The money pours out like a gushing fountain. Piles and piles of hundred-dollar bills. They’ve been stuffed to the brim inside this box. They’ve been hidden from sight like a skeleton in a closet.
I don’t bother counting. I don’t even want to know how much is here. How deep the secret goes.
It’s enough to see it.
It’s enough to feel the cash slithering around my ankles like a swarm of snakes. I jump to my feet and back away. Afraid of being bitten. Afraid of being infected. Afraid of my very existence.
I don’t understand.
My life was perfect. I was at the top of my class. I was a member of too many clubs to even keep track of. I raised thousands and thousands of dollars for the school. I was a shoo-in for Columbia. Why on earth would I risk it all?
I can’t, I decide in one sweeping emotion. I can’t risk it all.
I need to shut this down. I need to erase all the evidence, pretend it never happened, go on with my life. I need to get into Columbia, become a rock star journalist, live a fulfilling life. That’s how I’ll fix this.
Not by getting caught and suspended, ruining my future, and maybe even ending up in juvie.
No. Not gonna happen.
It wasn’t me who did this. It was her. She’s the culprit. The thief. The perp. Whatever Other Me did was her problem. Not mine. And I won’t take the fall for her mistakes.
I run to my bedroom door and turn the lock. Then I get to work. I start by deleting both of the anonymous email accounts ([email protected] and the one I set up last week). Then I clear my cache and erase my browsing history. I rip out all my notes from my notebook, light a match, and burn them in the shower, washing away the ash with a blast of cold water. I stuff the cash back into the box and lock it. When I get to school tomorrow, I’m going to have to search through every book on that reading list and get rid of any money that’s still hidden in them.
There won’t be any front-page story or any school newspaper. That’s gone. Not many people knew I was working on it anyway. Mr. Fitz turned down my request. For all he knows, I took his advice to heart and didn’t pursue it further.
The only loose end is Dylan.
The person who suspected me from the very beginning.
I grab my phone, find his contact information in the Windsor Achiever app, and tap out two text messages to him, choosing my words carefully.
Me: Looks like I’ve hit another dead end.
Me: Couldn’t figure out the password. Got locked out. Oh, well.
I rap my fingers anxiously against the phone as I wait for him to respond. A few seconds later, a message appears.
Dylan: Don’t give up! We can figure this out. The perp shall pay!
I feel the knot in my stomach twist.
Me: No. It’s over. I’m dropping the story. Fitz was right. I don’t have time. I need to focus on my other commitments.
I sigh and press Send. His response is exactly as I expected.
Dylan: I thought you were braver than to listen to Fitz.
He thinks I’m a coward. He thinks I really am a brainless zombie. But I don’t care. If it keeps him off my back, I can live with that.
Getting kicked out of school for a crime I didn’t commit? That I can’t live with.
Me: I guess you were wrong.
I power down my phone before he can respond and toss it onto my bed.
I’ll just have to lie low. Keep my head down. Do my work. Follow the rules. Be a good Windsor student. Eventually the administration will realize that the test stealing has stopped and maybe—hopefully—they’ll just let it go. Maybe—hopefully—everything will return to normal. And I can go on with my life and forget this ever happened.
I navigate through the folders on my computer until I find the document where I typed up my story notes. Without a second thought, I delete it. Then I click on the little trash icon in the corner of my screen. Other Me tried her hardest to screw up our lives. She tried to take me down with her. But I won’t let her.
It’s time to take out the garbage. It’s time to erase Other Me forever.
I hover the pointer over the Empty Trash button, sucking in a huge, courageous breath. But before I click, I notice something out of the corner of my eye.
Another file.
Kennedy Rhodes—Personal Essay—Version 1
I remember seeing that before. When I was revising my PE for Fitz’s class. Other Me must have deleted it but then forgot to empty the trash.
I tell myself to let it go. Erase it all and move on. But some invisible force is tugging on my finger. Call it curiosity. Call it intuition. Call it whatever you want.
But I open the document.
I read what’s inside.
Then I collapse into tears.