“Shit. Is everything okay?” She bites her lip. Is this my window? No. She’s too sober. The bear trap is on a hair trigger. I say the same thing I said to Tyler earlier, and she visibly relaxes.
“Good. I’m glad they got that bastard.” She hands me the glass of punch. “You probably need this.” I’m too surprised not to accept. She pours herself another. Then we clink our glasses in solidarity and drink. We make small talk for a good five minutes, mostly about Princeton, though Margot is distracted, disengaged. Milo McNamara walks in dressed as Heath Ledger’s Joker, and she makes a quick excuse to go say hi.
More people arrive over the next hour as I nurse a drink in the kitchen by the cheese plate. There are a Janis Joplin, a Selena, two other Marilyn Monroes (but my wig is the best), a Tupac, a Kurt Cobain, rather impressively a Lord Byron, and then, horrifyingly, a JonBenét Ramsey. There are plenty of generically good-looking guys in bog-standard shirts and tops, and I can’t tell whether they are Paul Walkers, Corey Monteiths, or regular Heath Ledgers. I’m reminded at constant intervals that this party theme is the worst.
But then karaoke starts in the living room, and I am too weak for my own good. I’m two more drinks and four songs deep when Ethan arrives. Or should I say David Bowie. Like Labyrinth-era Bowie. I feel things that are not polite to talk about.
I approach him with a stupid grin splitting my face. I’m tipsy enough to pull him into a hug, shriek that I’m so glad he came! Taking in my outfit, he blinks slowly and stammers a hello, and then I lead him into the kitchen for a drink, so he can catch up. “I’m very confused by your costume,” I say as I make him a gin fizz.
“He should have lived forever, so I say it fits. And, uh, yours is…”
“It’s Avery’s, so it doesn’t exactly fit.”
“It’s good.” Ethan’s voice takes on a high pitch.
“Cheers!” I’m a bit too loud and enthusiastic, but the crowd has swelled to at least a hundred people, so the volume is needed. I don’t even recognize half of them; they’re not from Claflin, but they look our age—Dana Hall students? And a bunch of them haven’t even bothered with the costume theme, which sends steaming-hot annoyance streaking through me. But then Ethan’s goofy smile pulls me back. It’s a party! I should have fun.
But then, oh no, Ethan does not look like he wants to have fun. His face has gone all serious, and I realize he’s not drinking.
“We need to talk.” He takes in the crowd, then eyes the outdoor patio beyond the kitchen, but I’m already shaking my head. This dress is skimpy, and I will freeze.
“We can go upstairs.” I lead the way, a wolf whistle or two following us, people’s minds in the gutter. Even though I closed the guest room door, I hesitate in front of it, nervous we’ll find a couple availing themselves of the bed, but when I open it, the room is empty, thankfully. My laptop is where I left it on the bedside table, a move I suddenly second-guess. I slip it into a dresser drawer, just in case. I turn to find Ethan sitting on the edge of the bed, kneading his fingers nervously.
“You told Cataldo about the SAT scheme,” he says. No, accuses.
“Yeah. I told you I told her everything.”
“Why would you tell her that? It had nothing to do with Emma’s murder, and now you’ll burn and piss off a lot of people.”
“I had to. Tipton might not be guilty, and she had to know the full scope of things. It was time for cards on the table, especially anything that would make me look guilty.” I hate the way Ethan is looking at me, jaw tight, eyes steely and guarded. He’s upset with me, and I don’t know why. Unease swishes around my stomach. I clench my teeth because he’s clenching his. Psychosomatic. SAT word. But, no, I’ve used it wrong. I’m off my game.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” he says finally.
“Why?” It’s a demand. I approach, sit next to him on the bed. Nudge his shoulder when he won’t turn to look at me. “Ethan, what’s the problem?”
He heaves a deep sigh. Curses a string that knocks me back. Canadian Ken has a potty mouth. No, I shouldn’t call him that. Emma called him that, to make fun of him.
“I’m the other test-taker,” he says in one straight release of breath.
“Ex-fucking-cuse me?”
“I worked with Emma. Took the SAT and ACT for the boys.”
My mind reels. “You replaced Tyler.”
“I didn’t know who did it before me, but if that’s who it was, then yeah. I took it from fall of junior year until, well, now. I did the December sitting, right before…”
“Before Emma was murdered? Oh god.” I taste the bitter acid of one of my drinks rising into my mouth. Could be gin or punch. Either way, I retch, stopping short of vomiting onto my shoes. I scoot away from Ethan, because what if he—
“Olivia, I didn’t kill her!” He reads me too well. Though it doesn’t take a genius to figure my reaction, I guess. And, wait—
“But you’re Canadian. You’re not even applying to American schools. Why would you need to take the SATs? Did you need the money?” Because no way Emma didn’t pay him a cut. Otherwise, why do it?
“Canadians can take the SAT, too, Liv. I broke fifteen hundred on my first try. Emma heard, approached me…said her current guy struggled to touch fourteen hundred but had been the best she could do. She offered eighty percent on each test I took, although…” Ethan frowns. “When you sent me the screenshot of her tracking document, it became obvious she was bullshitting me on the actual fees. I got closer to sixty percent. How generous of her to break fifty.” He’s cold there. Killer cold. But I think I believe him when he says he didn’t know until after…But, really, what can I believe?
“You lied to me,” I state the obvious. “All that time. There I was feeling guilty about being an Ivy, and you’re a goddamn cheat.”
Ethan squirms. I’ve hit a nerve.
“I’m not proud of myself. But I needed—” He inhales deeply, as if to steady himself. “Listen, ambassadors don’t make that much money, not enough for a pricey US education. I’m here on a partial scholarship, but at Harvard I’m an international student. No federal aid there. I owe full tuition.”
He trips along casually, as if he didn’t just discuss how he’s going to pay for Harvard. My Harvard. Emma’s Harvard.
“Ethan, did you apply to Harvard?” I ask through gritted teeth. He ducks his head, refuses to look at me again.
“Yeah. I, uh, kind of got in.”