive to the school, I call my therapist. Tonight, alone in my car, on the way to breaking into my high school, feels like the right time.
“It would suck for anyone, Anna,” Dr. Bechdel is saying. “Anyone. Even beyond what’s happened to your friends, it’s such a major invasion of privacy. Does it make you worry that your own information could be leaked?”
I take a deep breath. “Terrified.”
Talking to Dr. Bechdel instantly unseals something in me that I usually keep closed. She’s so calm and nonjudgmental. It feels really safe.
“Have you been following it all on tweets?” she asks.
I also love how adorably untechie she is.
“Just lurking a bit, but I haven’t posted anything.”
“It’s natural that you’re curious. Anyone would be. I think it’s important to try to keep what you see in perspective, though. Try to remember, what you see on there is not the whole story. It’s no one’s whole reality.”
Another nice thing about Dr. Bechdel is that she never speaks in absolutes; she doesn’t chide you for being like everyone else. She preaches moderation.
“Let’s talk more about it at our next session,” she continues. “Until then, breathe. Remember our exercises. And you can always take a Xanax in an emergency. We want to wean off, but we don’t need any setbacks in the process, okay?”
“Got it. Thanks.”
I shared only the tip of the iceberg with Dr. Bechdel, but it felt good to hear her voice. Everything that’s happened is going to take an extralong session to get through. Doing what Rad and I are about to do could take up an entire session by itself.
As I pull into school, the parking lot is dark and filled with fancy, parent cars. Rad waves me down in her all-black spy ensemble, from her black Vans to a black beret perched on her head. In silent, tennis-shoe-clad feet, I approach.
“Are you kidding me with that hat?” I whisper-laugh.
“I need to be fully in character,” Rad says.
I look back at my car. “Hey, are you sure you want to do this? There’s still time to turn around, maybe go to the diner.”
But Rad’s firm. “Anna, we’re doing this. Now, get your phone out.”
“I literally only have my license in my pocket. Thought anything else or anything tech would be, like, a liability or something. I don’t exactly trust my phone right now.”
Rad shoots me a look, straightens her beret, and walks toward the chapel.
Against my better judgment, I follow her up the back staircase to the balcony. We kneel behind one of the banisters.
The meeting’s already well under way.
Headmaster Nichols is finishing his address, and I can’t help but notice how sweaty he looks as he speaks to the parents. “The software—and I’m no expert here; I still type up all my speeches on my good old Olivetti—was designed to be able to record data. But that function was only supposed to be turned on in the event of an emergency. Unfortunately, there was a glitch in the initial code. It turned on the recording function as soon as the students installed the application on their phones.”
An angry voice interrupts. “So you’ve been spying on our kids for a year?”
I crane my neck. The voice belongs to a fast-forward-thirty-years version of Jocelyn van Mecl, Wallace’s ex and Vanessa’s second in command.
“Certainly not,” says Headmaster Nichols. “I will reiterate that the school’s role in this was purely accidental. We’ve instructed all students to delete the app, and the board is considering taking legal action against the developer.”
“Deny, deny, deny,” Rad whispers, shaking her head. “Classic.”
Another voice, belonging to a man in a pinstripe suit, says, “Maybe you were hoping you could blackmail our kids into making large donations when they’re forty?”
A few parents laugh darkly. Headmaster Nichols ignores this one. “As I was saying,” he continues, “to halt the further spread of information, I’ll be issuing an increased penalty for any student who goes on social media on school property. Students who are caught using it will now be automatically suspended—a serious deterrent. I would appreciate it if you would enforce this mandate at home too.”
“Yeah right,” another father calls out. “Our kids are tech geniuses compared with us. The measures you’re taking are useless.”
A mother in a Chanel suit, calfskin heels, and flawless makeup raises her hand. “Frankly, I’m eager for you to shut down the podcast of this—Tommy Tippler?”
“Timmy Tepper,” Headmaster Nichols corrects.
“I love this lady’s Jackie O. look,” Rad murmurs.
“Whatever his name is, he needs to be stopped,” Jackie O. continues. “His podcast
is destructive and a menace.”
Suddenly I see someone and gasp. Haven’s dad is sitting in the back row of pews.
Rad elbows my ribs to keep me quiet. I point in Mr. Dodd’s direction. He’s a stern-looking man with the same features as Haven but a very different expression on his face.
Meanwhile, Nichols takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, blots his head and face, and says, “Timmy Tepper’s father is, unfortunately, at least for us”—he lets go with an unconvincing chuckle—“an expert in constitutional law. As many of you know, we wanted to shut down the podcast. Mr. Tepper said he’d sue us. His son’s podcast has never been permitted to broadcast from Prep grounds. But we can’t stop him from broadcasting elsewhere.”
The assembled parents let out a collective groan.
Headmaster Nichols holds up a calming hand. I think even his ears are sweating now. “Furthermore, all our efforts are focused on locating the perpetrator. I hope that until we do, you’ll be patient with us.”
“You mean that sociopath Haven Dodd,” Mrs. van Mecl says. “Why can’t you smoke him out?”
“Here we go,” Rad whispers, inching her dutifully recording phone closer to the edge of the balcony.
“There is no proof that Haven Dodd had anything to do with this. What’s more, earlier today, a student called in a false—and very serious—claim that Haven was planning an attack at Prep, which led to a dangerous incident with the police. Actions such as this are no better than—”
Nichols is cut short when Mr. Dodd stands at the back of the chapel.
The rest of the audience murmurs excitedly. They’re just like us, I see now. Hungry for more dirt. So much for maturing as we age.
“Joe—Mr. Dodd,” Nichols says. “We’re glad you’re here.”
“My son had nothing to do with these leaks,” Mr. Dodd says, his voice calm.
“Bullshit,” someone calls out.
But Mr. Dodd continues, undeterred. “I know Haven didn’t do this because I can prove that Jethro Stephens is responsible.”
—
You know when you’re on a bridge or rooftop with no railing and you get that weird feeling that you’ll fall? Even if you’re not planning to throw yourself off, it’s still scary. It’s like your body might betray you and spaz out, or some external force will push you. Well, right now I’m driving home, breathing as slowly as possible and trying not to let anything tip me one way or another. Trying not to crash.
The parents’ meeting got out of hand after Mr. Dodd threw Jethro under the bus—no, scratch that: threw him under the freaking combine harvester. Rad sensed I was close to panic, because she eventually tucked her phone in her back pocket, squeezed my hand, and guided me back down the stairs. Rad thinks they probably have as little on Jethro as they do on Haven, which is to say nada. But something about Mr. Dodd’s voice makes me wonder.
Finally I can’t take it anymore.
I pull over on the side of the road and dial Jethro.
“They need a scapegoat,” he says calmly after I explain what’s happened.
“I’m worried, Jethro,” I tell him.
“About me?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, what if the cops come for you? What about MIT?”
“Whoa, Anna, chill. Let’s take it one day at a time.”
“I’m sorry. I’m getting more worked up about this than you are.”
“Yeah, let’s back up for a sec, hold off on the anxiety till we really need it.”
“Hey, I’ve got anxiety for days. I can share it with you anytime.”
I can practically hear him smiling. “I kind of can’t believe Mr. Dodd said that in front of everyone,” Jethro says.
“And you didn’t do it!” I say. “What do you think Mr. Dodd has?”
Jethro inhales. “I don’t know. The only thing I can think of is that he caught me using Haven’s computer at their house last week. We thought the place was empty. Haven went out to get takeout and left me there. Mr. Dodd walked in and saw I was finishing some stupid hack Haven started.”
“What were you hacking?”
“Haven was trying to get into the mainframe of the National Zoo.”
“The zoo?”
“It was a joke. He was gonna change the names of some of the donors to stupid animal names. John McMonkey. William P. Walrus. It was so dumb; he was just trying to see if we could do it. Mr. Dodd came home early, I took the blame. There was no point in bringing Haven down too.”
“So what…now he’s using that as his proof?”
“It doesn’t look good,” Jethro says, then makes some grumbling sound I can’t quite decipher. I can picture him sitting on the blue-carpeted floor of his bedroom, among the comic books and vinyls, back to the frame of his wooden bed.
“Anna, listen,” he tells me. “I gotta go somewhere.”
“What? Where?”
“I don’t know. I just need to figure some things out.”
“Like, away from home? How can I reach you?”
“Just give me some time,” he says. “I love you.”
Those three words.
I’ve said them to Rad and Nikki a million times. But I’ve never said them to Jethro or any other boy before. I don’t know exactly what they mean tonight.
“I love you too, Jethro.”
Whether or not I’m in love with him is beside the point right now.
—
As I take out my keys to unlock the front door to my house, I hear footsteps rushing around inside. Then the door flies open, and Mom stares back at me—with a look I don’t understand. Does she know what Rad and I just did somehow?
“I just got the mail,” Mom says. “There’s an envelope, Anna. From RISD.”
My heart jumps.
I rush inside, looking around, and quickly snatch up the envelope from the dining room table. It’s large. I can feel that it’s full of papers. Does that mean…?
“Dear Anna,” I read aloud to Mom and Dad, my voice quivering. “Thank you for your application. We are delighted to offer you a place at the Rhode Island School of Design!” Then I see the final sentence, and my eyes well on the spot.
“Oh my God,” I tell my parents. “I got a partial scholarship.”
They hug me; they hug each other. We sit on the couch, and Dad lets me have a little sip of his wine to celebrate. Mom kisses my head. They’re so proud of me. At least now I have a way out. I’m not going to be here forever. Despite everything, I feel so lucky. For a moment, the leaks, Nikki’s crying in the bathroom, the parents’ meeting, even Jethro—all fall away from my mind.
Until they don’t.
Once I’m alone in my bedroom, I text Rad, Nikki, Andrew, Haven, and Dr. Bechdel about getting into college. I text Jethro and tell him to call again when he can.
The girls and Andrew hit me back immediately—all super excited. Not to be self-absorbed, but it’s a tiny bright spot for all of us right now, I think. I hope the rest of them get into school soon and it helps them forget about this disaster, even just for a moment.
Nothing from Haven or Jethro. Haven texted me and Rad a dozen times after he found out what happened to tell us his dad is making him keep his mouth shut or he’s going to take away his phone, his computers, his car keys, everything. Without those things, he can barely live, much less help prove Jethro didn’t do this.
I throw open my laptop and message Jethro.
Call me when you can.
Hours later, I can’t sleep. My eyes are still glued to my laptop. There are about a dozen tabs open. Frida Kahlo slide shows—for self-portrait inspiration. O. J. Simpson–trial conspiracy-theory threads, for media-history class. Pictures of the RISD dorms and lists of classes offered, all of which excite me: Two-Dimensional Design. Color Theory.
But somehow I still can’t look forward.
I keep winding up back at Prep-themed hack trolling. God, I feel gross. Gross for reading about other people but even grosser for looking for information about myself. About what ot
her people think of me. For finding out whether my info has been posted on Prep for Whatever.
I shove my laptop away from me and feel around my bed for my pajamas. I feel something beneath my butt. I do all my work on the bed and almost never sit in this chair, so it’s not surprising when I find a pair of jeans crumpled up on top of it.
I dig into the pockets, and on the right side is a lump.
Jethro’s thumb drive from the first day of the semester.
It’s a relief to find it right now, this little time machine that can take me back to a time before the leaks, before the sex. Back to the time before the Torpedo Factory and before I remembered all the terrible things I said about my friends.
I uncap the top to the drive, and I’m about to stick it into one of the open USB ports when I hear a series of sounds. First comes the gavel—doink-doink—that kicks off a Law and Order episode on the TV in the den, where my parents are.
But there’s something else.
Is that…a light tapping behind me?
Someone is at my window.
I freeze. My blood goes cold.
From the shadow cast across my carpet, I can tell it’s a man!
This is not how I want to die. Not yet! I had sex with only one person! One time! I didn’t even get to go to RISD and see if I find myself!
“Anna! Open up. It’s me.”
Oh. I know that voice.
I unfreeze and slowly open my eyes. Craning my neck, I see a tall figure. His hands are cupped around his eyes, and he’s peering through the glass.
Palmer.
—
“Thank God you live on the first floor,” he says, swinging one long leg over the sill. But he pauses before swinging the other, so it looks, briefly, as if he’s riding the window like a pony. “Wait, is it okay if I come in?”
“I mean technically, you’re already in. But yes.”
I hurry over to my door to make sure it’s locked. My dad’s an easygoing guy, but he’s still Colombian when it comes to boys in his daughter’s bedroom. Hence the fact that this is the first time Palmer has been in here when my parents are home.
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