He has me. I am on the hook. I need to know more about what people have said about the Ivies. Did they figure out we were the ones who set off that Whitley alarm before finals last year? Do they know how we got into all the best classes? Does Seth know about the catfishing but have a spectacular poker face?
“You’re right,” I concede, hoping it will gain me the upper hand. “They’re keeping something from me about that night. Which is why I want to piece together Emma’s final hours myself. I was hoping I could look at your phone.”
“That isn’t what I was expecting. And it’s a big ask. One’s phone is sacred.” He holds it to his chest, raises an expectant eyebrow.
“Dude, one of my friends is dead, and the other three are lying. Don’t be a dick.”
“Fine, fine.” He unlocks his phone and hands it to me. I go right for Instagram, click onto his profile page, and tap to create a new set of highlights. Select from archive, slight scroll, and there they are. Seth’s Stories from Wednesday night. I select all of them and save.
I tap into the new highlight group and watch. Most of the photos and videos are inane: selfies with dumb stickers affixed on top and neon scrawl drawn with too-thick fingers, so the words jumble together; Boomerangs of people zippering; video bursts of students shouting “Chug!” at willing victims. There are a few of the fight, video I refuse to watch for more than a few seconds. I catch Margot draped all over Milo in a drunken group shot, and Avery in the background of another, talking intently on the phone. I’m nearly at the end when I see a flash of red in the background. Emma’s sweater. I press and hold with my index finger, stilling the image. Emma’s on the stairs, going up. Pin-straight black hair folded into an immaculate French braid peeks out from behind her right shoulder. Margot.
I feel heat at my back. Seth hovers over my shoulder, and I jerk away, craving my own space. “What time did the party end, Seth?”
“About eleven-thirty, because of curfew. All the girls left, and after that what’s the point?”
I tap back out to the highlight. The photo is near the end of the set. So maybe it was 11:15. Why was Margot going upstairs with Emma? I do some housekeeping, deleting the party highlight, and slide Seth’s phone across the table. “Thanks.”
“No problem. You know, if you want to find out more about your friends, talk to Rebecca Ito. She has a lot of opinions. And maybe she saw more of Emma at the party.”
There’s a glint in Seth’s eye that I don’t like, like he’s a trickster god, delighted to lead me down the path of destruction.
“See you later, Seth.” I gather what’s left of my dinner onto my tray for busing and turn to leave.
“I bet.”
I save a single roll before I dump the rest of the tray and then head for the exit. I’m in the middle of an unladylike bite when Rebecca Ito passes by, heading toward the salad bar. Speak of the devil.
“Webecca!” I chew quickly, clear my throat, try again. “Rebecca, hey.”
She’s just placing her tray on the metal track and reaching for a plate. “Hey.”
“Can I ask you something?”
She flips a shiny black curtain of hair over her shoulder. “I don’t know, can you?”
I ignore the dig. “It’s about my friends. Avery, Sierra, Margot, Emma.”
“I know who they are. The Ivies. What about them?”
“I overheard you at Emma’s memorial. You think Avery killed her?”
“Shit, Olivia, that’s pretty heavy for dinner.” Rebecca sets the plate on her tray, which she slides off to the side of the station. She leans in, dropping her voice. “Do you think Avery killed Emma? It’s a weird thing to ask me, otherwise.”
It’s like there’s baking soda mixed with Coca-Cola in my stomach, threatening to erupt. But I push it down, play it cool.
“Seth said I should talk to you. About them. He said something about you guys keeping score.”
Rebecca smirks. “Yeah, we’re not stupid. Obviously. Or else why would you guys be sabotaging our exams and grades. Taking out the competition. I’d be impressed with the depths to which the Ivies are willing to descend if I didn’t hate you all.”
“So what? We gave a few kids the wrong notes, turned in a plagiarist or three, and angled for the best leadership positions. It’s nothing the rest of you wouldn’t do. Haven’t done.”
“Oh, honey.” But nothing in Rebecca’s voice comes close to conveying sympathy. “Do you really think that’s all it was? Do you really want to know about your friends? I’ll tell you. But you might not like it.” She looks far too pleased by the notion.
Whatever Rebecca has to share can’t be unheard. Right now, all I have is a feeling that my friends are keeping something from me. If I let Rebecca spill, I’ll know.
But let’s be real, haven’t I always known? All the after-parties I heard about the next morning. Shopping trips they “felt bad’ inviting me to go on. Emma is dead. Nothing is more important than finding out who killed her.
I make a decision. “Tell me.”
“Not here. Follow me. And throw that away.” She points at the remains of the roll in my hand. I’m about to protest, but I swallow my words, along with the last quarter of my bread.
Rebecca taps her student ID to the sensor, and the doors to the allergy-free room slide open. We slip inside, and with the slow closing whoosh of the doors, we’re hermetically sealed off, safe from both gluten and prying ears.
“You guys are subtle, I’ll give you that,” Rebecca starts, hopping up onto the bread counter. Hopefully her butt doesn’t count as contamination. “Half convinced myself I was just really unlucky. But then I talked to Seth, Autumn, Diana, Jason….Go figure—we’re all in competition with you and your friends for class rank or have been up for very specific positions in your clubs and activities. Anyone who gets in your way ends up with very bad luck.”
“What was your bad luck, then?” My voice is small because I know. I got her those demerits for sneaking out to hook up with Milo. Maybe this is all a setup, a chance for her to dig her claws into me.
“Margot Kim slept with my boyfriend and convinced him to break up with me the morning of finals last year. She got me a shit-ton of demerits for sneaking out and fucked me over in Model UN. And then she didn’t even have the decency to start dating Milo after we broke up. That was the tip-off.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” I say, because, well, I know the second part isn’t. Yet I don’t rush to tell her it was me.