“I know,” he says, and I don’t miss the subtle eye roll. “You want to take the noble route. The high road. You want to pay for your mistakes. You want to throw away everything you’ve worked for because you believe it’s the right thing to do.”
“Y-y-yes!” I stammer, unable to believe what I’m hearing. This is definitely not the reaction I was expecting.
“Well, I won’t let you. I’m not going to watch another one of my students drown. Not while I’m five feet away in a working lifeboat. I’ve already ripped up your essay and I’m going to pretend I never saw it. Then, tomorrow, you’re going to come in here with your other draft. The one you turned in a few weeks ago. I’m going to give you an A and we’re never going to speak of this again. Are we clear?”
I stare at him in utter disbelief. Then, as he repeats the question—“Are we clear?”—I see something in his eyes. It’s just a flicker of an emotion—maybe even a micro-expression—but it’s there. I recognize it because I’ve seen it in my own face. And in the face of Sequoia.
It’s fear. Fear of not living up to your potential. Fear of failure.
And, in that moment, I realize something for the very first time.
The students aren’t the only ones who are pressured to succeed in this place. The students aren’t the only ones pushed to exhaustion to fulfill an Ivy League quota. The teachers feel the exact same thing. They suffer the exact same debilitating stress. Fitz probably gets even less sleep than I do.
They’re just another link in the chain. The administration passes it down to the teachers, the teachers pass it down to the students, the students kill themselves until they get those acceptance letters in the mail, and the statistic is upheld.
Then the whole cycle starts all over again the next year.
As I look into Mr. Fitz’s pleading eyes, I know that I’ll never escape. It’s just like Other Me wrote in that original version of her essay. My decisions affect everyone around me. No matter what I do. No matter what I choose.
I chose to come to Windsor and my dad’s life suffered.
I chose to stay at Southwest High and Laney’s life suffered.
If I choose to turn myself in now, I won’t be the only one who suffers the consequences. My teachers will, too. And my parents. And Sequoia. And probably the whole student body.
It’s a never-ending cosmic cycle and I’m trapped in the center.
We all are.
“Yes, Mr. Fitz,” I say quietly. “We’re clear.”
Then Someone Else Makes a Choice
I stand in the middle of the grand staircase of Royce Hall and stare out across the campus. At the immaculate green grass and beautiful buildings that once populated my dreams.
This is the very step that started it all.
This is where I slipped and fell and woke up in another world. Another life.
This is where my journey began and this is where it must end.
I think about all the things I did to get here and all the things I did to stay here. And then I think about what I have to do to leave here.
I could ignore everything Fitz told me and turn myself in to the dean. Or I could simply drop out without hurting anyone else.
Either way, I’m not coming back here tomorrow.
I turn and start back up the steps, but I’m halted when the front doors of Royce Hall burst open and Sequoia rushes out in a flurry of tears.
“Sequoia,” I call out her name, and she stops at the top of the stairs, staring down at me like a frozen rabbit stares down at the fox that’s about to consume it. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
I assume she’s going to say something like “I got an A minus on a test” or “They ran out of coffee in the student union,” because let’s face it, pretty much anything can set that girl off.
But she doesn’t. She just continues to stare at me, tears streaking her face. And then she starts crying even harder. “I’m sorry!” she blubbers. “I’m so sorry, Kennedy. I didn’t have a choice.”
I climb up the stairs to reach her, my eyebrows knit in confusion. “Slow down. What are you talking about? What did you do?”
“I did what I had to do!” she yells, startling me. “They already started docking our grades. Just like they said. I was about to lose my A. I couldn’t … I…” Her words get swallowed by her shudders. “I…” she tries again, wiping her face. “I’m so sorry.”
With that, she hurries down the stairs and disappears into the parking lot. A moment later, my phone vibrates in my bag and I pull it out to see Dean Lewis’s name on the caller ID.
I don’t even bother answering it. I already know what it’s regarding. Sequoia made the choice for me. She turned me in. She must have assumed it was me behind the cheating scandal after I came to her house blubbering that night.
She must have seen it as a chance to win the race.
Or at least a chance to keep herself from losing.
I turn and walk slowly into the building, trudging down the administration hallway until I find myself back where I started: in the little waiting area in front of Dean Lewis’s office. Where I first met Dylan. Where he first told me about the zombies. Where I refused to believe him.
Turns out he was more right than I could ever imagine.
The door to the office is closed, so I take a seat in the same chair and drop my head in my hands. This is it. This is what I wanted. It’s just not the way I thought it would go down.
Twenty minutes later, the door finally opens and I stand, ready to face the music. But my whole body freezes when Dylan walks out of the office. He catches my eye and winks at me.
“What’s going on?” I demand.
But he doesn’t respond, and a second later Dean Lewis pops her head out. “Hello, Kennedy. Please come in.”
I gape at her and then back at Dylan, trying to put pieces together, trying to make sense of this.
“What’s going on?” I repeat to Dylan.
“You made your choice,” he says, that devilish smirk returning. “Now I’ve made mine.”
“Please come inside, Kennedy,” Dean Lewis repeats, her voice leaving no room for argument.
I take one last look at Dylan before stepping into the office. Dean Lewis closes the door behind me and takes a seat. She gestures for me to do the same. I sit in the chair across from her.
The last time I was in here was when I begged for my spot. Now it appears I’ll be begging again.
“Dylan had nothing to do with this!” I rush to say. “I don’t know what he told you, or what Sequoia told you, but he’s innocent.”
Dean Lewis cocks her head to the side and studies me. “Interesting.”
“What?” I ask, panicked. “What’s interesting?”
“He said the same thing about you.”
I frown in confusion. “About me?”
She sighs. “He said you had nothing to do with it. That he acted alone. That he hacked the teachers’ server, stole the tests, and sold them to students. He even gave us the email address he used—which no longer exists—and he told us which books he hid the money in.”
I think I’m going to faint. I struggle to take deep breaths.
“He can’t do that! He can’t take the blame for this! It was me! I did it all!”
She squints at me, like she’s trying to figure out what to believe. “Sequoia named you both.”
“What?!” I roar. How could she possibly name us both? Why would she even associate Dylan with this?
But then I suddenly hear my own words in my head. The words I said to her that night I stood there crying on her doorstep.
“I was with Dylan. In the library. And then Peabody’s and we were trying to figure out the whole test-stealing thing and then—”
I was sobbing. I was rambling. I wasn’t making any sense.
But apparently that didn’t matter. Sequoia made her own sense of it.
“No,” I say, flustered. “She’s wrong. I did this. You have to believe me. I hacked the teachers’ serve
r. I set up that email address. I sold the tests. Alone.”
“Can you prove it?”
Yes! I think automatically, my hopes lifting. But a second later they come crashing back down to earth when I realize that I can’t. I can’t prove it. Because I destroyed the evidence. I deleted the email account. I burned my notes. I mailed the cash to Southwest High. All I have now is my personal essay, but it doesn’t prove anything. It’ll be my word against his.
“No,” I say, sinking down in my chair.
Dean Lewis rubs her eyes, looking distressed. “I’m sorry, Kennedy. I just don’t believe you. If you and Mr. Parker are having some kind of fling and you’re trying to protect him, I would strongly advise against it.”
“I’m not trying to protect him,” I mutter. “I’m trying to tell you the truth.”
Dean Lewis sighs deeply, looking torn. “You’re a promising student, bound for great things, Kennedy. You’re one of the best we have. I won’t let you throw your future away for a boy.”
“Fine,” I say, launching out of my chair. I reach into my bag and pull out my beautiful navy blue Windsor Academy laptop and place it on Dean Lewis’s desk. “Then I’m dropping out.”
Then Dylan Finds a Way
I find Dylan’s address in the Windsor Achiever app. I’m surprised they haven’t already deleted him from the record. I bang on the door until someone answers. I assume it’s his mother. She looks just like him. Same wide-set brown eyes. Same dark hair. Same slender face.
“Can I help you?”
“I need to talk to Dylan,” I say, not even bothering with pleasantries. I’m pissed. He had no right. No right to do this. This was my consequence. My punishment. My choice.
“He’s upstairs in his room,” his mother says, “but—”
I don’t bother letting her finish. I mutter a thank-you and charge up the stairs. It’s not hard to tell which room is Dylan’s. I just follow the sound of the grungy rock music blasting. When I enter, he’s standing by his dresser, holding a pile of jeans. I notice a suitcase open on his bed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I shout over the music.
He grabs a remote and lowers the volume. “I’m packing,” he replies nonchalantly, placing the pile in the suitcase.
This catches me off guard. “For where?”
“Minnesota!” He grins, and gives me two sarcastic thumbs up.
“Why?”
“My father is sending me there to live with his brother and his wife. As punishment for my crime.”
I feel my face flare with angry heat. “But it’s not your crime!” I yell. “It’s mine. You can’t do this. I can’t watch any more lives being destroyed because of my choices.”
“Hey,” he argues, opening another drawer. “Don’t take all the credit. I had a say in this. It was my choice, too. I’m the one who confessed, remember?”
“To something you didn’t even do! And you never would have even confessed if it weren’t for me!”
He purses his lips. “That might be true. But I would have found another way out eventually. I told you, I’ve been trying to leave that school for months. Sequoia just stumbled upon the answer before I did. I’ll have to send her a thank-you card when I get to Minnesota.” He reaches into the drawer and pulls out a stack of T-shirts.
“I’ll find a way,” I vow. “I’ll make them believe me somehow.”
Dylan drops the shirts into the bag. “They’ll never believe you.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “And why not?”
“They have their culprit.” He flashes me a winning smile. “I make sense to them. I’m the slacker who’s been trying to get himself expelled for years. You don’t make sense to them. You’re the straight-A student with too much to lose. You’re the very best puppet in their puppet show!”
“I’m not a puppet,” I seethe through clenched teeth.
“No,” he says quietly, rearranging the clothes in his suitcase, “you’re not.”
“I dropped out, you know.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Dean Lewis wouldn’t believe I had anything to do with it. So I expelled myself.”
He cracks up. “Well, I guess there are two more spaces open now. It’s a double miracle.”
I have to laugh at that, despite my still-simmering anger. I remember when one spot opening up felt like a miracle.
“So, where will you go?” he asks.
I sit down on his bed. “Southwest High.”
He closes his suitcase and zips it up. “You’re better off there.”
“And you?” I throw the question back at him. “Are you better off in Minnesota?”
He sighs. “Only time will tell, I guess.”
“It’s far,” I say flatly.
He looks at me for a moment, then sits down and places his hand atop mine, sending those delicious shivers up my arm again.
“I’m still mad at you,” I tell him.
“I know.”
We stay like that for a long time. Hands touching. Hearts beating. Eyes asking questions we’ll never be able to answer.
“Before I leave,” he says, his voice breaking ever so slightly. “There’s something I have to know.”
I nod.
“Why did you stop answering my texts after that first date?” he asks.
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
I exhale. “It was Sequoia. We became friends and she convinced me to give up boys altogether. Something about how if I want to succeed in this place, I need to be one-hundred-percent laser-focused on school.”
He chuckles. “Well, it worked.”
I smile, thinking about everything Other Me gave up to reach that coveted number-one spot. “Yeah. I guess it did.”
He sighs. “I have to say, I’m relieved. I always secretly thought it was me. That something was wrong with me. That you just weren’t interested.”
I shake my head. “No. That definitely wasn’t it. She was interested.”
He cocks his head in confusion.
“I mean, me,” I correct. “I was definitely interested.”
Then he kisses me.
And it’s like we both know. We both understand. We weren’t meant to be. Not in this universe anyway. Maybe in another one. A distant one where I made different decisions.
Frankie says there’s a universe for every decision. For every possible road. Every possible outcome.
Maybe there’s one where Dylan and I end up together.
But this isn’t it.
Then I Get a Special Delivery
When I get home, I change out of my Windsor uniform for the final time and slip into some jeans and a T-shirt.
“Kennedy!” Frankie calls from his bedroom as I pass by on my way downstairs.
I poke my head through his open door to find him on the floor working on his board game. “What?”
“I figured out how to fix it! How to make it way simpler.”
“That’s great! What is it?”
He beams proudly at me. “I’m going to add an Antimatter Tower! To counteract all the matter.”
Even though I don’t have the slightest clue what he’s talking about, I still give him my best smile and say, “Good idea!”
I head downstairs to the basement and pull on the cord to turn on the light. I take a glance around at all the dusty boxes lining the shelves, Mom’s old treadmill in the corner, holiday decorations, boxes of clothes that Frankie and I never wear.
Dad is finally coming home this weekend and I want everything to be ready. It shouldn’t be a problem. After today, I’ll have a lot of free time on my hands.
I switch off my ringer, blast my music through my headphones, and get to work. Clearing boxes, making piles, dusting shelves, sweeping floors.
I’m so engrossed in the process, I don’t even hear the basement door open a few hours later. I don’t hear the heavy footsteps on the stairs. But I do hear my father’s gruff voice when he appears in
the doorway.
“Kennedy?”
“Dad!” I yank my earbuds out and stare, flabbergasted, at him. He’s still dressed in his work clothes and he has a pile of mail in his hand. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming home until this weekend.”
“I wasn’t,” he growls. “Until I got a very interesting call from your school a few hours ago and I was forced to take an earlier flight.”
My face falls. “Oh.”
“What is this about you dropping out of Windsor?”
I tuck my hands behind my back and nod. “I did. I dropped out.”
“What were you thinking? Are you crazy? We’re going straight back there in the morning and getting you your spot back.”
“No,” I say as sternly as possible.
My dad balks. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean, no. I’m not going back. I’m eighteen years old. I’m a legal adult. This is my choice.”
“B-b-but,” Dad stammers, “what are you going to do?”
“I already enrolled at Southwest High down the street. I start January 5. I’ll finish out my senior year there. It will be fine. Everything will be fine.”
He sighs and rubs his forehead. “Kennedy.”
“It’s good,” I tell him. “This is a good thing. You can quit your job. You can go back to photographing things you love.” I gesture to the half-finished space around me. “I’m turning this into a studio for you.”
“What?”
“You’ll need a place to work. You can stay home and take photos and Mom can go back to the office if she wants and everything will be better.”
“Kennedy,” he repeats. “Not this again. I told you. The photo thing is never going to work out. There’s no money in photographing people’s eyeballs. If you did all of this just so that I would quit my job—”
“Oh!” I say, ignoring him. I reach into my pocket and pull out a piece of paper. “Here’s the phone number of the woman who owns an art gallery downtown. I’ve been emailing with her. She wants to talk to you about putting on a show.”
My dad looks at me, completely stunned, then down at the piece of paper in my hand. “A show?”
I nod, beaming. “Yeah. I emailed her some of your old pieces from the Portals project. She flipped. She loves them. And she wants to meet with you.”
In Some Other Life: A Novel Page 29
