I, Claudia

by Mary McCoy

  “How do you want to play this?” I asked.

  “We should report it to Dr. Graves,” Hector said, looking at me like I was insane, like the appropriate course of action was self-evident, and I remembered that Hector wasn’t the type of person who considered the angles. Hector would always do the simple, right thing.

  “Nobody reports anything to Dr. Graves.”

  “Then we’ll report it to the Honor Council.”

  I hesitated here as well.

  “Hector, no one would do something like this, something that involved this many people, unless they thought they could get away with it. Inviting a few Honor Council representatives to a party seems like a decent way to give the whole thing a veneer of legitimacy. They wouldn’t even have to know the party had been paid for with stolen money.”

  You would have thought I’d told Hector that JFK was assassinated by CIA goons hiding out on the grassy knoll.

  “Which is why we would tell them, Claudia,” he explained patiently.

  Hector’s logic made sense, until you thought about the people who would be involved.

  “Hector, think about it. Who is going to be invited to this party? Forty of the most popular, high-achieving, ambitious students at Imperial Day. The faces of the franchise. Do you think they’re going to go quietly if they get in trouble?”

  I paused to allow him a second to imagine Oberlin St. James, Jasmine Park, and thirty-eight of their closest Ivy League–bound friends facing expulsion for theft and assorted treachery.

  “Do you think Imperial Day is really going to let that happen? The school’s reputation would be ruined. No, they’re going to find a convenient way to pin this on a couple of convenient people. You haven’t been here as long as I have, Hector, but trust me when I say that the two of us look awfully convenient.”

  “But we’re the ones who found out about it! Why would we turn ourselves in?” Hector said, eyeing me like he suddenly wasn’t so sure I was on his side.

  “Hector, we don’t even know who’s involved. Until we know that much, trust me, we shouldn’t say anything.”

  Hector shook his head, no doubt asking himself what collection of poor choices had lured him into this nest of snakes that was the Imperial Day Academy. I didn’t want to see him hurt by any of this. After all, he hadn’t asked for it. He’d been minding his own business, trying to be a good senator, when I talked him into impersonating my mother’s assistant on the phone and we uncovered this whole mess. If there was a way I could protect him from whatever came next, I resolved to do it.

  “We could pretend we never found it,” I suggested. I had to try.

  “No, we can’t,” Hector said, thumbing the invoices we’d printed. “You know that.”

  “Can we take the weekend before we decide who to talk to?” I asked.

  “Can we investigate?”

  “We should,” I said, though I didn’t trust anyone but myself to do the real digging. Not because Hector wasn’t trustworthy—in fact, the opposite. I wanted to keep him as far away from the people who were likely to be involved as possible. They’d sniff out his naïveté in a second and exploit it. “Can you try to find out who paid the deposit on the Queen Mary?”

  “It was in Oberlin St. James’s name.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” I said. Oberlin St. James was the sort of person who attended Homecoming because it was his job, not because he enjoyed it. The idea of him masterminding an extra, unnecessary, illegal party struck me as odd.

  Hector got up from the bus stop bench and tucked the invoices into the side pocket of his shoulder bag.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “I’m going to very subtly, very carefully see if I can find out who knows about this.”

  “How are you going to do that?” Hector asked.

  “I’ll think of something.”

  I could tell that he didn’t quite trust me, that he thought it was more likely I’d spend the weekend acting like the whole thing had never happened.

  And he was right not to trust me. I had no intention of being subtle or careful, and when we said goodbye that day, I already knew what I was going to do.

  On Saturday, I went to see Livia.

  “You went to Livia? After everything you’ve told me, after what happened at the Griffith School and what happened with your sister, not to mention how much you seem to dislike her, why would Livia be the person you decided to trust with this?”

  “Trust had nothing to do with it.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “I was aware of my own shortcomings as a politician. There were so many things to think about: who to hold responsible, who to protect, knowing that they would owe you a favor at some point, how to keep the school’s reputation—and by extension, our own—intact. Hector wouldn’t think to exploit a situation like that. He wouldn’t think to play it in a way where it might do him some good.”

  “Was going to Livia a way to ensure that she might owe you a favor at some point?”

  “It wasn’t like that exactly. I wanted to watch her in action. I wanted to see what she would do.”

  “You mean you wanted to learn from her?”

  “She was the only person I could think of who would really understand the nuances of the situation.”

  XXI

  Before They Can’t Take It Back

  Under the reign of Sulla and the purges of the Roman ruling class that followed, one senator begged the bloodthirsty dictator, “We are not asking you to pardon those you have decided to kill; all we ask is that you free from suspense those you have decided not to kill.”

  Standing in Livia’s hallway that Saturday afternoon, waiting in silence as she sized me up, trying to decide whether I was worth squashing or keeping around, I felt like that senator.

  “Who told you to call the Queen Mary?” Livia snapped.

  “No one,” I said, truthfully. In fact, I’d told her the truth about everything. The only part of the story I left out was Hector. It was safer for him, I reasoned, if Livia didn’t know he’d had anything to do with it.

  I continued. “But I found out about it and I wasn’t even looking.”

  “You know this probably involves half the Senate,” Livia said.

  And half the Honor Council. And the rest of your friends, too, I thought.

  Livia examined her reflection in the enormous oval mirror in the hallway. She picked a morsel out from between her front teeth, then abruptly turned and walked down the hallway, as if she’d forgotten I was standing there. She was a fast walker. By the time I worked up the nerve to follow her into the house, lurching across the slick ceramic floors, dragging my bad leg behind me, she was already standing at the kitchen counter, a highball glass full of ice in her hand.

  “Even if it turns out to be true, how’s it going to look if I bring charges against them?” Livia asked, picking up our conversation as if she hadn’t just walked away from it. She opened the refrigerator, poured herself a glass of water from a pitcher, and took a sip.

  She didn’t wait for me to answer her question. She also didn’t offer me a glass of water.

  “It’s going to look like a power grab. A vendetta. It will undermine trust in both institutions.”

  She set the glass down on the countertop, then picked it up again, then put it down, and repeated this until she’d left a row of interlocking condensation circles on the granite.

  “This is huge. They can’t just get away with it,” she said at last. She was pretending to think it over, to change her mind, even though I felt sure she’d known what she wanted to do from the beginning. “Maybe the important thing isn’t to catch everyone in the act and punish them. Maybe it’s to give them the opportunity to do the right thing before it’s too late. Before they can’t take it back.”

  I was beginning to see what she was driving at. Blackmailing the guilty parties was an option I hadn’t even considered.

  “It’s still a month until Homecoming,” I said
.

  “Exactly,” Livia said. “Nothing’s been done yet that can’t be undone.”

  They must have been reading Macbeth in her Honors English class.

  “So, what are you going to do?” I asked.

  “None of your business,” Livia snapped before realizing that maybe it was to her advantage to be just a little bit nicer to me given the information I had. Her voice softened. “What I mean is, it’s confidential. Like everything the Honor Council does. But, Claudia, I want you to know that you did the right thing coming to me.”

  I had no idea how Livia was going to use this information, but it was clear she had options. She could wield it like a machete and clean house at Imperial Day. She could bury it and protect Jasmine Park and Oberlin St. James and whoever else was involved. Or she could use it to blackmail them into doing whatever she wanted as long as they were all at Imperial Day.

  One thing was certain, though: it was out of my hands. All I had to do was sit back, watch to see what happened next, and, as you put it, learn.

  XXII

  Looking for Fifteen People

  to Make Out With

  I excused myself, leaving Livia to her Saturday night scheming, and returned home, where I planned to spend the night watching a documentary about the construction of the Duomo in Florence (one of the great architectural marvels of the Renaissance—and the guy who figured out how to build it was a goldsmith who’d never even designed a building before, if you can believe that). I had really been looking forward to it, so I was actually a little disappointed when Hector texted, asking me to meet him downtown.

  Downtown?!? I texted back. Why on earth would I do that?

  I was a Westside Angeleno and did not venture east of La Cienega if I could help it.

  After a minute, Hector texted back:

  You’ll like it. It’s very historical.

  Curiosity won out. I changed clothes and got an Uber, thinking only a little bit wistfully about my comfy bed and sweatpants and television.

  The place Hector wanted to meet was called The Last Bookstore, and it was in a building that looked like it must have been a haberdashery or a bank a hundred years ago. Hardly anything in LA looks like it’s been there for a hundred years, so that alone was worth noting.

  Most used bookstores look like they defeated their owners at some point. Maybe once upon a time, the collection was carefully curated, but eventually fatigue set in and the place was overrun, one dog-eared copy of Cold Sassy Tree at a time. If a used bookstore could feel new, this one did. Every title seemed like it was there on purpose, like a person had touched it with their hand and thought, Yes, this, as they placed it on the shelf.

  I found Hector standing in the local history section, leafing through a book of maps.

  “Did you know people used to live where Dodger Stadium is now?” he asked, showing me the map of Chavez Ravine he’d been looking at.

  “No,” I said.

  “The city had it declared a slum and evicted all the families who lived there. They got away with it because they claimed they were going to build public housing on the land, but as soon as the last Mexican was out, they turned around and sold it to the Dodgers.”

  I hadn’t heard that before, but I didn’t doubt it. I knew enough about history to know that anytime it seems like some noble, virtuous, powerful person should have stood up and said, This is wrong! It must be stopped! they almost never did.

  What I said to Hector, though, was, “I didn’t know you were into history.”

  The brown jacket he was wearing looked so soft, I had to stop myself from reaching out to touch it as Hector put the book back on the shelf.

  “I just think it’s important,” he said. “So, did you think any more about what we should do?”

  I was about to say that some ice cream sounded nice, when I realized what he was talking about.

  “About the Queen Mary thing?” I asked. Hector gave me a patient look that said, Yes. Obviously.

  I’d unburdened myself to Livia, but Hector hadn’t. I’d put the situation out of my mind almost entirely, but Hector was the kind of person who couldn’t even wait until Monday morning to do the right thing.

  “I think it’s taken care of,” I said.

  Hector’s eyes widened. He took me by the sleeve and led me toward the leather couch in the center of the store. A scraggly-bearded hipster in red jeans sat at one end of it reading a filmmaking book that I was sure he’d never buy. Hector sat down at the other end, pulling me with him.

  “What did you do, Claudia?” There was an edge to his voice I’d never heard before, and his nostrils flared when he spoke.

  “I took care of it,” I said, suddenly defensive. “I did what needed to be done.”

  Weird Beard had stopped dog-earing the pages of his filmmaking book and was now listening avidly to everything we said. I could see his sordid little imagination trying to work out what we were talking about, what a guy who looked like Hector was doing with a girl who looked like me. I decided to help him out.

  “G-g-get fucked,” I said, and even though he lifted his hand to his mouth to cover a giggle, at least he took his stupid book and went somewhere else.

  “Look,” I said, turning back to Hector. I felt calmer after working out some of my aggression on Weird Beard. Now I just had to get Hector to calm down, too. “I went to someone on the Honor Council.”

  I saw his shoulders relax as I told him. After all, that was one of the things he’d suggested we do. He could hardly get mad at me for that. The confused look hadn’t left his face, though.

  “I thought you said we couldn’t go to them.”

  “I did it in a sort of . . . unofficial capacity.”

  “What did this unofficial Honor Council person have to say? Unofficially.”

  “That it was still a month until Homecoming. That there was still time for whoever was responsible to do the right thing,” I said, remembering the look on Livia’s face as she’d said it. Right this minute, on the other side of town, she was probably trying to figure out what to do with the information, who to tell, how to play it.

  “So the Honor Council is going to make sure they cancel the party?”

  “I think so?”

  Hector’s nostrils flared again. “You mean this person didn’t actually tell you what they’re going to do?”

  “It’s the Honor Council,” I said. “It’s confidential.”

  “And did this person happen to mention how they knew who to talk to when we don’t even know?”

  I swallowed and looked away, knowing that what I said next was going to send Hector flying into a whole different kind of rage.

  “I did sort of get the feeling that this person might have already known about it,” I said.

  Hector looked as though he wanted to knock over a bookshelf. He balled his fists at his sides and glared at me.

  “So you gave them a warning, and now they can do whatever they want. What were you thinking, Claudia?”

  Now I felt my hackles go up. It wasn’t like I was the one who’d stolen the money. It wasn’t like I’d done anything wrong.

  “What did you think was going to happen, Hector? That we were going to make them pay? That they’d all be expelled and a glorious new reign would come to power, and nothing like this would ever happen again?”

  I could feel my cheeks color as I stumbled over my words. It was always harder to keep from stuttering when my emotions were stirred up.

  “I saved our asses, Hector. I kept the most powerful people in school from getting to do whatever they wanted, and I think that’s pretty good. At least the best I think we can hope for, so give me a little credit.”

  After I’d finished making my speech, Hector was quiet. I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not.

  “Was it Ty?” he said at last. “Was that who you went to?”

  “No,” I said, probably a little too quickly.

  I thought about telling him everything about my visit with Liv
ia, but before I could, I got the distinct feeling that Hector and I were being watched. I turned my head and saw Cal Hurt standing by the True Crime shelves, staring at us as he paged through a copy of Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders. By his side was Kian Sarkosian, one of the new Honor Council representatives, a gawky puppy of a freshman. He wore a daily uniform of plain white button-down shirts and dark, stiff jeans, though I couldn’t tell if he was trying to look like a nerd from the 1950s, or if he just lacked imagination. The Honor Council was supposed to attract the best, the most charismatic, the most ambitious. If Kian Sarkosian was the most suitable representative they could elect, it did not bode well for the current freshman class at Imperial Day, especially if Cal had already managed to recruit him as a disciple.

  “Shit,” I muttered under my breath, and then probably just to piss me off, Hector got up from the couch and strolled over to him.

  “Hey, Cal,” Hector said, his voice so cheerful you would have thought they were actually happy to see each other.

  Cal nodded, and then the two of them shook hands, then Hector and Kian shook hands. This is a dude thing at Imperial Day. Instead of fist bumps or one-armed bro hugs, when they see each other outside of school, the men of Imperial Day always shake hands like they are diplomats or Southern gentlemen. The legacy of Paul Chudnuff, Imperial Day founder, homophobic tit, strikes again.

  As I reluctantly limped over to join the group, Cal nodded in my direction and said, “C-C-C-Claudia.” He reeked of weed and gin.

  I wished that all the people who’d voted him onto the Honor Council after he’d rushed to my defense during the campaign assembly could see him now.

  As he smiled at me—you know, to show it was just a joke—I could feel myself go somewhere else. I was still standing in the middle of the bookstore, a sneer on my lips, but that was just my outsides. My insides were curled up in a ball, my head tucked under one arm, waiting for the moment to be over.