We Regret to Inform You

by Ariel Kaplan

  I had nothing to say to that. Shira, in jail. Over a bag of joints that hadn’t even been hers. I couldn’t believe it.

  “They can’t come after me or Bebe directly. My mom’s on the board, and Bebe’s family has too much clout.” She coughed, like maybe some part of her wanted to cry, but some other part wouldn’t allow it. “I’m surprised they haven’t tried to come after you yet.”

  I screwed my eyes shut. “Oh. You don’t know.” I texted her a link to my Instagram page.

  “Great,” she said. “You might have led with this. I can’t believe they haven’t suspended your account yet.”

  “It’s too late anyway,” I said. “My mother already saw it. Someone sent it to her, and I’m suspended from Blanchard.”

  “Who sent it? Marlowe?”

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t say.”

  “Hardly matters,” she said. “Damn it. Damn it!”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We have to get this database into the hands of someone who can do something with it,” she said. “Now.”

  I snuck out of the house when my mother went to her room to lie down. I left a note—just in case she checked on me—telling her I was coming back, I was sorry for lying, and I was not going to set anything on fire.

  I realized that probably none of this would sound very comforting to her once she woke up and found the note next to my phone, which I’d left so she wouldn’t be able to call, and so she’d know I was unreachable. Also, from everything I’d learned from Emily, I didn’t want to take a chance that someone could use the GPS on the phone to track me.

  Nate picked me up, and after we drove back to his house I sat on his bed with Emily, who had driven over and was playing Angry Birds in a much angrier way than had originally been intended.

  Here is a list of people who refused to look at Blanchard’s transcript database: The police (after laughing their heads off), who referred us to the FBI. The FBI (after laughing their heads off), who referred us to the police. The Washington Gazette, who did not laugh their heads off but told us that if we sent them the database, they’d put it up on the board, and one of their reporters might give us a callback. Someday.

  After we’d made our useless phone calls, Nate went out to pick up some dinner. Emily eventually shut off the game and sat staring at her lock screen, which I could see from where I sat was a picture of her, Bebe, and Shira, with splotches of paint all over their faces and hair, laughing hysterically, arms around each other. On the windowsill, Maury’s empty eye sockets had been filled with orange gumballs, making him look even creepier than usual.

  “A paint fight?” I asked, pointing to the picture on Emily’s phone.

  “It was Holi,” she said. “The temple has a big festival.”

  “It looks like fun.”

  “It was fun.” She sighed and tossed her phone onto the bed. “You’re an only child.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you hate it?”

  “No,” I said. “I—I guess I never really thought about it.”

  “No,” she said. “You wouldn’t. I hate it. I’ve always hated it.”

  “They’re your sisters,” I said. “Bebe and Shira.”

  “They’re my sisters. Only they aren’t. Bebe and I went to preschool together—did you know that? But she and Shira, well. I can’t compete.” She swallowed hard and wiped her eyes on the back of her wrist.

  “You should say something to them,” I said. “Once this is all over.”

  “It’s too late,” she said.

  “How is it too late?”

  “Look, in like six months we’re all going different places.”

  “Yeah, but you’re still going to be friends, right?”

  She shrugged. “You really think you’re still going to be friends with Nate this time next year?”

  “Yeah,” I said, more than a little defensively. “I do.”

  She shook her head. “You just think that because you’re in love with him.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not it. Being friends is important. Maybe more important.”

  She took a deep breath and stared at her phone some more.

  I said, “I want you to fix Nate’s transcript. I mean, if we actually find someone who will even look at the database, I want you to fix it so that he’s not on the list anymore.”

  She put the phone down and looked up at me. “What?”

  “Just make both versions of his transcript match. You can do that. Can’t you?”

  “Of course I can, but—”

  “Look, it’s not like we thought before. He wasn’t in on it. This wasn’t his fault.”

  “That’s not the point!”

  “If it was Shira or Bebe, you’d do it.”

  “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t insult them like that.”

  “That’s a glib answer.”

  “No, it’s not,” she said. “Mischa, do you not understand the scope of what we’ve found out? Dick Marlowe’s been the headmaster at Blanchard for thirty years. That’s hundreds of people who either took a spot they didn’t earn or got screwed out of one they did. And that’s if you think that Marlowe was the person who instigated this. What if he wasn’t? The school’s a hundred years old. This could have been going on since it was founded, for all we know.”

  “I know, and all that’s going to come out! But so what if we fix this for Nate first? He’s only one person!”

  “Once I start messing around with the data, the school can just say the whole thing was faked. Our evidence is tampered with.”

  “But you can’t just throw Nate under the bus,” I said.

  “I’m not throwing Nate anywhere. He landed under the bus on his own.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “How is it not fair?”

  “Because he—”

  “Nate had a crappy childhood,” she said. “Lots of people have crappy childhoods, way worse than having nagging parents who make you go to too many soccer practices and six-day tutoring. He’s not worth more than everyone else just because he’s your boyfriend.”

  I couldn’t think of any way to argue back. I wanted to tell her that Nate deserved to go to Emory. But that wasn’t a rational argument, and Emily wasn’t going to listen to that. I slumped down onto the floor, leaning against the side of Nate’s bed. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. Since no one will help us.”

  When she didn’t answer, I turned to see her tapping her fingernails against her temple.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking,” she said, “that we need two things. We need someone with a connection. And we need Marlowe to incriminate himself.”

  “I don’t know anyone with connections,” I said. “And if Marlowe’s behind the Instagram hack and the drugs, he’s never talking to either of us again.”

  “No. He’s not talking to either of us. Not on purpose, anyway.”

  “Nate?”

  “Everyone at that school knows you and Nate are joined at the hip. No. There’s only one person at Blanchard for whom Richard Marlowe will come panting. And she’s not going to want to help us.”

  “I’m not following you,” I said.

  “Think, Mischa. Think about that list. Think about who is paying Richard Marlowe’s Christmas bonus. Think about who he handpicked to get into Harvard.” She smiled grimly. “Think about who has the connections to get this into the press by tomorrow morning.”

  No. “She’s not going to help us. Not unless she thinks she doesn’t have a choice.”

  Emily said, “So we don’t give her a choice.”

  * * *

  —

  Nate came back a few minutes later with a bag of Chinese takeout, which he set on his desk. Emily grabbed a spring roll and st
arted eating it, and then handed one to me.

  I took a bite. “Meredith Dorsay,” I said, “is not going to help me.”

  “She’s not helping you,” Emily said. “And you aren’t going to be the one asking. At least not at first.”

  “You’re going to go?” I said. “No offense, but you aren’t exactly the most diplomatic person.”

  “I’ll go,” Nate said.

  Emily winced, just a little. I wanted to cry, just a little. More than that, maybe.

  “You?” I said. “I don’t know…”

  “It makes the most sense,” he said. “I’ve known Meredith since we were two. Our parents know each other. She’ll listen to me more than she will to Emily.”

  “Are you sure?” Emily said. “When you went to talk to Beth Reinhardt—”

  “That was different,” he said. “All I have to do is go tell Meredith the truth. I can tell the truth.” I flinched a little, remembering the part of me—the small part, but a part nonetheless—that had doubted his honesty. Nate checked the time on his phone. “It’s not that late yet. I’ll go see if I can get her to come over.”

  Nate left, shutting the door behind him.

  Emily said, “Tell him. Tell him now.”

  “No,” I said. “Emily, I can’t.”

  “If you don’t tell him now,” she said, “he’s going to find out when we show Meredith the database. Tell him now. It’s better from you than from me. Go.” She motioned toward the door. “Go.”

  I followed Nate out into the hallway, jogging to catch up to him.

  “Nate,” I said, pulling him into the Millers’ guest room. A queen bed with a navy comforter took up most of the room. I shut the door behind us and locked it.

  “I’m flattered,” he said, nodding at the bed. “But I think that will have to wait.”

  “No, listen. I have to tell you something.”

  “I have to go,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “I have to go talk to Meredith.”

  “Nate!” He stopped halfway to the door. “You’re on the list,” I said quietly.

  His hand, which had been reaching for the doorknob, dropped to his side. “What?”

  “You’re on the list. Your transcript is on the list.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair with one hand, while the other drew into a fist in front of his mouth. I could hear him suck in a breath, even from across the room.

  I watched him go into his head, like he wasn’t even in the room anymore. I don’t know what he saw, but it wasn’t me. I watched the reality of what I was telling him sink in.

  He hadn’t gotten into Emory. Not really. It was all fake. His transcript. His admissions letter. And if we succeeded, if we got Meredith to help us, Emory would find out what his grades really were. There was a very good chance they’d pull their offer. And he’d have to explain all this to his parents.

  “Your math grades—” I started.

  He cut me off with a wave. “How many?”

  “What?”

  “How many grades did they change?”

  I swallowed. “Four,” I said. “All your math grades, except Algebra I.”

  He made this terrible wheezing sound from his chest. Then he kicked the wall, hard enough to leave a dent. “Damn it,” he said. “God damn it.” His hands went over his face, and he let out one racking sob and then another. Then he slid down the wall to the floor.

  I did this, I thought. I was the person who was hurting him.

  “I feel the floor,” he was whispering. “I feel the wall. I hear Emily playing that stupid game. I smell my mother’s laundry detergent….”

  “Nate,” I whispered.

  “Sit next to me,” he said. “Please.”

  I did. “Closer,” he said, then: “Closer.” I pressed myself hard enough against his side so that it was almost painful.

  “Too close?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “God. God. God.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He was counting under his breath. I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there with my shoulder cutting into his. When he got to thirty-four, he said, “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “I—I thought I could get Emily to change the record. To make it look like it was supposed to.”

  He lifted his tear-soaked face from his hands. “You what?”

  “I thought I could get her to make your records match,” I said. “I thought if she did that, you wouldn’t show up on the list anymore, and nobody would ever have to know that it happened, and Emory wouldn’t find out, and you wouldn’t find out, but she doesn’t want to do it, but if I keep talking to her maybe there’s a way—”

  “Mischa,” he said, his breath shuddering, “stop.”

  “She can change it,” I said. “I can convince her. I know she really likes you, and she’ll do it if you ask, you just have to ask her, Nate. You’ll still get to go. To Emory, I mean. They won’t have to find out.”

  I watched him breathe for a minute. He was counting his breaths. I counted them with him, silently, because I didn’t know what else to do.

  Quietly he said, “Is that what you think of me?”

  “I don’t. What?”

  “Four years. We’ve been friends for four years. And you think I want to cheat to get into college?”

  “No,” I said. “No, it’s just, you’re already in there. You’re already in, and I know you want to go, and you should go, because who cares how you did in geometry? It doesn’t matter, Nate, it shouldn’t matter, because I know you.”

  “How much?” he asked. “How much money did my parents give the school?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Mischa!”

  I swallowed. I could tell him I didn’t remember the number, but I figured I’d lied to him enough already. “Sixty thousand dollars,” I said.

  He swore and let the back of his head bang against the wall. Then he started to laugh. “They don’t quit, do they?”

  “Your parents?”

  “Yeah. They couldn’t get me to play their game. So they played it with Blanchard instead.”

  “You don’t think they knew about this, do you? That the school would change your grades?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they thought…I don’t know what they thought. Damn it. God damn it.”

  I was losing circulation in my left arm, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell him everything would be okay.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked.

  “Well, I’m going to talk to Meredith,” he said. “Just as soon as I remember how to stand up.”

  “What about Emory?”

  He closed his eyes. “Well, I imagine I won’t get in.” He sighed. “I can’t feel my arm anymore.”

  “Sorry,” I said. I scooted away about half an inch, and he flexed the fingers of his right hand to get the feeling back.

  “What am I going to do with all those sweatshirts?” he asked, shaking his head.

  “How many do you have? Like, seven?”

  “Nine,” he said, laughing sadly. “I have nine. Who has nine sweatshirts from the same school? Ugh. Maybe I’ll sell them on eBay. Or burn them.”

  “They’re a poly blend,” I said. “I don’t think they’d burn. They’d probably just melt.”

  He turned his head to look at me for the first time since he’d sat down. He gave me the saddest smile in the world. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Nate,” I said, leaning my head against his shoulder. “If it were just me, I’d tell Emily to forget it. Just delete the whole thing and pretend we’d never seen it.”

  “I’m not going to let all this happen to you and Shira just so I can keep my Emory letter,” he said. “Don’t be stupid.”
>
  “I just wish—”

  “I know,” he said. “I wish it, too.”

  An hour later the door to Nate’s bedroom creaked open and Meredith stepped in, followed by Nate.

  She said nothing. I said nothing. Emily held up Maury and said, “Gumball?”

  Meredith said, “No.” She sat down on Nate’s desk chair, leaving Nate to join Emily and me on the bed. “Can we cut to the chase? If you have proof that my transcript was changed, I want to see it.”

  Emily had already extracted Meredith’s fake transcript from the database and printed it out, and she handed it over.

  Meredith put her face very close to the paper. “I see no difference,” she said.

  “Oh come on!” I shouted, before I remembered that Nate’s parents and sister were all down the hall, and I really needed to shut up.

  “The freshman English grade,” Nate said. “We all know you didn’t get an A.”

  “I should have,” she muttered.

  “And yet you didn’t,” Emily said. “Funny how that works.”

  “So you’re saying there are more like this,” she said.

  “A lot more.”

  “Who?” she asked, eyes narrowed. Emily pulled out a handwritten list of names and handed that over, too. I wondered why she didn’t just show Meredith the actual database, but then it dawned on me that Emily didn’t trust Meredith to get her hands anywhere near the data.

  “And you’re saying these people were all inflated?”

  “Most of them,” she said. “Mischa was dropped. So were David Chu and Lisa Mann.”

  “But they both got into college,” she pointed out.

  “Right. They weren’t dropped as much as Mischa. But they were dropped, just enough to keep them out of the top 20% of the class.”

  “Because their parents didn’t donate money to the school.”

  “That’s the gist of it, yeah.”

  “And mine did.”

  “Do you know how much your parents gave Blanchard over the last four years?” Emily asked.

  “We don’t talk about money,” she said. “It’s tacky.”