“Like you asked me?”
“And see how well you took it. And I had to ask. You said they always look into the boyfriend. Same goes for secret boyfriends.”
“Hookups aren’t worth killing over.”
“And college admissions are? See what you can find out. They’ll tell a guy, brag about it, but if I ask…”
“Are you trying to shunt all the investigation work onto me?” Ethan teases. I like this, us being playful with each other. It’s distracting me from being terrified.
“No.” I grin at him. “I have the hardest job of all.”
“And what’s that?”
“Going to war with the Ivies.”
Ethan and I transfer the whiteboard to a shared spreadsheet so we can keep track of who is doing what. It feels like the weirdest group project of my life. My short list includes talking to Autumn, Seth, and Jason Wang ASAP. I put an asterisk next to Kaila Montgomery. I don’t know where to start with her. We haven’t seen her in years.
The rest are easy enough. I shoot Autumn a text asking if she has a moment after exams today. I throw in an offer to buy her coffee to sweeten the deal, and push down the panic from burning through my incidentals budget with all this coffee bribery. I’m not super close to Jason, so I send a more formal email. I give him a cover story about interviewing him for a Ledger article. As for Seth, I can pretend I talked to him and then feed Ethan a version of the truth. Avery catfished him. Keep me out of it.
The text from Autumn comes a minute later.
Drop dead.
Okay, so not easy, then. I shoot back a response, but Autumn remains decidedly quiet. I send a text to Ethan instead.
SOS. Whatever the Ivies did to Autumn is way worse than I expected. She won’t return my texts.
I send a screenshot of her message for good measure.
My phone buzzes a moment later.
Oof. Must mean your friends are pretty bad. But good news is it’ll make a great story if we can get Autumn and the others to talk.
Ha. That’s a big IF. And I have an exam in 5. Autumn may be off campus before I even find her.
Leave it to me.
What are you going to do?
I AM co-editor for a reason. I’m not just another pretty face, you know.
I smile in spite of myself. Oh, I know.
* * *
—
After my final exam for the day, I emerge from Colchester into the late-afternoon sun, which is already sinking over the horizon, even though it’s barely three. Freshmen and sophomores push across the quad, dragging heavy suitcases behind them, the grinding of luggage wheels against the concrete a rough symphony to the contrast of my clicking heels as I cross over to Austen. Less time sensitive, their exams have been pushed to next semester, and it’s clear anyone who can leave is fleeing murder campus at their earliest opportunity. Bay already feels half-empty. Juniors with generous teachers or paper exams are also gone. The police threw a fit. Cataldo wanted the campus on lockdown to conduct a “thorough investigation.” But in the end, irate parents with deep pockets won out. Money always wins out.
“Hey, Cathy,” I greet the administrative assistant. Her hair—short, spiky, and mostly silver—is tipped with magenta today. Cathy may be a grandmother, but she’s a hip one. “I thought I’d drop by to see if you need me, since I missed my shift yesterday.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her cinnamon-brown eyes crinkle at the corners. She reaches for my arm and gives it a squeeze. “You’ve been through a trauma. Bless you for coming in today at all. But I could actually use your help. We’ve received a ton of take-home exams that need sorting. You know the drill.”
Indeed I do, and this is a small hitch in my plan, which was to chat with Mr. Tipton. It’s also more work than I anticipated having to do, but needs must.
“Is Mr. Tipton here?” I ask, carefully nonchalant.
Cathy indicates that he’s in his office, and I head back. At first I’m sure she is mistaken. Nothing but shadows spill through the glass window of Tipton’s office. Maybe he left for the day. But as I get closer, I see the dim glow from his computer screen. I peer inside. He’s staring at his monitor, sitting so still that the motion detectors powered down the overhead lights. As soon as I knock on the doorframe and step inside, they flicker on.
“Hi, Mr. Tipton.”
Tipton blinks against the brightness, head snapping up to look at me in the doorway. He forces a smile. “Olivia, good to see you. What brings you here?”
I cross the tight space between the door and the two chairs that face his desk, then pull out the nearer one and sit down. “I need to speak to you about early-decision acceptances.”
“Congratulations on Harvard. It’s quite the accomplishment.”
My jaw clicks tightly as I swallow a curse. “That’s just the thing, Mr. Tipton—”
“Call me Joe,” he interrupts.
“Joe,” I grind out. “I know you emailed the Ledger the list this morning, and I was wondering how you knew about my acceptance.”
“My buddies at Harvard admissions shot over the whole list. Perks of being an alumnus. Plus, one of the guys in admissions used to be my roommate. Probably gave you an edge getting in, so you kind of owe me.”
He all but waggles his eyebrows at the insinuation. Wow, I hate this guy. “Well, I need you not to share the information with anyone else. Please.”
“Why? It’s Harvard. That’s prime bragging rights.”
“Because I don’t want anyone else to know,” I say, tone falsely bright. Why is he making this hard?
“If this is out of some kind of deference to Emma, I think she would have wanted—”
“You don’t know what she would have wanted.” I cut him off. Tipton corrects his too-casual posture and puffs up his chest, but I continue before he can get defensive. “You didn’t know her, um, Joe. And you’re the one who got us into this mess. Did you even talk to Ms. Bankhead about her recommendations? The numbers got fucked, and Emma paid the price.”