“Beth Manning and Miranda Stevens are two of my best students,” Powell said dubiously. “Are you sure—”
“It was them, Mr. Powell. I’m positive. Just look into it—you’ll see I was right.”
For a moment, Harper pictured how Miranda’s face would look when she got summoned to the vice principal’s office to receive her punishment, sure to be especially harsh under the new “no-tolerance” regime. But she pushed the image out of her mind.
Miranda had no regrets, right?
Fine. Good. Then neither would she.
In her backpack, Beth carried: four sharpened Dixon Ticonderoga pencils, and a pale pink pencil sharpener in the shape of a rose. Just in case. One Mead notebook and one matching folder for each class, color coded. A folded-up picture of her twin brothers, stuffed into the front pocket. Two dollars in quarters, for vending machine snacks. A pack of wintergreen Eclipse gum, to help her stay awake in history class, where the teacher had a bad habit of droning on and on about his long-ago European vacation. A Winnie the Pooh wallet she’d gotten on a family trip to Disneyland and had never had the heart to replace. And today, Beth carried two neatly typed, four-page-long speeches on the subject of education, each bound together with a single staple positioned in the upper-left-hand corner.
One speech was eloquent, witty, and succinct, seamlessly shifting back and forth between heartfelt personal anecdotes and powerful generalizations. It was a sure winner.
The second speech was awkward, wordy, and nonsensical, filled with run-on sentences and the occasional misspelling. It was hackneyed and repetitive and made stunningly obvious pronouncements such as, “Without teachers, there could be no schools.” It was a loser, from beginning to end.
The first speech was written by a Jane A. Wilder, of Norfolk, New Jersey. The second speech was written by Beth Manning, hastily spit out in the early hours of the morning because, at four A.M., she’d finally given up on sleep and decided that she needed a backup plan in case she decided not to let Jane A. Wilder unknowingly save the day.
As she approached the principal’s office, she took both essays out of her bag. There was a box, just inside the door, marked SPEECHES FOR THE GOVERNOR. It was almost empty—but lying on top was one titled “Education: You Break It,You Buy It.” By Harper Grace.
Beth resisted the temptation to pull it out of the box and read it—she’d rather not know. And she resisted the even stronger temptation to take it from the box, stuff it in her backpack, and run away.
Instead, she focused on her choice: Do the right thing or do the smart thing.
What good would it do her to be an ethical person if she was stuck practicing her ethics in Grace, California for the rest of her life, earning a junior college degree in food preparation and then working at the diner for the next fifty years until she dropped dead of boredom in the middle of a vat of coleslaw? On the other hand, what good would it be to wow the admissions committee, earning her ticket to a bright and better tomorrow, all the while knowing she was living a life that, in truth, belonged to Jane A. Wilder of Norfolk, New Jersey?
She did what she had to do.
She flipped a coin—and in the flicker of disappointment that shot through her as soon as she saw Abraham Lincoln’s stern profile gazing up from the center of her palm, she realized the decision she wanted to make. She ignored the coin, and put one of the speeches back in her bag. The other went into the box.
Right or wrong, it was, in the end, her only choice.
Adam shuffled into the coach’s office and slouched down in the uncomfortable metal folding chair, doing his best to avoid the coach’s hostile stare. They sat in silence for a moment as Adam waited for the shouting to begin. He’d been waiting all week for the coach to summon him about the big fight and finally dish out his punishment. But that didn’t mean he was looking forward to it. And he had no intention of speaking first.
“I assume you know why you’re here?” Coach Wilson finally asked.
Adam nodded.
“Instigating a brawl with the whole school watching?” He shook his head. “Not smart.”
Adam shrugged.
“The Weston Wolves’ point guard broke his nose, and their center will be out for half the season with two broken fingers.”
Adam shrugged again.
“Well?” the coach asked, his face reddening the way it did at Saturday morning practice when it was obvious half the team was too hung over to see the ball, much less send it into the basket.
“Well what?” Had there been a question in there somewhere? Adam hadn’t been paying much attention. He just wanted to get this over with.
“Well, don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”
Adam shook his head.
“Damn it, Morgan!” The coach slammed his palm down on the desk with a thud. “What’s wrong with you? When I took over this team, all anyone could talk about was Adam Morgan, how talented he was, what a great team leader he was—and do you know what I found instead?”
Silence.
“I found you. You screw up in practice, you screw up in the games, you’re surly, you’re unfocused, and on the night you finally start playing to your capacity, you start a damned fight. What’s wrong with you?”
Having made it this far into the meeting without saying more than two words, Adam suddenly found the inertia too much to fight.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you, Morgan, but I don’t like it. I’ve got no use for hotheads.”
Just get to the point, Adam thought.
“I should probably throw you off the team.”
Adam searched himself for shock, despair, or any of the other reactions you’d expect at the thought that basketball, the last good thing in his life, could disappear. But he couldn’t find any. He just felt numb. And if getting thrown off the team meant he didn’t have to confront Kane’s smirk, day in and day out—maybe it would be for the best.
“But I’m not going to.You’re too good. I’m giving you one last chance, Morgan. Don’t screw it up.”
Again, Adam waited for the flood of emotion, relief. It didn’t come.
“Don’t thank me yet,” the coach continued, ignoring the fact that Adam hadn’t moved. “You know the administration is cracking down this month. Everyone involved in the fight gets two weeks’ detention—except you. As the instigator, in addition to the detentions, you’ll be suspended from school for five days.”
Suspended, while everyone else, including Kane, got off with detention? That was enough to slice through Adam’s apathy.
“Coach, the other guys were all in it, just as much as I was. I saw Kane Geary snap that guy’s fingers—” It was a lie, but who cared?
“And I saw you take Geary down, so I wouldn’t be throwing his name around if I were you. At least he had too much class to come in here and tattle on you like a little baby.”
“Class?” All Kane had was the ability to charm any gullible adult who crossed his path. “He had it coming, Coach,” Adam protested, rising from his chair. “You don’t know him, he’s—” But there was nothing he could say, not here. The frustration building, Adam swept his arms in a long, swift arc, knocking the folding chair off balance. It toppled over and skidded across the floor.
“I’d advise you to calm yourself down now, son,” the coach warned. Adam breathed heavily through his mouth and resisted the urge to react to that single, offensive word. Son. Only his father had ever called him that, and only when he was drunk and angry—and Adam had been foolish enough to get in his way. “I’m going to forget we had this little chat, Morgan,” the coach said, leaning back in his chair. “And when you come back from your suspension, you and I, we can start with a clean slate. I would advise you to use this week to take a serious look at your behavior, and find a way to get it under control. Before you get yourself into some serious trouble.” He flicked his hand in dismissal. “Now, get out.”
And, ever obedient, Adam did as he was told.
; Maybe he would follow the coach’s advice and spend his week off trying to relax, trying to move on and forget about the wreck Harper, Kane, and Kaia had made out of his life. Maybe he could even accept that Beth wasn’t going to forgive him. Maybe he could find a way to live without the constant urge to break something.
Maybe.
Kaia used to struggle with staying awake in school; now, though it seemed like she hadn’t slept in days, she arrived every morning feeling like she’d injected a double espresso directly into her bloodstream. She was too aware of every set of eyes that might be tracking her path down the hall.
She stared down at her desk every day in French class, feeling Powell’s gaze resting on her from across the room. Reed was nowhere to be found, and yet it felt like he was everywhere, lurking in corners, peering out from behind lockers, sneaking glimpses of her—but disappearing as soon as she sensed his presence.
She’d had her car repainted and washed it three times, but she could still trace her fingers along the ghostly letters. They were too faint to make out, but she knew they were there, hiding under the new coat of paint, for only her to see.
So she spent her days watching and waiting, and her nights lingering in town, wandering the narrow, broken down streets of Grace, preferring to stay away from her empty house and its loud silence. The last three nights she’d gone to a movie at the Starview Theater. The same movie was showing each night—Clueless. She didn’t like the film very much; as someone intimately familiar with a realworld life of luxury, she didn’t have much patience with the movie’s shoddy impersonation. But still there was something strangely appealing about sitting alone in the dark, surrounded by strangers, watching a completely predictable life unfold with perfect symmetry on the screen.
Besides, it gave her something to do.
It was ridiculous, Kaia told herself, spinning the combination lock on her locker, all this angst over a one-time thing. It could have been a random act of vandalism—it’s not like there weren’t enough bored delinquents running loose in this town. There was no reason to think that she’d been a carefully chosen target.
Kaia opened up her locker, and a small envelope fell out. An envelope she’d never seen before, an envelope that couldn’t have been slipped in through the vent because her locker had no vent. Just a door, and a lock. And someone out there knew the combination.
She looked up and down the hallway. No one was watching her.They were all absorbed in their own lives. Or so it appeared.
The envelope was small, and light blue. And it was blank. She stuck a nail under the seam and slowly ripped it open, unaware that she was holding her breath.
She pulled out three small pieces of glossy paper. And now she breathed again, harsh and fast. They were photos.
The first, a distance shot of her buying a movie ticket.
The second, framed by her living room window, showing her curled up on the couch, eyes fixed on the TV.
The third, a close-up, her head tipped back against a wooden deck, her hair wet and plastered against her face. Her eyes closed. And there was something else in the frame, a hand, reaching down toward her face, toward the lock of hair that covered her left eyes. Proving that it wasn’t a telephoto lens, that someone had been there.
Close enough to touch.
“I didn’t do it.” Miranda could come up with no strategy other than repeating that over and over, until they believed her.
“Ms. Stevens, we have proof. Mr. Powell found traces of your file on the newsroom computer.” The vice principal nodded in the direction of Jack Powell, who stood behind his desk, stone-faced and silent. “You were the only one logged in that morning. But we do suspect you had an accomplice. Who were you working with?”
“No one,” Miranda protested. “I didn’t do it.” She was shaking. She and Harper had gotten into plenty of trouble over the years, but never anything that had landed her here, squeezed into an uncomfortable chair, facing down the vice principal and fending off the claustrophobic conviction that the walls of his office were closing in. And she’d never gotten into trouble without Harper by her side. It was different, she was quickly discovering, when you were alone.
“If you tell us who it is, Ms. Stevens, I might consider your cooperation when deciding your punishment. What you’ve done is very serious, you realize. This will go on your permanent record. It could affect your entire future.”
Was her loyalty to a girl she barely knew and barely liked really worth getting into even more trouble? Miranda didn’t know—but she knew she wasn’t a rat. Once Beth found out they’d been caught, she would surely insist on turning herself in—say what you wanted about Beth, she at least had principles—but Miranda wasn’t about to make the decision for her, no matter what it cost. She lifted her head up and crossed her arms in an effort to look resolute—and to stop herself from trembling.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”
“This is a one-shot deal, Stevens.Tell me now, and I can help you. But once I’ve decided on your punishment—”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I can’t.”
“Very well, then.” He rubbed the large brown birthmark on his forehead, then looked down at his desk and began flipping through a stack of papers, as if to signify that she was no longer worth his time. “A month of detentions, then, starting today.”
Miranda got up to leave, doing her best to hold back the tears. Harper would never cry in a situation like this. She would just grin at the vice principal, making it clear that nothing he could do or say would affect her in the least. Miranda couldn’t manage a smile, but at least she didn’t cry.
“Stevens,” the vice principal said as she was almost out the door, “you’ve made a very poor choice here today. I hope, for your sake, you don’t look back on this moment and realize it was a huge mistake.”
Kane ambushed her right outside the vice principal’s office. She’d caught him at his weakest moment, so it seemed only fair to return the favor.
“I have to admit,” he said, slipping up from behind her, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Miranda flushed and looked away, one hand flying up, as if on its own, to check that her hair was sufficiently in place. The small gesture was all it took to confirm Kane’s suspicions.
“Didn’t know I had what in me?” she asked in confusion, smiling widely despite the tears forming at the corner of each eye.
“I think you know what.” He jerked his head back toward the office. “What’d they give you? Life without parole? Plus a little community service?”
“A months detention,” she said ruefully. “Wait—you know, and you’re not mad?”
“Mad?” Kane grinned at her, delighting in the way the blood all rushed back to her face. Not that there weren’t plenty of girls falling all over themselves to have him, but Miranda was different. She’d always been a bit of a riddle, and there was something almost comforting about being able to tuck her neatly into a recognizable category. Something a bit disappointing, as well—she didn’t belong with the bimbos. “Why would I be mad?” he asked, stroking his chin in deep thought. “Just because you spread a bunch of embarrassing rumors about me to the whole school?” She raised her eyebrows as if to say, well … yes.
“I was mad,” he allowed. But it had, after all, been such a feeble scheme. And there was almost something endearingly pathetic about Miranda’s little attempt to strike back. Like a kitten trying to take down a tiger. “I was mad,” he repeated, “but it’s not a deal breaker.” He put an arm around her, the way he had a hundred times over the course of their friendship—except, this time, he noticed the way she brightened up at his touch. “Besides, I’m kind of impressed. It’s good to see you raising a little hell.”
“I learned from the best,” she said teasingly.
“Then you didn’t learn enough. I know better than to get caught,” he boasted.
She ducked her head and giggled. It wasn’t a sound that suited her.
She wasn’t a giggler.
“How did you know they caught me, by the way?”
“A master never reveals his secrets,” Kane swore. His network of informants depended on his discretion—and his power depended on his access to their information. “Let’s just say I have my ways.”
“Someday, Kane, you’re going to find out you don’t know everything,” Miranda cautioned him.
“And someday, Stevens, you’re going to find out I know even more than you think.”
Do the right thing, or do the smart thing?
She couldn’t flip a coin this time, not with Miranda facing her, waiting for some kind of answer. Miranda was flushed, and kept smiling and staring off into space, as if her brush with the vice principal had completely unhinged her.
“I’d never ask you to turn yourself in,” Miranda said again. “I just thought you should know what was going on.”
“And they didn’t mention me at all?” Beth asked. She felt guilty for even considering weaseling out of responsibility, but she’d never been in trouble before, and the prospect of getting caught terrified her. They were huddled over a small table in the library, just across from the shelf of college guides—a vivid reminder of how much Beth stood to lose.
Maybe you should have thought of that before you broke the rules, a voice in her head suggested.
“No,” Miranda confirmed. “They know there’s someone else, but they have no idea who it is.”
“A month of detentions …” Beth couldn’t imagine it. She’d never even had one.
And it wasn’t just the fear of spoiling her record—her permanent record—that stopped her. She worked at the diner after school. On off days she babysat for her little brothers and bounced between countless applicationpadding extracurriculars. She couldn’t spend a month in detention; it would ruin everything.
“Do you want me to turn myself in?” Beth asked, knowing already that the ironclad rules of the teen honor code would force Miranda to say no, regardless of the truth.