by Katie Zhao
9:00 P.M.—ZERO MINUTES REMAINING
Time.
Time was up.
“Don’t come looking for me,” I said when I picked up his call.
“Nancy—check Tip Tap.” The gravity in Alexander’s voice made my heart sink. “Then tell me it wasn’t you who did it. I know it wasn’t you who hurt Jamie.” A pause. I said nothing. His voice cracked as he whispered, “Nancy?”
I didn’t respond before hanging up and opening the gossip app. There was a new post from the Proctor.
Want to know who really had it out for Jamie? It was none other than . . . her own “BFF.” Hold your friends close, and your enemies closer—isn’t that how the saying goes?
A photograph of a note accompanied the post. The full note, written in my handwriting, signed by me.
I WILL END YOU, JAMIE RUAN. MARK MY WORDS.
—Nancy Luo
Texts and messages from friends and strangers began bombarding my phone. Dimly, I knew it was over. Time was up, and the phantoms of the past were here. Here for me. Here to make me pay for my crimes.
In inceptum finis est.
The whispers and the ghosts had come. And here, feeding off our blood, rising out of the dark, the statue of Richard Sinclair came alive.
CONFESSION TWENTY-THREE
Whoever the Proctor is, I hope they’re having a good time with their date lmao —Anon
*****
A figure, shifting behind the statue. Stepping into the glow of the streetlights. The outline of long hair and the knee-length skirt of a Sinclair Prep uniform.
Not the statue of our founder coming alive. The ghost of a girl coming alive.
“Who are you?” Although I was terrified, anger steadied my voice. “What do you want with me?”
The girl moved gracefully, as though floating. A hunter cornering her prey, enjoying the last moments before she pounced.
“The question is,” said the girl—and that voice, I knew that voice—“what did you do two years ago during freshman year? You must know, since you knew to come here, where the beginning is the end. In inceptum finis est.”
The girl stepped fully into view. Light hit her face, but her mask obscured her identity.
“Who are you?” I repeated.
The girl raised her right hand. Slowly, inch by inch, tugged off her mask, and then tossed it aside. Her face caked with foundation, eyes lined with thick black eyeliner. Lips stained red.
The Proctor. Her. But—it couldn’t. I’d spoken to her half an hour ago. She had no reason, no reason to be behind this. I deserved this punishment, but not from her.
“L . . . Louisa?”
A scornful look twisted her pretty features. “My real name,” she said, “is Emily Yang. It’s me, Nancy. It’s Em.”
I stumbled.
Ghosts haunting this school.
This ghost, coming back from my past. Back to haunt me.
“No. That’s not possible. Emily Yang . . . Em . . .”
Emily Yang died two years ago. In a tragic accident—as Sinclair Prep ruled. In an incident. The Incident.
Jamie had started the Incident, of course. Jamie always started everything. This time, we helped her finish it.
On a night as dark and cold as this, we helped her finish Em.
APRIL, FRESHMAN YEAR
Emily Yang had transferred to Sinclair Prep a few months into the school year. Right away, we could tell she wasn’t like the other freshmen at Sinclair Prep. She didn’t ever wear makeup, didn’t ever try to stand out. Hung out with the goths and anime nerds. Always carried a journal around with her, scribbling in it so often that some of the juniors started a joke that it was her “Death Note.”
But Em did stand out where it mattered. She got perfect grades. Won prize after prize for her poetry.
In all our classes, Em was either second to Jamie, or better than Jamie. Everyone else knew not to one-up Jamie. Bad things happened to people who one-upped Jamie. But Em either didn’t know or didn’t care. She didn’t hold back. She was . . . herself.
I admired her. And I loathed her.
In the spring, the Global Youth Leadership Association announced their annual high school essay-writing contest. The winner would receive $2,500, take a trip to Washington D.C. for a reception and meet-and-greet with the Department of State, and get full tuition to study abroad over the summer.
Jamie and I both applied. Jamie was so sure she was going to win.
But Emily came out on top once again, sweeping the grand prize. Jamie and I were honorable mentions. Which meant we got nothing.
This outcome shocked everyone, Jamie most of all. Nobody denied Jamie anything. What Jamie wanted, Jamie got. It was a law of the universe.
But the laws had changed, now.
“I should have won,” Jamie hissed when we found out the results. “There’s no way Em can be the winner. There must be some mistake.”
“She wrote a better essay, Jamie.”
Jamie whirled on me. “It doesn’t matter who wrote the better essay. I had Daddy send the judges a bribe. They were supposed to choose me!”
I wasn’t surprised to learn about Jamie’s admittance. It was just like her. Besides, Jamie hadn’t even taken the time to notice I was down about losing to Emily, too.
Emily was a better writer than Jamie. Emily was a better writer than me.
My mother once told me that I had to be the best.
And I had failed.
Em wasn’t one of the girls whose life Jamie could ruin by revealing their secrets. She didn’t seem to have secrets.
I knew there would be trouble when Jamie started being nice to her, really nice to her. Inviting her out to dinners. Taking her shopping. It scared me, too. Scared me because I thought Jamie was replacing me.
Until Jamie took me aside one gloomy spring afternoon, and whispered, “I found out Emily’s weakness.”
“You did?”
“It’s my cousin. It’s Peter. She told me she has a crush on him. Ooooh, this makes everything much easier.” Jamie spoke with a gleam in her eye, with the delight of a child who’d discovered an unopened bag of candy.
“Peter? She likes him?” I tried my best to sound casual, but speaking Peter’s name aloud was like a shard to my heart. We’d ended things a week ago. With him going off to Stanford after the summer, and me stuck at Sinclair Prep for another three years, it only made sense. Still didn’t make it any easier.
“Yes.” Jamie rolled her eyes. “It’s that stupid violin. Girls will fall over themselves to hear Peter play that thing. Anyway—I told Em Peter likes her back too, even though he doesn’t.”
My heart lurched, and then settled in relief after hearing Peter didn’t like Em. “Wait, why would you do that?” And then, with a growing sense of horror, I gasped. “No.”
“Yes. I’m going to use Em’s little crush to humiliate her so badly that she never dares to show her stupid face around here again.” A vicious sneer curled Jamie’s lips. “I’ve set it all up. Em trusts me, now. Thinks I’m her friend. I told Em the Golden Trio wants to meet her tonight, because Peter wants to confess his feelings in person. But he’s not going to, obviously. He’s going to shoot her down—rip her to pieces. I’m going to catch everything on camera.” Then she giggled, her eyes bulging, and the giggle turned into a laugh.
I forced a halfhearted chuckle, but even that small action made me feel sick inside. Another one. Another life Jamie was about to ruin. How many more times did I have to stand by and watch?
“And you’re coming tonight to see the show. Krystal, Alexander, Akil—they’re all coming too.”
My stomach sunk. I struggled to make up with some excuse, any excuse, not to be there. “Oh, I . . .”
“You’re coming, Nancy. All of you are.” Jamie’s tone was final. A warning that if we didn’t obey, there would be consequences. “Quarter to nine tonight, at the Richard Sinclair statue. I told Em to meet Peter and them at nine. That gives us plenty of time to figure
out a spot to hide. Remember—eight forty-five.”
I showed up at eight forty-five on the dot. Akil was already there, standing next to Richard Sinclair’s statue, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Jamie, on the other side, smiling, like we were about to do something fun, like there was nowhere else she’d rather be.
“We’re only waiting on Krystal and Alexander now. They’re both running a little late. Stuck in traffic.” Jamie frowned at her phone, as though it had offended her.
“So what’s the plan again?” Akil said, breaking the thick silence.
Jamie’s eyes scanned the grounds around us. “We can all hide . . . there.” She pointed at the large clump of bushes near the front steps. “Let’s get into position and wait for Em to show up in ten min—”
“Why are you waiting for me to show up?”
We whirled around at the sharp voice. Em, hands on her hips. Em, glaring, big red splotches on her cheeks.
“Em!” Jamie jumped, and quickly recovered herself. She smoothed her uniform skirt and forced a calm, cold smile. “What are you doing here? I thought I told you Peter said he’d meet you at nine—”
“Yeah, and I didn’t believe you. I thought something was fishy. I’m not stupid, Jamie.” Em’s eyes grew shiny with defiance. And maybe sadness. “I had a feeling you weren’t being sincere with me, even though I wished I was wrong. That stuff about meeting the Golden Trio was all made up, right?”
Jamie dropped her smile. Dropped all pretense. Through gritted teeth, she said, “Peter’s coming. He’ll be here any minute now, him and his friends.”
“Yeah, right.” Em snorted. “What is this really about, Jamie? Tell the truth. For once.”
“How dare you—”
“Is this about me winning the essay contest?”
Jamie’s shrieks of rage erupted through the air. “That grand prize should have been mine!”
Em, red-faced and apparently a lot braver than we’d known, shouted, “Do you seriously think you own everything? News flash—the judges chose me as the winner, not you. Maybe because, unlike you, I have talent, and don’t force my way into winning!” Though she was shouting, she backed away as Jamie advanced on her. Then, there was nowhere to go; Em had backed up in front of the statue of Richard Sinclair.
Akil and I exchanged panicked looks. “This is getting bad, really bad,” he whimpered.
If Krystal and Alexander were here, too, maybe we could’ve stopped Jamie. But not with just the two of us. Not when Jamie got out of control like this.
I liked Jamie when she was being nice. But that wasn’t the real reason why we were friends. I was terrified of her when she wasn’t being nice—and that was why we remained friends.
I knew we should stop Jamie. But still there was a tiny, sick, twisted part of me that wanted to see this play out. After all, Em had been beating me at all those tests and contests, too. Someone should put her in her place. Yell at her for a bit.
“Nancy! Get over here,” Jamie ordered.
My stomach flipped. I didn’t want to get involved. But I didn’t want to disobey Jamie. Like I said—bad things happened when Jamie didn’t get her way.
Shooting Akil a terrified look, I slunk over.
“Let’s teach Em a lesson,” Jamie hissed in my ear. When I stared at her, the meaning of her words not fully sinking in, she added, “Push her down. Make her remember this lesson permanently.”
Em stood right there, her tall, slightly chubby frame shaking. She held her chin up high and stepped toward me. “You always do whatever she says, Nancy, but don’t really want to. You know that. Come on. You’re stronger than this.”
I stumbled back. Was I being weak for always following along with Jamie’s wishes? No. No, I was doing what I needed to do to stay in Jamie’s graces, to climb my way to the top.
And in that moment, seeing the determination in Em’s eyes, anger consumed me. How dare Em defy the social hierarchy at Sinclair Prep? The rest of us fought tooth and nail for our grades and social standing. Did she really think she could swoop in and worm her way above Jamie, above me, with such infuriating ease?
Shouting came as though from a distance.
“S-Someone’s coming!” Akil stammered. “Guys—let’s get out of here.”
I barely heard him. Jamie and I were going to teach Em a lesson that I’d had to learn over and over again. Nothing in life was easy. Everything came with a staggering price. Tonight, it was her turn to pay.
I nodded at Jamie. Together, we shoved Em back.
And then it went wrong. I must’ve misjudged my own strength. Or maybe Jamie was stronger than I’d thought.
Em fell backward, screaming, into the stone statue.
A thick, wet crack, like a watermelon splitting on a cutting board.
Em’s body, collapsing against the statue. Eyes closed. Unmoving.
And the blood. Blood ran from the back of Em’s head onto the ground. Blood everywhere, on Em and on Richard Sinclair’s statue.
“Holy fuck. Holy fuck,” Akil was shouting over and over. Then he turned around and retched.
Horrified yelling. More retching. Someone pushing me sideways, knocking me to the cold grass.
“Out of the way!” The figure loped over and pressed his head against Em’s chest, and I dimly registered that it was Richard. Behind him, the shocked faces of Peter and David. And behind them, Krystal and Alexander, gazing at us in horror.
“H-How is she?” stammered David.
“She’s not breathing.” Then Richard performed CPR on Em, over and over again, but nothing he did seemed to work.
“I barely touched her,” Jamie screamed for all to hear. “You saw, didn’t you? Right, Akil?” She shook his shoulders, but he didn’t reply. His face had gone bone-white with shock. “She fell on her own! It wasn’t me!”
“It wasn’t me,” I echoed. “It wasn’t.”
My sobs mixed with Jamie’s shrieks mixed with the wails of an ambulance, and maybe in a minute, maybe in a year, help finally came for Em. But by then, it was too late.
The funeral for Emily Yang was held a week after the freshman class returned to the Upper West Side. A horrible accident, we were all told. Emily had slipped in the grass and cracked her head on the stone statue.
I’d expected my role in this accident to have ruined my life. I’d expected to go to juvenile detention.
Instead, Principal Bates hushed up what happened. Emily Yang came from a no-name family. Better to destroy the Yangs than the Ruans, who practically had this school in their back pocket. And if Jamie wasn’t going to be blamed, then neither would I, the person who’d helped her, who’d helped her kill Emily Yang.
So it went. So long as we held our silence—swallowed this burning secret back into the pits of our stomachs—we had our whole lives ahead of us.
After the funeral, the Yangs moved back to China. Their family business had been struggling for a while. But the real reason for the move, people said, was that they couldn’t bear the loss of their daughter, their pride and joy.
With that, Emily Yang was gone. But the memory of Em haunted every one of us. Glued our friend circle together with the horrible, horrible guilt over what had actually happened—what we’d done to her. What I’d done to her.
I never imagined Em would come back to haunt us for real.
CONFESSION TWENTY-FOUR
Ngl I’ve been to funerals that were more fun than this prom —Anon
*****
I stared at Louisa/Em. Putting together the pieces. “You . . . this isn’t possible. But—but you’re—you’re supposed to be—”
“—Emily,” she finished, drawing closer. Gaze never leaving mine. “Say my name.”
“E-Emily,” I obeyed. “You—You didn’t die that day.”
“Obviously.” Blood-red lips curling into a sneer. “Did you think I was a ghost?”
“So then that funeral . . . your funeral . . . was fake?”
“My family wanted
to keep our affairs private. They wanted to protect me. Thought it was best if we got far, far away . . . and let everyone think I was dead.”
“You don’t—you don’t look anything like you did before.”
The Emily Yang from my memories had been chubby, and had a squashed nose and hooded eyes, for which Jamie had teased her mercilessly. Her hair had been dark brown. She looked nothing like Louisa, who was tall and slim, with a perfectly shaped nose, double-lid eyes, and lighter brown hair.
“I dyed my hair. I lost weight, too—I call it the revenge diet,” Em explained. “Then I got plastic surgery when I visited South Korea. Money can be so powerful. Not that you would know about having money.” She smiled, and it was a cruel smile, a familiar smile. My smile. Jamie’s smile.
“How did you orchestrate all this?” I whispered.
“I had my butler do a lot of the dirty work.” Em shrugged, and I remembered the tall, brown-haired man who’d been associated with the Proctor. “The rest wasn’t that hard to set up. For a bunch of academic geniuses, you and Krystal and Akil and Alexander sure can be morons sometimes.”
I gulped. “What are you going to do to me? I’ll—I’ll scream.”
Em stepped toward me and grabbed my wrist. “You guys tried to bury me two years ago. I came back to return the favor.”
“What happened was an accident. Nobody meant to—”
“An accident? Do you honestly expect me to believe that?” Em laughed. Though I tried in vain to twist away, her grip around my wrist tightened. The pressure burned my skin, the pain building and building. I gritted my teeth. “I knew you guys—especially Jamie—were threatened by me. If I’d stayed at Sinclair Prep, I would’ve become the top student in our grade. That’s why you wanted me dead.”
“Nobody wanted you dead,” I protested.
“Then why did Jamie and you push me into the statue?” Em’s eyes filled with angry tears. That anguish on her face was all too familiar. It was an anguish I knew like the back of my hand—an anguish buried within me. “Admit it. You wanted me gone because you were scared of me.” Em’s tears dripped down her cheeks. “You, and the rest of Jamie’s posse, never saw me as a friend.”
