In Some Other Life: A Novel

by Jessica Brody

  I turn on my heels and stalk off, feeling proud of myself. Feeling in control and powerful and on top of the world again.

  “Why don’t you ask Lucinda Wallace what she thinks?”

  I freeze on the spot, my breath suddenly trapped in my lungs.

  “Why don’t you ask her how amazing this school is?” Dylan lets out a dark laugh. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You and your BFF Sequoia would rather pretend she never existed.”

  I spin around and open my mouth to respond—not sure if anything will come out besides hot air—but I’m never given the opportunity. Because right then a loud voice echoes through the entire ballroom. “Good evening, Windsor Family!”

  I turn toward the stage to see Dean Lewis standing in front of the microphone, looking radiant in a long, shimmery gown.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” she goes on. She’s so poised and calm. Like she was born to be up on that stage. “On behalf of the entire Windsor faculty, we are delighted that you could join us tonight for this very special occasion.”

  There’s a smattering of polite clapping throughout the room, and I glance around me to find that Dylan has disappeared into the crowd.

  “Although to be honest,” Dean Lewis says, “this whole night wouldn’t have been possible without one very special person.”

  Sequoia pushes through a group of people to come stand next to me. She flashes me a giddy smile and nudges me with her elbow. “She’s talking about you!”

  I feel my legs go numb.

  What?

  No. She can’t be.

  “Her friends call her Crusher,” Dean Lewis goes on with a twinkle in her eye. “Because, let’s face it, she crushes everything she does. Including this beautiful, brilliant gala. There’s no doubt she represents everything the Windsor Academy stands for and we will miss her terribly when she graduates in May. Please give it up for the fabulously accomplished and ridiculously talented student fund-raising captain, Miss Kennedy Rhodes!”

  The room bursts into raucous applause. Somewhere near me, I’m pretty sure Sequoia is telling me to do something, but I can barely even hear it over the sound of rushing water in my ears.

  I feel a nudge at my back. “Go,” Sequoia urges. “Get your butt up there.”

  What? No way!

  It’s one thing to stand up in front of a room full of student newspaper reporters, it’s quite another to stand up in a room full of tuxedo-and-ball-gown-clad people who bid twenty-five hundred dollars on a bottle of what is basically just fermented grape juice.

  Panicked, I look to the stage, where Dean Lewis is shielding her eyes from the spotlight and scanning the crowd. “Where is she?” She gives a hearty laugh. “Probably off convincing someone to donate to next year’s gala. Kennedy?”

  I instinctively start to back away but Sequoia gives me another nudge in the back. “Go on! You deserve it!”

  I stumble toward the stage, my legs feeling like solid blocks of ice beneath me. As I climb the steps, I seriously think that I might faint. Is this what an out-of-body experience feels like? Because I am nowhere near my body right now.

  Dean Lewis claps as I make my way toward her. “This girl,” she announces to the room, “not only organized this entire event, but she also secured every single donated item on that auction table.”

  More applause. “There are still a few auction items open, but we’ve already raised one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for the Windsor Academy tonight!”

  The room goes crazy. Meanwhile, my head is spinning.

  One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.

  I don’t want to do it. I hate myself for doing it, but I can’t help it. It’s like my eyes move all on their own, without my permission. I scan the crowd for Dylan. And when my gaze finally lands on his, he gives me the subtlest of smirks. It’s got “I told you so” written all over it.

  I shake my head and force myself to look at anyone but him. Every other single person in this room is applauding and cheering and singing my praises.

  So what if he accurately guessed how much we would raise? That doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t know for sure how much this event cost to put together. Maybe it was organized with donations. Maybe it didn’t cost us a penny.

  One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars is an incredible amount of money.

  And I’m responsible for that.

  That’s definitely something to be proud of.

  “Please join me in raising a toast to Kennedy Rhodes!” Dean Lewis sings and hands me a glass of soda water. Hundreds of hands launch into the air and I stare into the crowd, my gaze, once again, involuntarily finding Dylan. He raises an invisible glass and gives me a wink.

  I huff silently and turn away.

  I don’t care what Dylan Parker has to say. He’s an outcast. A minority. A rebellious spoiled ingrate who doesn’t appreciate what he’s been given.

  As I raise my glass to the Windsor Academy and clink it against Dean Lewis’s, I’ve never felt better about my choices.

  Then …

  Then I Find Out the Truth

  By the time the last guest leaves, it’s already way past midnight and I’m exhausted. As beautiful as this dress is, I can’t wait to get out of it and put on something more comfortable.

  Even though it’s completely out of her way, Sequoia insists on driving me home.

  “That was amazing,” she says, as she turns out of the country club parking lot. “Simply amazing.”

  “Yeah,” I say dazedly, staring out the window at the passing streetlamps. This whole day and night has felt like a dream.

  A dream I never want to wake up from.

  Except I can’t stop thinking about the things Dylan said to me. They’re buzzing around me like an annoying fly I can’t swat away.

  As much as I don’t want to believe anything he said, Dylan was right about one thing. Sequoia and I do act like Lucinda never even existed. It’s strange. Sequoia has barely even mentioned her in the past two days, and every time someone brings her up she quickly shuts it down.

  It’s not right. If Lucinda was our best friend and something bad happened to her, we should be talking about it.

  Sequoia lets out a contented sigh. “Aren’t you glad that’s over with? All that buildup. All that worrying. It’s nice to just sit back and bask in your success, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I agree absently. “It’s a good feeling.”

  I take a deep breath and grab the edge of the seat for support. “It’s a shame Lucinda had to miss it.”

  The energy in the car snaps like a twig. I can almost hear it breaking. I peer at Sequoia out of the corner of my eye and notice her jaw has tightened and her grip around the steering wheel has turned deadly.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she murmurs.

  I swallow timidly. “I think maybe we should.”

  “Why would you do that?!” Sequoia snarls, taking me by surprise. She’s no longer quiet. No longer basking in the glow of the evening. Now she’s turned into something else. Something fierce. “Why would you ruin the night like that?”

  “I’m sorry,” I offer. “But I just—”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. There’s nothing more to say. Lucinda made her choice. And it was entirely hers to make. We had nothing to do with it. She knew what she was getting into. She knew what the Windsor Academy honor code says about cheating, she knew it meant automatic expulsion, but she bought the stolen exam anyway. There’s no point in feeling sorry for her. She brought this on herself.”

  My brain is swimming in Sequoia’s words, trying to make sense of them and string them together with everything else I’ve learned over the past two days.

  Lucinda got expelled for cheating?

  She bought a stolen exam?

  I feel my chest squeeze at the notion. I mean, I always knew Windsor was a tough school and the students were under a lot of pressure to succeed (I’ve only been here for a day and I can already feel it!)
, but I never would have imagined anyone would resort to cheating.

  I try to keep my reaction inside so it doesn’t show all over my face, but it’s like trying to keep a tornado in a bottle. There are just so many questions I’m dying to ask her. My journalist brain is drowning in them, desperate to get to the bottom of the story.

  Who sold her the exam? How did they get it? Has this happened before? Is Lucinda the first one to get expelled?

  But I can tell from the look on Sequoia’s face as she pulls up to the curb in front of my house that she’s done talking. Even if I could find a way to phrase the question so it didn’t make me sound like a lunatic, I doubt she would even answer.

  Which means I’m going to have to find the answers another way.

  “I’ll pick you up at six thirty tomorrow,” Sequoia says tersely, refusing to look at me.

  “Okay.” I grab my bag with my school clothes in it and reach for the door handle just as a thought comes to me. “Hey. When is it my turn to drive?” I assume we must take turns. It wouldn’t be fair for her to drive every day.

  But she gives me the strangest look, like she has no idea what I’m talking about, and says, “Don’t be late. I need to study for the French exam in the morning.”

  I decide to let it go. If Sequoia wants to drive, she can drive.

  “I won’t,” I assure her, and step out of the car.

  The house is quiet when I enter. I check the clock on my phone to find it’s almost one in the morning. Everyone is already asleep. I’m dying to wake up Frankie and ask him what he knows about Lucinda, or wake up my dad to tell him about my amazing night, but it’s late. And I’m so tired.

  I peel off Sequoia’s gown and hang it neatly in my closet. Then I collapse onto my bed without even bothering to wash my face. I climb under the covers, feeling the weight of this long day settle in around me like an unwelcome bedfellow. I switch off my bedside light, fully expecting to be asleep by the time my head hits the pillow.

  But sleep never comes.

  Then My Dad Gets an Imaginary Assistant

  When Sequoia drops me off at home after school the next day, I’m tired but raring to go. According to my calendar, my Columbia interview with the very same Geraldine Watkins starts in one hour and I am going to rock it.

  I hardly got any sleep last night. I lay awake for hours with the events of the day on a constant, exhausting loop: all those unfinished tasks in my Windsor Achiever app, Dean Lewis’s toast, Dylan’s smirk from the audience, Sequoia’s irrational response to my comment in the car.

  But I’ve had four Pumpkin Spice Lattes today, I’m geared up, and I’ve vowed to put that all behind me. At least until after the interview.

  I’m not going to screw it up again. This time, I am ready. This time, I know exactly what I need to do to impress the socks off the world-traveling, German-speaking, exotic-plant-collecting Geraldine Watkins. I spent both of my Student Mastery Hours today prepping. There’s no doubt in my mind. This thing is in the bag.

  When I walk into the kitchen, I find my mom sitting at the table again, working on her laptop. The sight is so off-putting, I almost walk out and walk back in, convinced I’ve entered the wrong house.

  I can tell she’s in deep concentration mode, probably working on a legal brief. She always gets two matching lines between her eyebrows when she’s in the middle of a brief. Like an eleven stamped into her skin. She flashes me a hurried smile when I enter but doesn’t stop typing.

  That’s two days in a row she’s been home at this hour. She normally doesn’t get back until after Dad has made dinner and cleaned up the kitchen.

  I look to the basement door. It’s closed. Is he really still down there working? That seems like an awfully long time. You’d think he’d come out to at least say hello.

  This has got to be the longest he’s ever been in there. I mean, he’s locked himself down there before to work, but never for two whole days. Is that why Mom is working from home? To pick up the slack? I guess that makes sense.

  “How long is Dad going to be working?” I ask, nodding to the basement.

  Mom lets out a snort, like I’ve made some kind of inappropriate joke, and keeps typing.

  Well, that was weird.

  I decide to call him. I don’t want to go to my Columbia interview without talking to him first. So he can wish me luck. Or tell me to break a leg or flip a table or whatever. I smile at the memory of the last time I saw him, when I was leaving the house for the doomed version of this interview.

  As I head upstairs to my room, I pull out my sparkly pink phone, click Dad’s mobile number, and press the phone to my ear. It rings and rings until finally his voice mail picks up. I’m about to end the call when something strikes me as odd about his outgoing message. It’s changed.

  It used to be short and funny, my dad yelling in a panicked voice, “Who is this?! How did you get this number?!” and then the beep.

  Now, my dad sounds so serious and official as he says, “Hi. This is Daniel Rhodes. I’m unable to answer the phone right now. Please leave your message and either I or my assistant will call you back as soon as possible. Thank you.”

  His assistant? Since when did he get an assistant?

  Then I let out a short bark of a laugh as I drop my bag on my bed. Oh, I get it. It’s a joke. Very funny, Dad. He thinks he’s some big shot now that he’s sold all of those photographs and he’s trying to sound über important.

  “Your imaginary assistant maybe,” I mutter, as I end the call without leaving a message.

  I strip out of my uniform and find a smart-looking black suit in my closet. I have to hand it to Other Me. She certainly knows how to dress herself better than I ever did. I should have worn a suit to the first interview. Instead I wore my nice jeans and a less ratty T-shirt. That was my first mistake right there.

  I apply another layer of concealer under my eyes—those pesky purple shadows only seem to be getting worse—and grab my new and improved crib sheet from my schoolbag, giving it another once-over.

  This is it. Time to put my future back on track!

  When I get back downstairs, Mom has moved from the kitchen to the dining room. I can hear her yelling at someone on the phone. She’s probably chewing out some poor paralegal for filing the wrong motion or something. I know better than to bother her when she’s on a work call, particularly one that sounds like that, so I tiptoe into the kitchen, grab Woody’s keys from the counter, and head for the garage.

  I glance again at the closed basement door, really wanting to see my dad for just a minute before I go, but I’m running behind schedule. I still have one critical stop to make before I go to the interview.

  I’ll just have to tell him about it when I get home. Hopefully I can convince him to come out for dinner. I mean, he has to eat, doesn’t he?

  I continue into the garage, unlock Woody, and drop into the driver’s seat. But the moment I close the door behind me, I notice that something is off. The car looks … different. And all my stuff is gone.

  My newspaper-print steering wheel cover. My Columbia-logo key chain on the keys. My supply of Big Red chewing gum in the center console.

  Curious, I get out of the car and walk around the hood to examine the license plate frame. It used to say “Keep Calm and Carry a Notebook and Pen,” but now it just says “I bought mine at AutoWorld Honda!”

  That’s right, I think with a sudden influx of sadness. I don’t run the newspaper anymore. So why would I buy a license plate frame that says “Keep Calm and Carry a Notebook and Pen”?

  No, I tell myself, before I travel too far down that melancholy road. Enough moping. You were given a second chance to guarantee your place at Columbia. Don’t screw it up!

  Right.

  I get back behind the wheel, start the engine, and back out of the garage.

  I don’t have time to worry about key chains or missing license plate frames. I have an alumni interview to rock.

  Then I Get a Do-Over


  “Welcome, Kennedy!” Watts says, opening the door wide. “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m Geraldine Watkins, but you can call me Watts. All my friends do.”

  I shake her outstretched hand with fervor. “So nice to meet you, Watts. What a lovely home you have.”

  She beams. “Why, thank you.”

  I step inside and stare at the wall of framed photographs and diplomas. “Wow!” I exclaim. “You’ve been everywhere!” I point to the picture of Watts in the desert surrounded by cacti and sand dunes. “Oh my gosh! Is that the Kalahari?”

  She looks impressed.

  I give myself an invisible point in the invisible tally.

  Current Kennedy: 1. Former Kennedy: 0.

  “Yes, it is! Have you been?”

  “Not yet,” I say, with a desolate sigh. “But I’ve always wanted to go. It’s so horrible what’s happening out there with the poaching. All those poor elephants being slaughtered for their tusks.”

  I did a little research on the topic so I could be well versed on the issue. It really is horrific.

  She nods solemnly. “Yes, it is. Terribly sad.”

  “Did you know that over twenty thousand elephants are poached every year? Just so people can have a useless ivory trinket?”

  She puts a hand to her heart. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

  “Atrocious,” I agree.

  She lets out a sigh. “It’s so nice to see someone your age show an interest in such an important issue. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  Almost immediately after we take our same seats in the living room, the little white dog—Klaus, if I remember correctly—comes scampering into the room. He stops short when he sees me, giving me an evil glare and growling under his breath.

  “Klaus!” Watts says, patting her lap. “Leave the nice girl alone. I’m sorry. He’s not very good with strangers. He only speaks German so—”

  “Was für ein süsser Hund!” I exclaim, trying desperately to remember the handful of useful German phrases I Googled today. I pat my shins to call the dog to me. “Komm her, Klaus!”