Lucinda Wallace lives in the same subdivision as Sequoia, on the other side of town. Fortunately, Mom seems to be over the whole grand theft auto incident and lets me borrow my her car.
When I knock on the door of the two-story mini-mansion, a middle-aged woman appears on the other side. She’s dressed in skinny jeans, an angora sweater, and so much bling I fight the urge to shield my eyes from the glare. I mean, the woman is practically dripping with diamonds.
I don’t recognize her but she certainly recognizes me, which means she must be Lucinda’s mother.
“Hello, Mrs. Wallace,” I say in a light and friendly tone. “How are you today?”
“What are you doing here, Kennedy?” she asks tersely. Her hostility takes me by surprise and I instinctively step back from the door.
I clear my throat. “I came to speak to Lucinda.”
Anger flashes over her face. “She doesn’t want to speak to you.”
Her answer confuses me. “Why?”
“Because none of this would have happened to her if it weren’t for you.”
I stand there, completely aghast. What is this woman talking about? “I…” I stammer. “I don’t think that’s a fair statement.”
The woman takes a step toward me, her body blocking the entrance to the house. I take another step back. She’s a slight woman with a body that’s clearly seen the inside of a Pilates studio more than once, but there’s something about her presence—her whole demeanor—that’s surprisingly intimidating. Maybe it’s the weight of all that bling.
“Fair?” she asks. “You want to talk to me about fair? My daughter has been expelled from the Windsor Academy. There’s no way she’ll get into a good college. She’ll have to attend community college.” The way her nose wrinkles, you would think she was talking about picking up after her poodle. “While you are sitting pretty on your little top-of-the-class throne. Are you happy now that she’s out of the way? Are you relieved to have one less person to compete with?”
“Of course I’m not happy,” I reply. “Lucinda is my friend.”
Mrs. Wallace snorts. “Friend. Some friend you turned out to be.”
I shake my head, completely stunned by this woman’s attack. Does she honestly blame me for Lucinda’s expulsion? But I had nothing to do with it. It’s not like I convinced her to buy the stolen test.
Wait. Did I?
“I … I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”
“Everything has to do with you!” she barks, causing me to flinch. “Don’t you get it? Ever since you came to this school, she’s been competing with you. Talking about how smart Kennedy is. How accomplished Kennedy is. How easy Kennedy makes it look. How Sequoia likes Kennedy better. The teachers like Kennedy better. Everyone likes Kennedy better. Kennedy. Kennedy. Kennedy. She pushed herself too hard because of you. Because she was trying to keep up.”
“The Windsor Academy is a very competitive school,” I say shakily. “I don’t think it’s reasonable to place all the blame on—”
But she doesn’t even let me finish. “You know what I heard? I heard you weren’t even accepted right away. That’s why you didn’t start until the ninth grade. I heard you were wait-listed.”
Her words are like a series of bullets shot right into my chest.
Pow. Pow. Pow.
I struggle to stay upright and keep my expression neutral, but I must not succeed because Mrs. Wallace’s lip curls into a snarl. “That’s right,” she continues maliciously. “Wait-listed. And if I could go back in time and make sure you never got off that list, I would. Because I’m convinced that my daughter would have been better off if you had never stepped foot in that school.”
Then she slams the door in my face.
I stand motionless on the front steps, feeling like the air around me has gotten too thin. The earth’s atmosphere has disappeared.
Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.
Is all of that true? Did Lucinda really cheat because of me?
Is she gone because I’m here?
I think about my other life. All of those times I lay in bed scrolling through Sequoia’s SnipPic feed, analyzing her life. Idolizing her life. And who was in almost all of those pictures before I hit my head and bounced into this universe?
Lucinda.
As soon as I woke up in this life, she had disappeared from the photos altogether. Which means maybe Mrs. Wallace is right. Maybe this is my fault.
Or maybe it was only a matter of time. Maybe Lucinda would have gotten expelled in either version. After all, this happened because someone sold her a stolen test and she got caught. What if the time line is just off? What if she just hadn’t been caught yet in the other universe? Maybe she would have eventually disappeared from Sequoia’s SnipPic feed in that life, too.
If anything, this is Dylan’s fault. If he is the one selling the tests—and every bone in my body is telling me he is—then he’s the one to blame for Lucinda’s expulsion. Not me. He’s the one who should be standing on that front porch getting reamed by the frightening five-foot-one Mrs. Wallace and her army of jewels.
I need to get to the bottom of this. I need to get what I came here for.
The answers.
The story.
And right now, Lucinda is my only lead.
I’m going to have to come up with a new plan.
I take a few steps back and glance up at the house. There’s a tree that leads to a second-floor window. I could climb it, but there’s no guarantee that the window is open. Or that it’s anywhere near Lucinda’s room. For all I know, they could be keeping her locked in the basement. Plus, if I knock on the window and Mrs. Wallace is the one who opens it, she’ll probably push me right out of the tree to my death.
Just then, I hear a low rumbling sound and I quickly duck behind a hedge. I watch as the garage door of the mini-mansion groans open and a Range Rover backs out. I peer through the leaves of the hedge, trying to determine if Lucinda is inside.
She’s not.
After the car is safely down the street, I take a deep breath and approach the front door again. I ring the bell and wait.
A few seconds later, I hear the sound of quiet footsteps padding on hardwood floors. Then the door swings tentatively open and Lucinda’s head pokes out. She’s dressed in flannel pajamas and her dark pixie-cut hair is mussed, like she hasn’t bothered brushing it for days. But she’s still the same girl I saw in those photos. And the sight of her makes my chest squeeze.
I study her face closely for a reaction, expecting to see the same hate and blame and rage that I saw in her mother.
But it never comes.
Lucinda crosses her arms, flashes me a wicked grin, and says, “It’s about time one of you losers came to visit me.”