Hacking Harvard

by Robin Wasserman

  "I want out," Eric said, once they were outside.

  "What?"

  "Out. This is fucked up, and you know it. I'm not blackmailing anyone."

  "Just calm down." Max put a hand on Eric's shoulder. Eric shrugged him off. "No one said anything about blackmail."

  "You just-- "

  "I was only trying to soothe the savage beast," Max said, and Eric could tell he was doing everything to turn on the charm. The problem was that when you'd known someone for ten years, covered for them, nearly got arrested with them (twice), cleaned up their messes and their puke, charm lost its effectiveness.

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  "You want to do it," Eric said. "I can tell. You're thinking about it."

  "Well. . ." Max kicked at the wall. "Of course I'm thinking about it! I'd be crazy not to. What we've got riding on this ..."

  "It's blackmail, Max! That's not just illegal-- "

  "Like we've never done illegal before. It doesn't violate the terms of the bet, and that's what counts. Anything else is just drawing an arbitrary line. Yes to cheating on the SATs, no to a little harmless-- "

  "It's not harmless!" Eric lowered his voice as a group of drunken lacrosse players stumbled by. "How do you not get that? It doesn't matter what the terms of your stupid bet say. This is different. We could ruin this guy's life."

  "Our stupid bet. And you're being a little melodramatic, don't you think? What about the ends justifying the means? What about the cause?"

  "Like you give a shit about 'the cause,'" Eric shot back. "All you care about is winning. So enjoy. But I'm out."

  "Oh, give it up!" Max shouted. "If you're going to ruin everything, at least be honest about it. Don't give me this 'moralistic crap."

  Its not--

  "This isn't about blackmail and it isn't about Salazar," Max said. "It's about her."

  "Her who?"

  "You think I don't know what's going on here? You feel guilty, I get that. So what? She'll get in, she won't get in, whatever. It's not your problem."

  "You're talking out of your ass," Eric said.

  "The whole thing won't come down for months, and she seems

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  like a girl who goes after what she wants, so I'm sure even you can hit third base by then, maybe even slide into--"

  "Shut up about her!"

  Max leaned against the wall and tipped his head back. "So I take it we're done playing clueless?"

  "This isn't about Lex," Eric said firmly. "But fine. You're right. I feel guilty. Happy now? This hack doesn't feel right--we're screwing people over, and now you've got Salazar involved, and everything's messed up."

  "Giving you the perfect excuse to back out. To betray your best friend, just so you can get some."

  "I'm not--" Eric took a deep breath, resisting the urge to punch the snarl off of Max's face. "I'm not betraying anyone."

  "You can tell yourself that, if it makes you feel better, but you know we can't do this without you." Max dug his nails into the brick. "I can't do this without you."

  "So don't do it at all. Just back out. What's stopping you?"

  Max pursed his lips. "Nothing."

  "Fine. Then do it without me, or don't. But I can't be a part of it anymore." He gave Max an apologetic smile, unsure of what he was apologizing for. Max could believe what he wanted, but Eric wasn't betraying him for a girl. No matter how it felt. He was just trying to do the right thing. And that meant walking away.

  "Eric--wait!"

  Eric stopped and turned. Max closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. "I can't back out," he said quietly.

  "Why?"

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  "The bet. It's not twenty-five hundred dollars." His voice was now so quiet that Eric could barely hear him.

  He took a step closer, feeling sick. "How much, Max?"

  "There's some stuff you don't know," Max said. "Extenuating circumstances."

  "Max?"

  "The thing is . . ." Max thudded his head against the brick, then rubbed his hands through his spiky black hair like if he pressed hard enough, he could squeeze out the answer. "You'll think it was stupid, but when you hear the details, you'll see it was really genius."

  Eric waited. He could feel his half-digested burger bubbling and churning.

  "And it's not a problem. It sounds bad, I know it sounds bad, that's why I didn't tell you, but we're good. I've got it handled. I'm handling it. We're good."

  "How much?"

  Max shook his head.

  "Max! How much?"

  "Twenty-five thousand."

  Eric pressed his lips together, trying to swallow down the bile. It burned his throat.

  He spun away, unable to look at Max. Tried to process. Tried to breathe.

  No yelling, he told himself. There had to be an out. Every problem had its solution, even something as unbelievable, as ridiculous, as offensive, as outrageous-- Calm down, he thought. Breathe. Figure this out. Think.

  He turned slowly, expecting Max to show some sign of shame or

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  remorse. Or even fear. But, now that the truth was out, Max stood firm, meeting Eric's gaze without flinching.

  "Twenty-five thousand dollars," Eric said.

  Max nodded.

  "How is that possible?" He kept his voice cool and measured. He shoved his hands in his pockets, where they could do no harm. "Where would the Bums even get that kind of money?"

  Max sighed. "Remember a few months ago, when I bought up all that StasiTech stock?"

  "And they lost their patent and it crashed?" Eric remembered. He'd invested a hundred dollars from his bar mitzvah savings account in Max's can't-lose endeavor. He'd lost. "You dropped a couple thousand, right?"

  "Yeah ... if a couple can be construed as ten. I lost everything. My whole savings."

  Eric's eyes bulged. "How could you be so stupid?"

  "You and Schwarz are the prodigies." Max shrugged, sounding far more listless than he looked. "I'm just . . . the idea guy. And sometimes my ideas are . . ."

  "Moronic?"

  "I was going to say, in need of some fine-tuning. But whatever. Semantics, right?" He gave Eric a wry smile. "The Bums, on the other hand . . . that whole buy low, sell high thing seems to have worked out a bit better for them."

  "The Bongo Bums are day traders?"

  "Yeah, and the best." Max linked his hands behind his neck. "I don't know how much they've got, but . . . it's enough to cover the bet. It was all their idea."

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  "But why?" It came out as half-question, half-growl. Eric's calm and rational side had put up a brave fight, but it was losing ground. "Why would you go along with it?"

  Now Max did, finally, look away. "My parents are cutting me off. If I don't play their little game, do the Harvard thing, then I'm off the Kim meal ticket. And XemonCo ..."

  "They're paying you in stock options," Eric said, beginning to understand. "Which are worth nothing."

  " Yet. But they will be. In the future--"

  "In the now, you're broke."

  "Broke and screwed. All thanks to Maxwell Sr." He looked up again, his face eager and hopeful. "But he hasn't won yet. I just need some starter cash, something to get me on my way. And this will be good for all of us--tell me you don't want a cut of twenty-five thousand dollars!"

  "Tell me what you're planning to do if we lose."

  "We can't lose. We won't lose," Max said defiantly. "And I'm not backing out. I need this too much." The fight went out of his voice, along with the huckster charm. It was just Max, naked and desperate. "I need you."

  "I can't believe you did something so stupid."

  "Believe it."

  Eric sighed. "I can't keep lying to her," he said, almost to himself. "And if Clay gets in and she gets rejected ..."

  "Maybe you can just tell her the truth," Max suggested. "We could feed her info, like Salazar. She might be so grateful, she would--" Seeing Eric's expression, he shut his mouth.

  Eric couldn't do it. He couldn't tel
l her anything. She'd never understand--and she'd probably never forgive him.

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  "You're my best friend," Max said. "Ten years. And how many times have I asked for your help?"

  "Plenty."

  "I don't mean like asking you to contribute to the term paper file or stash some evidence. I mean, how many times have I asked you for something big, something that I really needed?"

  Never. Not like this.

  "How long have you known this girl?" Max asked. "How well could you know her? It's not like she knows anything about you-- half of everything you've told her is a lie."

  Eric still believed in the cause. In some ways, Lex just made him believe in it more. But he didn't want to be the one who hurt her. On the other hand, Eric thought, what were the odds that Clay's application would have any impact on Lex's? Harvard got twenty thousand applicants a year; statistically, nothing Eric chose to do could have any effect. But that didn't mean she would see it that way.

  He didn't want to lie to her anymore. He didn't want to screw everything up. But maybe it didn't matter what Eric wanted. Not today.

  Max watched him closely. Ten years, Eric thought. It was a long time.

  "No blackmail," he said finally. "Tell Bernard whatever you have to, but we're not playing by his rules."

  Max sagged with relief. "Done."

  "And we don't tell Schwarz. He'll freak out and go into Playboy Bunny panic land, and that won't help any of us."

  "My lips are sealed."

  "And if you lie to me again ..."

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  Max shook his head, and held his hands out to his sides, magicianlike. Nothing up my sleeve.

  "If I find out there's more you're not telling me, I'm out."

  "Which means?"

  Eric sighed, pulled off his glove, and whacked Max's shoulder. "Which means, for the moment. . . I'm in. Let's get this thing done."

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  14

  Immoral and cutthroat schemes have become so much a standard mode of academic survival--experts say it now begins in elementary school, and I've heard of kindergartners cheating on Field Day--that many students accept it as an unavoidable part of working the system.

  --Alexandra Robbins, The Overachievers: The Secret Lives of Driven Kids

  I'm out." I felt like I was in a high school production of The Godfather. Which, I suspect, was exactly what they were going for. I was sitting in a high-backed wood chair in front of a burnished red mahogany desk wider than my mom's Buick. They sat on the other side in identical leather armchairs, facing me down like I'd come to ask for a favor from the geek mafia.

  "Meaning what, exactly, Alexandra?" In his sharp-edged voice, my name sounded like a threat.

  "Meaning I don't want to do this anymore," I said. There were no

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  windows in the basement, and the only light came from a small, Tiffany-style lamp on the desk between them. It cast both Bongo Bums in an ominous, reddish light.

  Again, probably their intention.

  "You were supposed to guilt-trip him," said the one on the left-- I'd only met them in person the one time, and couldn't remember which was which. "Not vice versa."

  "It's not a guilt trip. I just--I'm out." In the movies, it was usually that simple. Unless they killed you, and, cheesy Godfather trappings or not, these guys didn't really seem the type to whack me with a shovel and bury me in the backyard next to a dead pet hamster.

  "We had a deal," the one on the right said. "You promised certain things. We promised certain things. We all agreed."

  "And now I'm unagreeing." I wondered how many times I would need to repeat the point before it sunk in and I could return to the world of the normal, or at least the aboveground. "I'm out."

  Imagine there was something you really wanted. Not something petty, like knee-high leather boots or a new boyfriend, but something major. Something so significant that it would change your life forever. And imagine that you wanted that thing the way a child wants, without perspective, without restraint, a whole-hearted longing that consumed your entire being with the certainty that life would not, could not continue without it. Imagine that, like a child, you had no control over getting your heart's desire. You couldn't do anything other than lie awake at night and wish, furiously, desperately, hopelessly--because, not actually being a child, you would know that wishing was useless. You would know that there are no magic wishes, no fairy godmothers

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  descending with a wink and a wand. Still, useless or not, you would dutifully squeeze your eyes shut every night, curl your hands into fists, listen to your heart thud, and, like a child, let yourself believe that someone was listening when you whispered: I wish.

  Now imagine that your wish was granted.

  Imagine someone showed up on your doorstep uninvited and unannounced, and made you an offer. Everything you'd ever wanted on a silver platter, in return for a few small favors. It wouldn't cost you anything.

  It would be wrong, sure. It would break all the rules.

  But say that this person, this guy who looked less like a fairy godmother than like the lead singer of a Belle and Sebastian tribute band, who'd singled you out for some reason he wouldn't explain, could guarantee you'd never be caught. Never get in trouble.

  You would just get what you wanted.

  Would you take him up on the offer? Or shut the door in his face, despite knowing that the universe doesn't give out medals for honesty? Good deeds go unrewarded all the time, and despite what the song says, that dream that you dare to dream almost never comes true.

  Maybe there's no such thing as an offer you can't refuse; maybe you would have had the strength to turn him away.

  I didn't.

  The one on the right--he was taller, I noticed, and his lower lip curled down slightly, making his mouth look permanently puckered--leaned forward, his hands clasped together on the desk. "I don't think you get what we're saying." I could tell he was trying for low and threat

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  ening, but the natural tenor of his voice was too high. If I had closed my eyes, I might have mistaken him for a girl--and it occurred to me to ask whether the telemarketers ever confused him with his mother.

  I cut off the impulse just in time.

  The one on the left was trying to grow a mustache. Either that, or he hadn't noticed the wispy blond hairs sprouting out above his upper lip, which was possible, since they were nearly invisible, at least until you noticed them, and then it was hard not to stare. They looked like baby hairs, soft and super-fine, and though they were long enough to indicate they'd been growing for a while, there were still only about twenty of them. I realized he also had a couple growing out of his chin, like an albino billy goat.

  "What's done can be undone," mustache boy said ominously.

  "And what's built can be destroyed," added the one with the puckered smile.

  "Before you ask what that means," mustache boy continued, "it means you."

  Show, don't tell.

  That's what they always say, right? So that's what I try to do, because I always follow the rules. But I didn't show it all, because nobody's perfect, even though some of us like to act the part.

  Or maybe because I'm a coward.

  So I told you I was ruthless, like a bulldozer, service and back- stabbing with a smile; but I didn't back it up with details. I told you I wasn't a very nice person, then I acted like it wasn't really true.

  I told you I didn't trade a blow job for the valedictorian spot.

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  Truth.

  But I didn't show you what I traded instead.

  So let's start over. A little show and tell. Emphasis on the show.

  Picture me as a sixth grader, hair a little blonder and chest a bit (and only a bit) flatter, taping up a big poster board: ALEXANDRA FOR 6TH-GRADE PRES: X MARKS THE SPOT! The X was in a check box that looked like a ballot. I thought I was pretty clever.

  But not as clever as I was the next day, when
I sent an anonymous e-mail to Farrin Phelps suggesting she sneak a peek inside Katie Gibson's locker. That's where she found a love poem from Brett Lieberman to Katie:

  You are the prettiest girl in school. I think you're really cool. If you think I'm a cool dude, Will you let me touch your boob?

  I happened to know that the answer was yes, and that Katie had let him touch it not once, but three times, up in the music room while they were supposed to be practicing their solos for the winter concert. I knew this because Katie Gibson was, at the time, technically my best friend.

  Farrin Phelps was both the most popular girl in school and, until she discovered the note, Brett Lieberman's girlfriend. She also had a big mouth and a grudge-holding ability well beyond her years.

  Katie Gibson was the only other candidate for sixth-grade class council president.

  She didn't win.

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  Afterward, I didn't even feel guilty. Katie was the one messing with Farrin's boyfriend. And Farrin would have found out eventually. (Brett was barely smart enough to spell "boob"; no way could he have juggled four at once for very long.) Besides, winning felt pretty good--good enough to let me ignore a lot.

  Lest you think that was a one-time thing, fast-fotward to ninth grade. That's when things got bad. Teachers had been talking about our permanent records since nursery school, but everyone knows that nothing's really permanent until ninth grade. Colleges don't count anything before that.

  If a tree falls in the forest and it's not noted in your application, does it really make a sound?

  So there I was, determined to make my permanent, ninth-grade mark, and as far as I was concerned, that meant joining the newspaper staff. There was one spot left and it was going to either me or Ella Stryker. Ella may have been the better writer, but I wanted it more. Which I proved when Ella dropped out of the running to protest the fact that the newspaper wasn't printed on recycled paper.