“So, where is this party?”
As if on cue, my phone buzzes with an incoming group text from Tyler, who I didn’t even know had my number.
Hey Liv and Avery, don’t forget it’s a costume party tonight. Theme is celebrities who died before their time. Like Janis Joplin and shit.
I can’t help but gasp.
“What?” Ethan asks, but words escape me entirely. I hand him my phone.
“Oh, wow. I officially hate him,” Ethan says. “And that cannot be serious. What are they gonna do? Not let us in if we’re not dressed up?”
“Uh, last year’s theme was ‘make an unsexy thing sexy,’ and Avery strictly enforced the costume dress code. I’ve been hearing about these New Year’s parties for years. Avery delights in turning people away.”
Hesitation creeps over Ethan’s features, shows in the hunch of his shoulders.
“Don’t leave me alone with the vultures, please,” I plead. “I want you there.”
“You want me, huh?” Ethan grins. “All right, I’ll be there. Text me the deets.” And with that he walks over to Cataldo.
I practically pirouette onto my train.
* * *
—
Avery can’t contain her annoyance when I arrive hours later than we thought I would. She’s huffy when she picks me up from the station, but I know all the Avery-refocusing tools in the book. Though I would prefer to keep it private, I spill my Ethan news, which immediately turns her mood around. I even get her to suggest that I invite him to the party, so I don’t have to admit that I already took the liberty. But then I walk right into the good-mood trap when she says, “Sorry about the party theme. I wanted Gatsby glam but Tyler insisted it was his turn and, well. Anyway, I have something for you back at the house. You’ll love it, trust me.”
I’m sure I won’t, and though I itch to ask her why she didn’t tell Tyler to fuck off, I don’t. There’s no questioning Avery. I think about Cataldo’s parting words: her warning not to trust the Ivies. Someone from Claflin murdered Emma. If Tipton didn’t do it, I can’t trust anyone. Cataldo’s right—I have to watch my back. Play the part.
I’ll test my acting chops tonight, pretend to enjoy the party. Pretend I might not be ringing in the New Year with a killer.
As soon as we get to her house, Avery disappears upstairs. Her costume requires some intense makeup, she says, and she needs every second to get ready, since I’ve pushed things so late. She points me in the direction of the kitchen, where I find a thirtysomething woman with magenta hair working on a laptop at the dining table.
“Oh, hi! I’m Megan.” She pops up to shake my hand. Her grip is firm, and she makes steady eye contact. There’s something open about her that I like. She’s not what I expected, and it must show on my face. “Let me guess: I’m younger than you thought I’d be, and far less square.”
“I suppose I thought you’d be a mom type in a suit,” I admit.
“The woman who owns the company is indeed a mom type in a suit, but I’m the hired hand.”
I like her immediately. “And they make you do house calls?”
Megan grins. “I’m charging them extra for this.”
“They can certainly afford it,” I concede. Then I apologize. “You shouldn’t have to waste your time on me. I’m sorry I made you wait.”
“Oh, please, don’t worry. You’re precisely the kind of student I enjoy helping. Someone who can’t afford my services. I still do pro bono work when I can, as a balm to my soul.” Her buoyant expression falls. “But please tell me you didn’t also write your essay about that girl’s death. I’m two for two, and, uh, well, I couldn’t talk either of the Blossom twins out of it, but if you have…I’d resort to begging.”
Even though I didn’t write the essay about Emma, the mere act of having tried brings heat to my cheeks. “Uh, no, I wrote about crew. It has metaphor, and it’s more of a framing device for talking about my family and interests? I’m not describing it well.”
“No, that’s great! I can work with that.”
“Yeah, my SCEA essay was specifically tailored to Harvard, so I had to write a new one.”
“Good, good.” Megan takes a seat at the table and pats the seat next to her. “Come on. Share your Google Docs with me, and I’ll dive in.”
I do as she says, sharing my Common App essay and a few supplements with her. While she reads, I pad over to the refrigerator. I haven’t eaten since the sad FBI cafeteria sandwich, and I could drink a gallon of water, too. I settle for a glass and snag an avocado from the fruit basket on the kitchen island. As I slice it, discard the pit, I call over to Megan.
“Hey, who is the other person who wrote the essay about Emma?” I know Avery did, but I’m puzzled by Megan’s reference to the Blossom twins. Guess she’s a Riverdale fan.
“Tyler,” she says. “I suppose I should be grateful it’s less tone-deaf and narcissistic than his ED essay on productivity during quarantine. How coronavirus allowed him to explore his Wellesley mansion estate, start a viral TikTok account, and discover the good within himself by tipping his food-delivery drivers with toilet paper and spare face masks. It was…something.” Megan hisses through her teeth. “I’m not surprised Cornell rejected him. But a grief-essay strategy for RD is such a bad idea. Death-inspiration stories really don’t play as well with admissions as people think they do. They have to be immaculately written with enough emotional distance to work.”
“Wow.”
Megan twists around in her seat, eyes wide with panic. “Shit, that’s unprofessional. Uh, pretend you didn’t hear any of that?”
“Sure,” I say, even though now I’m burning with a million questions. Since when was Tyler rejected from Cornell? I swear it was printed in the Ledger that he was going. I add some olive oil, salt, and pepper to my avocado halves, grab a spoon, and make my way back to the table. “So I’m guessing you didn’t approve Avery’s Haiti trip essay, then?”
Megan snorts. “Definitely not.”
“That makes two of us.”
“You hardly need my help at all.” She points at her screen. “This is great. Creative enough, but not too much, personal, specific, covers a lot of ground. Minor notes so far.”
It’s a relief, because I’m definitely not editing tonight, not with the party starting in less than two hours, and without Coach breathing down my neck, I plan on drinking. The less I have to do on deadline day, the better. Megan finishes up with my main essay while I eat my avocado, then excuses herself to use the restroom, promising to look at my supplements upon her return. I take the opportunity, scooting over into her chair, jiggling her wireless mouse to ensure the screen doesn’t fall asleep. I have three minutes, tops. It costs me nearly a minute to open Megan’s main Google Docs directory, check the shared section. Avery’s essays are neatly labeled with her full name, topic, and version number, but Tyler’s is simply titled New Essay. I’m curious about both and aware that spying is super unethical. Oh well, can’t ever shake being an Ivy entirely. I double-click on both documents, and they pop open in new tabs.