We Regret to Inform You

by Ariel Kaplan

  The truth was I had no clue where he was, but I said, “No.”

  “Just own the fact that you got rejected. Have a little dignity.” She wrinkled her nose at me. “I’d rather go to community college than take a spot I hadn’t earned.”

  “I did earn it,” I growled.

  “No,” she said. “You didn’t. But I did. And it’s not because I cheated. It’s because I’m smarter than you.” She shoved by me to go back to class.

  “Meredith,” I spat.

  “No,” she said angrily. “Get out of my face.”

  It was only after she’d left that I realized what I’d done: I’d told Meredith flat out that I thought my transcript was hacked. Which meant that in approximately ten minutes, everyone in the entire school would know.

  I was twenty minutes into AP Government when I got a note to go see Dr. Marlowe.

  Richard Marlowe, who had been the headmaster of Blanchard since before I was born, looked like a cross between Harry Potter and Santa Claus. He had a well-kept beard and tiny wire spectacles, and always, always wore a sweater vest over an oxford shirt.

  I hadn’t seen the inside of Dr. Marlowe’s office, having never been in any kind of trouble. It was larger than strictly necessary for a one-person office, with a desk that faced a fireplace that I suspected, by its cleanliness, was never used. Four windows ran along the length of the room, looking out at the grounds. The leaves of the maple outside the window threw dappled shadows onto the walls.

  I sat across from Dr. Marlowe at his desk and played with a ragged edge of a fingernail.

  “So,” he said. “Mischa. I hear you’re having some problems with the college admissions process.”

  I stared at the bust of Shakespeare that sat on the corner of his desk. It was so cliché. So obvious sitting there on his oversized mahogany desk. On the wall there was a fake antique map of the world, with the Mediterranean at its center and a lot of writing in Latin.

  Hic sunt dracones, I thought.

  “Here be dragons,” I said out loud.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  I shook my head. “I tried to make an appointment with Ms. Pendleton,” I said. “But she hasn’t been in for weeks. Is she sick?”

  He opened his desk drawer and closed it again without getting anything out. “I’m afraid Ms. Pendleton is no longer with Blanchard.”

  “She’s no longer here. Did she quit?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of her departure,” he said. “But certainly anything you wanted to tell her, you may tell me.”

  I opened my mouth and shut it again without letting anything out. I was aware that anything I said to Dr. Marlowe would be relayed to my mother.

  “What exactly have you heard?” I asked.

  He chuckled, softly, at nothing, because nothing was funny so far as I could tell. “Did you tell Ms. Dorsay something about your transcript?”

  “No,” I said instinctively. “Why?”

  “You know those files are extremely secure,” he said.

  “I’m sure they are.”

  “Even the teachers don’t have access to them,” he said. “Did you know that?”

  “No,” I said. Then I frowned and said, “Hang on, how do they put their end-of-year grades in, then?”

  “They forward them to Mrs. Hadley, and she inputs them.”

  “And what if Mrs. Hadley makes a mistake?”

  “Well, then you would know when your report cards go home at the end of the quarter, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I mean, of course.”

  “Ms. Abramavicius,” he said, and I was a little unnerved by how easily he pronounced my name, when we’d never spoken in person before, and every other teacher in the school had fumbled it at least twice. “I can’t have you spreading rumors that impugn the good name of the school. Do you understand that?”

  “I never said anything to Meredith,” I lied. “She hates my guts. Ask anyone.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “I also understand you are not happy with the colleges that have accepted you. You plan on attending Paul Revere, is that correct?”

  That, too, must have come from Meredith, either directly or indirectly. He hadn’t bothered to check with Revere about my status, because they would have told him I’d been rejected.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “It’s hardly a bad choice, Mischa, though I can certainly understand why you’re disappointed. I must admit that, given your record, I’m a little surprised about the decisions of some of your other colleges, but sometimes these things can be a little capricious.”

  “Capricious. You think so?”

  “Hmm. And your list of extracurriculars was not quite what one would hope, for colleges of this caliber.”

  “My extracurriculars. You think that was the problem?”

  “I think you had a list of very good schools. You’re not an athlete, a legacy, or an underrepresented minority. Your grades and test scores were excellent, but there are many such candidates. I think it’s likely that your portfolio simply failed to distinguish itself.”

  Without thinking, I blurted out, “What about my letters?”

  He blinked twice. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My letters of recommendation. What about those?”

  “Those are confidential, so I’m not at liberty to discuss the contents of those,” he said. “However, I’ve read your letters, and I can assure you, your teachers thought very highly of you.”

  He met my eyes levelly. I could detect no lie, which meant that my real letters must still exist in Blanchard’s computer somewhere. I wondered how I could get them.

  “If you are unhappy,” he said, “I would suggest one of three courses of action. You may accept your place at Revere, and then consider transferring.”

  My eyes cut to the window. I said nothing.

  “You may take a gap year, get some better experiences to line that list of extracurriculars. Some work abroad, perhaps. And then apply again next year.”

  If he’d seen my file, he knew that I was there on scholarship and had as much chance of working abroad as he did of sprouting wings and flying out the window. “Or?”

  “Or, if you want more options for next fall, you could apply to some schools with rolling admissions.”

  I nodded. That much I’d already considered. And discounted, because my recommendation letters were a shambles, and I had no way to ensure that my transcript wouldn’t be messed with again.

  “So you see,” he said. “You really do have a number of adequate options. Things are hardly as dire as they may seem right now.” He handed me a business card. “If you or your mother have any concerns, please feel free to email me directly. I can also recommend a private college admissions specialist, if you wish.”

  I took the card and pocketed it, then got up, because I knew a dismissal when I saw one.

  “Thank you,” I said. Then added, rather robotically, “I feel much better now.”

  “Of course, Miss Abramavicius.”

  At the sound of my name, I turned back again and asked, “What’s going to happen to Shira Gastman?”

  He sighed and shook his head, as if Shira had long been a thorn in his side, he’d expected this turn of events, and was disappointed nevertheless. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty—”

  “To discuss it,” I finished. “Of course. Thank you, Dr. Marlowe.”

  “Mischa,” he said. “I wouldn’t be too hard on Miss Dorsay. She’s really under a terrible strain.”

  “Meredith? What do you mean? She’s going to Harvard.”

  “I would just give her a wide berth for the moment,” he said. “For both your sakes.”

  I closed the door behind me.

  * * *

  —

&nbs
p; I had a text waiting for me from Emily. It said, Did you really expect her to admit it?

  I deleted it without answering. I was mad at Shira for talking about my transcript in the middle of the hall. I was mad at myself for mouthing off to Meredith and getting hauled into Dr. Marlowe’s office. And I kept mulling over what he’d said about her. That I should give her a wide berth. Was it because he knew she was pissed at me? Or had he heard something else?

  My phone buzzed again. Emily, again. It no longer matters whether you want to pursue this or not, she said. We have to find out the truth.

  I replied, Isn’t that what we’ve been trying to do? Ineffectively?

  We need the transcript files.

  Go ahead and get them, I said. Just leave me out of it this time.

  I need your help.

  When I didn’t answer, she said, Mischa, please.

  I sighed. What do you suggest?

  We’re going to have to steal Mrs. Hadley’s phone.

  Right, that’s simple.

  I didn’t say it would be easy, she said. I just said we had to do it.

  I had to wade through a bunch of people to get to my locker. Government was over now; everyone was going home. I looked for Nate, for Bebe, for Emily, but didn’t see anyone. I wondered if they’d gone back to class, or if they were still in the art room.

  How is Shira? I asked.

  Suspended. Until further notice.

  Did they have her take a drug test?

  No.

  Isn’t that strange?

  Yes.

  Do you still think it’s Meredith Dorsay?

  …

  …

  Yes.

  There are few things less fun than being stuck in a sealed cardboard box with another person.

  I decided this after spending two hours stuck in a cardboard box with Emily Sreenivasan. Seven thousand, two hundred seconds. The box smelled like coffee breath (both mine and Emily’s), Emily’s vanilla body wash, and the extra-strength antiperspirant I’d used so I wouldn’t have pit stains in my mug shot if we got arrested. Also, I was really regretting the coffee, because I’d had to go to the bathroom for the last hour. I shifted my body as much as the space would allow, which was not much, to try to give my bladder some breathing room.

  The box had contained not Mr. Pelletier’s mother, killed in a fit of oedipal pique, but 122 reams of paper, which were now inside Mr. Pelletier’s office, stacked to look like a giant paper Stonehenge so everyone would think they’d been moved as part of a clever senior prank. However, even without the paper inside, the box was not big enough for two people. I wished we’d cut some extra air holes.

  While the box was cramped, smelly, and bathroomless, it was not dark. This was because Emily, whose legs were slung over my knees, her back slumped in the shape of a C, was playing Donut Destroyer on her phone with the sound turned off.

  I pulled out my own phone and texted her, because we could not talk and risk being overheard by the office staff who were milling around a few feet away. I can’t believe you’re playing that now.

  What, she texted back. This is boring. What are you doing?

  Cat pictures, I said.

  Really?

  Yeah. This one’s super fat and he’s smiling.

  Hey, switch with me, she said. We switched phones, and she thumbed through a few images while I lost the rest of her game.

  Just then a group text came through from Bebe. Mrs. Hadley is at her desk, she said.

  Where are you?

  Across the hall.

  It was Friday. This was very significant because on Friday the office staff always dresses down, and on dress-down Fridays Mrs. Hadley always wears jeggings. Which was significant because jeggings have no pockets. Which was significant because when one has no pockets, one keeps one’s cell phone in one’s purse. One supposes.

  Our plan had four parts and involved breaking three laws. They were minor laws, I told myself. Hardly illegal. Probably misdemeanor-level. I’d suggested to Emily that we google it just to make sure, and she’d actually swatted me in the back of the head.

  “Don’t google that! Have you learned nothing?” she’d asked. “Do you know how easy it is to find someone’s search history? You might as well stand on the street corner and shout, I AM ABOUT TO COMMIT A FELONY!”

  “We aren’t though, are we?” I’d asked. “Just to clarify.”

  “Mischa,” Bebe had said. “Grow a spine.”

  Emily texted, Nate?

  Yeah, he said. We should go fast if we’re going at all.

  Shira?

  Shira was the linchpin of our plan, which was a problem because she wasn’t supposed to be on campus at all. She’d snuck in with us before the office staff had come in and was currently hiding in a janitorial closet in the art wing. She was also the one of us with the most to lose, because she was technically trespassing (that makes four laws—oops), and she was going to briefly have to come out of hiding.

  Okay, Emily texted. I’m going to conference everyone in. Everyone will be able to hear everyone else. No chitchat.

  She connected everyone via conference call.

  Go, she texted.

  We had to hit our first marker before the bell rang, because otherwise the faculty would notice that Emily and I were missing. I heard the click of Bebe’s shoes on the wood floor as she walked into the office; she was wearing skinny jeans and a pair of strappy sandals with three-inch heels, one of which was primed to snap off. She would be holding a venti Starbucks passion tea, a drink so vividly pink it could stain any fabric. Any second, Mrs. Hadley would be wearing it.

  “Hey, Mrs. Hadley,” Bebe said breezily. “I’m supposed to pick up a copy of my—”

  She was cut off by a crash, which would have been Bebe’s post-heel-snap fall, and a yelp, which was the sound of Mrs. Hadley being bathed in pink tea.

  “I am SO sorry,” Bebe was babbling. “It’s my shoe—I’m sure it’ll wash out of that sweater if you rinse it right now.”

  “Pink tea?” Mrs. Hadley was saying. “Who drinks pink tea?”

  “It’s part of my detox—”

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’d better go wash it.”

  Mrs. Hadley shuffled off to the front-office bathroom. I heard the creak of the door, and then Nate’s voice. “You don’t want to go in there. Unless you’re a plumber.”

  “Why are you using this bathroom?”

  “It’s the closest to my locker.” I imagined him clutching his stomach. “I think I had some bad sashimi last night.”

  “You need the nurse.”

  “I’ll get there eventually,” he said, and then proceeded to make vomit sounds and slammed the door in her face.

  The sounds of Mrs. Hadley’s footsteps receded as she made her way to the next nearest girls’ bathroom, which was down at the other end of the hall.

  Shira, Emily texted. Wait two minutes.

  I watched the seconds tick by on my phone. At precisely 8:03 the fire alarm went off.

  Shira, Emily texted. Go home.

  I’m gone, she said. Good luck.

  Bebe said, I love you.

  Shira said, I know.

  There was a lot of noise outside as the office staff griped, shoved papers out of the way, and left. Someone forced Nate out of the bathroom, where he groaned and threatened to puke some more.

  We waited until everyone was gone, and then Emily pulled a box cutter out of her pocket and proceeded to slice the tape that Bebe had used to seal us inside.

  “Aren’t you worried Shira will get caught for pulling the alarm?” I asked. “Someone told me they put some kind of dye in those things that shoots out on your hand if you pull one.”

  She snorted. “She didn’t pull it, sugarplum. The first rule of minimiz
ing your footprint: never go digital when you can go analog.”

  I’d been trying to hold the flaps still while Emily cut, but at that I dropped my hands. “Wait. You don’t mean she set an actual fire?”

  “Just a small one. Very well contained.” She chewed on her lip. “I hope.”

  “You hope.”

  She bobbled her head in what might or might not have been a nod. “Well, you know, Shira’s a little cranky today.”

  “Well, that’s comforting. So what if the fire department shows up before we’re done?”

  “We’d better hope they don’t,” she said, pushing the flaps of the box open and stepping out, pulling her backpack out after her and slinging it over her shoulders.

  I got out after her, grabbed my own backpack, and then fell over, because my body seemed to have permanently taken to the fetal position. “Ow,” I said. “Ow.”

  “Ow. Ow.”

  “New plan,” I said. “Call a chiropractor.”

  “That’s junk science,” Emily groaned, hunching her way toward Mrs. Hadley’s desk.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “My insurance wouldn’t cover one anyway.”

  Mrs. Hadley’s purse, as we’d hoped, was underneath the desk, left behind during the fire alarm. Emily pulled it out and started rifling through it.

  “Is it there?” I asked. “Please tell me it’s there.”

  “Got it,” she said, fishing out the phone. I stuck a flash drive into the computer and typed in the password, then pulled up the transcript database.

  Please enter access code, it prompted. I heard the phone ding with the incoming text message that would contain the code we needed.

  “No no no no no,” Emily said. “There’s a key lock on the phone.”

  “What?”

  “She locks her phone! She’s an eighty-year-old woman who lives with cats! Why does she need to lock her phone?”

  “You didn’t think about this?”

  “No!”

  She was attacking the screen with her thumbs. “It’s a number,” she said. “Probably four or six digits.”