Lucinda grabs us sodas and leads me up to her bedroom. When I walk in, I worry that maybe she’s been robbed or the CIA has been looking for some top-secret document in here, because the place is a disaster.
She must notice my stunned reaction because she lets out a low belly laugh. “Pretty awesome, isn’t it?”
Oh God. Has she lost it? Has the expulsion caused her to truly crack?
“It’s … nice,” I say stiffly.
She grabs a throw pillow and tosses it at me. I’m so unprepared, it hits me squarely in the face, nearly causing me to spill my drink. “C’mon, Crusher. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me. I’m fine. In fact, I’ve never been better.”
Glancing around her room, I highly doubt that.
She falls onto her unmade bed and starts swinging her arms and legs like she’s making a sheet angel.
“I feel free!” she announces to the ceiling.
I take a tentative sip from my soda. Not because I’m thirsty but because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
“Your mom seemed to imply that you were—”
“My mom is nuts,” Lucinda says, sitting up abruptly. “She’s the crazy one who needs to be locked up. She blames the school. She blames the teachers. She blames…”
“Me,” I finish.
Lucinda giggles. “Yeah. She really blames you.”
I swallow. “Do you?”
She grabs another pillow and sends it flying in my direction. This one I’m ready for. I duck and it hits a picture frame on the wall, bringing it clattering to the floor. Lucinda barely even blinks an eye. “Of course not, Crusher! Don’t be ridiculous. I mean, you and I have always been competitive, right?”
I take another sip and clear my throat. “I guess.”
“It’s just how we are. You and I battle it out and Sequoia sits on the sidelines and cries a lot.”
I can’t help laughing at that one. “She does cry a lot, doesn’t she?”
“If the girl were a space on the Monopoly board she’d be Water Works.” She takes a long pull from her soda, finishing what looks like half of it in one gulp. Then she burps and guffaws proudly at the sound.
“Anyway, I don’t blame you. It was my own fault. But actually, I’m kind of glad things went down the way they did.”
This surprises me. “You are?”
“Yeah. I’ve never been happier. Or more relaxed. That school”—she pauses, deliberating on her next words—“it was toxic. At least for me. It turned me into a person I didn’t even recognize anymore. There’s so much freaking pressure to not only do everything but excel at everything. That whole 89 percent Ivy League acceptance rate they push in your face, it’s like poison being pumped right into your veins. If you don’t get into an Ivy League, you’re basically chalked up as a failure and they forget your name. It’s ridiculous.”
She takes another gulp of her soda and releases another loud belch. “Of course my parents didn’t help either,” she goes on. “I felt like I was already carrying around a thousand-pound boulder, and then I’d get home from school and my mom would be like, ‘Hey, here’s a rhinoceros to put on top of the boulder.’ It’s no wonder I cracked. It’s no wonder I bought that test. I just couldn’t hack it. But now…” She glances around her room with a sudden air of calm. “Do you hear that?”
I listen and then shake my head. “Hear what?”
“Nothing,” she whispers dreamily. “No Achiever app beeping every five seconds with a new task. No calendar reminders going off for club meetings that I have absolutely no interest in. It’s so quiet. So peaceful.”
“But what will you do?”
She shrugs and throws her hands in the air. “I don’t know! And you have no idea how amazing that feels!”
She’s right. I have no idea. Although I can’t imagine that not knowing what you’re going to do with your life would feel anything but terrifying.
“That place was killing me a little bit every day,” Lucinda goes on. “I just couldn’t feel it. It was the frog in the pot of boiling water. You know, the temperature rises so gradually, the frog doesn’t even know he’s burning to death … until he’s dead. So, yeah, in a way, I’m glad I got caught with that test. It was a wake-up call. It was someone screaming, ‘The water! It’s too hot! Get out of there!’”
I squirm in my seat. Everything Lucinda is saying is starting to make me uncomfortable. I’m reminded too much of that first conversation I had with Dylan outside the dean’s office, when I was waiting to try to get my spot back, and he was waiting to …
Actually, come to think of it, why was Dylan sitting outside the dean’s office that day? I still have no idea. He seemed to freak out when I accidentally brought it up at his literary magazine meeting.
I make a mental note to return to that later and focus back on Lucinda. “Can I ask you about the stolen test?”
She finishes her soda and crushes the can between her fingers. “Shoot.”
“Do you know who sold it to you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Dean Lewis asked me the same thing. She drilled me for hours, offering me all sorts of bargains. They’ll let me back in if I give up the name. They’ll make sure my future isn’t completely destroyed if I cooperate. Jeez. I thought I was in a bad cop movie. And no, I have no idea who sold me the test. Not that I would have taken her deal if I had. By then, I was so done. So ready to leave her office and never step foot on that campus again.”
I reach into my bag and pull out my notebook and pen, jotting down a few things.
“What are you doing?” Lucinda eyes my scribbles.
“Oh,” I say awkwardly. “I forgot to tell you. I’m starting a school newspaper and I thought this would make a good story.” I see panic flash in her eyes and quickly add, “Not about you! About the guy stealing the tests and selling them to students.”
“What makes you think it’s a guy?”
I avert my gaze to my notebook. “I don’t. I’m just speaking generally. So would it be okay if I asked you a few more questions?”
She shrugs and leans back against her headboard. “Go right ahead. I’ve got nothing else to lose. But you should probably keep my name out of it. You know, so my mother doesn’t hire the mafia to off you.”
I force a smile even though I think we both know she’s not fully joking. “No problem.” I tap my pen against the page. “So, if you don’t know who’s selling the tests, how did you arrange to buy one?”
“Oh, that’s easy. There’s an email address.”
This gets my attention. “An email address?”
“Yeah, you send an email to [email protected] with the name of the class and the date of the test you want and then you get a response telling you where to leave the money.”
I scribble furiously, my heart starting to pound as the adrenaline rushes through my veins. This is what I loved most about writing for the Southwest Star. That thrill you get when you know you’re close to breaking a story. It’s a feeling like no other. “And where did they tell you to leave it?”
“In a book in the library,” Lucinda says, grabbing one of her pillows and hugging it to her chest.
“Which book?”
“Which test?” Lucinda fires back.
My eyes widen. “You bought more than one?”
I notice a flash of something in her eyes—guilt maybe?—before she covers it with a shrug. “Yeah, so?”
“I…” I hesitate. “I didn’t know that. What were the two … or more books?
“Just two,” she confirms. “The Count of Monte Cristo and Madame Bovary.”
I write the names down in my notebook and then tap the pen against my teeth. For some reason those two names together ring a bell in my mind. Like they’re connected somehow. “Do you think those titles have any significance?”
Lucinda’s forehead crinkles. “Like what?”
“Like because Madame Bovary cheats on her husband and—”
“And I’m a big fat cheater, too?” Lucinda snaps, her gaze hardening. She must hear the terseness in her tone because a second later she breaks into hysterical laughter, throwing her head back. “See! There it is again. The monster returns! Sometimes it’s like second nature. I can’t even hear myself.”
I laugh, too, although mine comes out more like a nervous stutter.
“Anyway,” Lucinda goes on, back in her normal voice, “no, I don’t think the titles have any significance. I think you give the culprit too much credit.”
I stare down at my notes again. I’m not sure I agree with her. This criminal seems smart. Organized. Why would he choose a random book? Plus, the email address obviously means something, too.
I underline the book titles and the email address, reminding myself to look more deeply into them later.
“So, you put the money—how much was it?”
“Two hundred dollars. Cash.”
I swallow hard. “Okay, so you put the two hundred dollars in the book and then what?”
“Then forty-eight hours later, you check the same book and the test is there. In a sealed envelope.”
“That’s it?”
She squints at me, a knowing look flashing on her face. “You’re going to try it, aren’t you?”
My head pops up. “What?”
“That’s why you’re here. There’s no newspaper. You’re not writing a story. It’s all a ruse, right? Columbia early decision is coming up. They’re going to be looking at your second quarter grades and you want a little boost. Let me guess. AP history. No. Chem. Chem is the worst.”
I gape at her, feeling flustered. “N-n-no!” I stammer. “I really am writing an article. I’m not the kind of person who would cheat just to get ahead.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. That was mean. And insensitive. I search her face for signs of insult, but I honestly don’t find any. All that stares back at me is smugness. A trickster who knows a secret and can’t wait to tell you what it is.
Then she lets out a low, unnerving chuckle that rattles my bones. “Crusher, no offense, but you’re exactly the kind of person who would cheat to get ahead.”