I assumed I’d be able to catch up on my sleep this weekend, but apparently that was wishful thinking, because when the elephants trample through my room at five thirty a.m. on Monday, I feel more wretched than ever. And don’t get me started on my face. Let’s just say the purple shadows under my eyes have been upgraded to black holes.
The good news is, I finally feel like I’m caught up on my schoolwork. I studied nearly nonstop all day Saturday and Sunday, ticking off tasks from my to-do list like no one’s business. Now, I can confidently say that I’m in control of the app. Instead of it being in control of me.
After our morning study session in the student union, Sequoia and I pack up our stuff and head to Royce Hall for AP history. But just as we’re ascending the grand staircase, Dean Lewis’s voice comes over the speaker system.
“Attention, Windsor students and faculty. I am calling an emergency school assembly. Please head straight to the Lauditorium. Thank you.”
I look to Sequoia, who’s wearing an uneasy expression. “What do you think that’s about?”
She appears pensive, like maybe she has a theory, but then she shakes her head and turns around on the steps. “No idea.”
* * *
The Lauditorium is housed in a cylindrical structure attached to the student union. It’s a beautiful round amphitheater with stadium seating laid out three hundred and sixty degrees around the stage.
I would be excited to be sitting in these plush comfy seats for the first time if the energy in the air wasn’t so ominous. It’s clear Dean Lewis’s unexpected summoning has put everyone on edge. Even the teachers. Small hushed conversations reverberate around the room as everyone attempts to speculate what this could be about.
Dean Lewis takes the stage. She has a lapel mic fastened to her immaculate purple pants suit. I’m in awe of the students’ respect for her. The din around the rotunda immediately quiets down without her even having to say anything.
Everyone is so reverent and attentive.
Well, everyone except him.
As I scan the crowd, my eyes immediately fall on Dylan, sitting in approximately the same row as me on the other side of the circle. He’s staring at something in his lap. Probably his phone.
I can’t believe the nerve of that guy. The least he could do is show some respect for Dean Lewis. I mean, the woman went to Vassar, Harvard, and Yale. She’s basically a legend.
I shoot him a dagger look from across the Lauditorium. I don’t really expect him to see it since his eyes are averted, but for some strange reason he happens to look up at that exact moment, and his gaze just happens to land right on me.
He gives me another one of his obnoxious smirks. I roll my eyes and focus back on Dean Lewis.
“Thank you all for coming,” she begins in a somber tone. “I apologize for the late notice, but something has come to the administration’s attention that simply cannot be delayed.”
I watch her intently, trying to focus on what she’s saying, but I can’t help stealing another peek at Dylan. He’s gone back to staring at whatever is in his lap and suddenly I’m desperate to know what it is. What is so über important to him that he can’t take ten minutes out of his day to listen to the dean of the school?
I lean forward, trying to peer through the heads blocking my view, but I still can’t get a good look at his lap. I sit up extra tall, craning my neck to the left and right. I can almost make it out. I just need a few more inches. I ease onto my feet and just catch sight of a newspaper lying open on his legs, when Sequoia yanks me back down, hissing, “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I say casually. “I was stretching my legs.”
She lets out a frustrated huff and goes back to listening to the dean.
“Unfortunately,” the dean goes on, “the section of the Windsor Academy’s honor code dealing with unlawful testing procedures has been breached once again.”
What?
I look to Sequoia to gauge her reaction, but her face is blank.
“Cheating,” the dean says forcefully, “will not be tolerated at this school.”
My chest tightens.
“We have an 89 percent Ivy League acceptance rate here and a zero tolerance policy for this kind of behavior.” She pulls her reading glasses off and lets them hang around her neck. “I’m disappointed to report that stolen exams have been discovered in the possession of three additional Windsor Academy students who have all been expelled.”
A gasp echoes throughout the room. I admit one of them came from me.
Who would buy stolen exams? It’s unethical and illegal, not to mention deceitful. Don’t people want to succeed the right way? The honest way? If you cheat just to get into an Ivy League school, then you can never truly feel the satisfaction of your accomplishment.
“This cannot continue,” the dean says, turning to glare at each and every one of us. “I’ve spoken with the administration and a decisive action plan has been made.”
Good, I think, nodding along with her words. They should take action. They should do whatever they need to do to put an end to this. I’m still so horrified that this kind of thing even happens here.
“Whoever has been stealing and selling unauthorized copies of Windsor Academy exams,” the dean continues, “we strongly urge you to step forward and confess to your crimes.”
That’s it? That’s their big plan? Asking the culprit to confess? He’s never going to turn himself in. Who would do that?
“So,” Dean Lewis says, casting her gaze around the room, “would anyone care to step forward and take responsibility for their illegal actions?”
The Lauditorium is utterly silent. No one even dares to breathe. Everyone is glancing out of the corners of their eyes to see if someone is willing to stand up.
No one does. Dean Lewis looks extremely disappointed.
She clears her throat. “I am giving the offending student until the end of Thanksgiving break to contemplate their actions and make the right decision. Step forward and confess your crimes to a staff member by first period Monday morning.”
A small titter breaks out among the students.
“Otherwise,” Dean Lewis goes on, silencing everyone immediately, “starting next week, we will begin docking one percentage point a week from every student grade until the person responsible decides to make the right choice.”
Another gasp permeates the silence of the Lauditorium. The students are no longer sitting politely in their seats. They’re now looking at each other with accusing, openmouthed stares. Murmurs of “That’s not fair” and “This is ludicrous” start to percolate through the crowd.
Dean Lewis raises a hand, bringing the complaints to a halt. “I realize this comes as a shock, but this has gone on long enough. If you have any information about who is behind this, then I beseech you to come forward and save your peers.”
Sequoia turns to me with tears brimming in her eyes. She’s about to lose it.
I still can’t believe anyone would do this. It doesn’t seem worth it. Why would a student, fortunate enough to go to this amazing school, risk their future and all of their hard work just to sell a few tests and make a quick buck?
The second the thought enters my mind, my gaze immediately swivels back to the boy sitting across the room from me. The one who couldn’t be bothered to even pay attention to the dean’s speech. Curiously, he’s paying attention now.
He’s no longer reading the newspaper in his lap. Like every other student in this room, his eyes are trained on Dean Lewis. But unlike the other students in this room, his expression isn’t one of shock or fury or accusation.
It looks suspiciously like pride.