by Amy Spalding
“I don’t think historic goals ever covered ruining a student’s reputation,” Thatcher says in a voice that sounds convicted but not crazy. I have so much to learn from Thatcher. “Right?”
There are positive-sounding noises for this too, but maybe not as many.
“Even if I thought this was the right thing to do,” I say, “which I don’t, Mr. Wheeler would never let us print it.”
“That is correct,” Thatcher says. “Let’s just drop it.”
“This feels important,” Marisa says. “What Chaos 4 All did was…”
“Really screwed up,” Carlos says.
“It was wrong,” Marisa adds. “And somehow no one’s looked into this before…”
“Probably because Chaos 4 All ended up such an epic fail,” Amanda says, and now almost the entire room sounds affirmative.
And I know this is true; if people had continued listening to and loving and supporting Chaos 4 All, there would have been much more attention on them. This would have come out earlier. And even if nothing else changed from there on out, when Alex started school here, I’d have already known he was a cheater and a liar. I can’t imagine I would have fallen for him then.
Staying fallen, though, is another story.
“How did you even get Ethan Summers to talk to you?” I ask.
“Seriously,” Carlos says. “And you got Alex to admit it too, which is pretty incredible.”
“Alex didn’t come out and admit anything,” Marisa says. “I told him I was writing a piece about viral popularity and new media, and wondered if he’d give me a few quotes. But once I talked to Ethan, all the information came forward, and it all fit together.”
“Again, how did you even talk to Ethan?” I ask. “Why did Ethan want to tell you everything?”
“Alex set it up; I guess they’re still friends. And Ethan sounded relieved, to be honest,” Marisa says. “Imagine carrying around that big secret for years. Plus probably no one asks him about Chaos 4 All anymore.”
I think of the secret bottled up within Alex. He must feel the same.
“I think we owe it to everyone to at least give Mr. Wheeler the option,” Marisa says. “It can’t be pure coincidence that TALON gets so many views. Who the hell would care about TALON who doesn’t go to this school?”
“We’ll have to give away so much if we do,” I say. “I’m afraid these meetings will come up. Or everything else we’ve tried to do against TALON.”
“I’ll say I did it on my own,” Marisa says. “I know how to keep secrets, Jules.”
“It’s investigative journalism,” Carlos says. “It’s a really well-written article. I think Wheeler would be impressed with it.”
“I’m not sure about how Mr. Wheeler would feel,” I say, “but I agree. It’s well written, and this is exactly what print journalism can do that something like TALON couldn’t.”
“Thank you,” Marisa says.
“But considering Mr. Wheeler”—and Alex—“let’s just sit on it for now,” I say. “We can keep watching their online traffic and see if it stays suspicious. If it does, we’ll have good reason to take our findings to Mr. Wheeler.”
Everyone makes affirmative noises, so I move the conversation along to our next topic. And I tell myself that even if Alex wasn’t my secret boyfriend—oh my god, “secret boyfriend” never stops sounding ridiculous—I’d still say we should give it some time.
The doorbell rings once I’m home working on physics and letting equations take up my brain space instead of Chaos 4 All. It’s a deliveryman with flowers—unbelievably, for me.
No one’s ever sent me flowers before, but I still know that the first thing I should do is check the card. I suspect Darcy and Mom are behind them, but I also hope that they aren’t, at least a little.
To Jules,
Great job. You’re Awesome.
Love, Alex
I touch the word love with my thumb. Alex could have just signed his name. But he didn’t.
I worry he’s a liar and a cheater. I worry he doesn’t have any sort of integrity, where things like success and popularity are concerned. But I also worry about the heavy burden he’s carried around with him, and what such a weight might do to a person.
A person who might love me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next afternoon, during Topics in Economics, the overhead announcement system squawks to life. This happens so infrequently that everyone turns to stare at it.
“Will Julia McAllister-Morgan please report to Mr. Wheeler’s classroom? Repeating, will Julia McAllister-Morgan please report to Mr. Wheeler’s classroom?”
Ms. Schmidt writes out a hall pass for me, and I try to say good-bye to Alex with a glance before heading out of the classroom.
“Jules,” Mr. Wheeler greets me as I walk into his classroom. This is his free period, so the room is empty of anyone other than him. “I’ve had something of an emergency come up, so I need to talk to you about the Crest.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask. “Did TALON do something?” Did you hear about the article?
“My dad—” Mr. Wheeler stops himself, and I hear his voice catch somewhere between his chest and his throat. “He died.”
“Oh my god,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Mr. Wheeler.”
He waves his arms at me. “It’s fine. Well, no, it’s not—anyway, the point is that I’m flying back home now. Normally of course I’d have someone else take over as interim faculty advisor, but I’m comfortable with you taking care of the Crest while I’m out. You’ve more than proven that you’ll take it seriously enough. I’ll be back Tuesday, and I don’t know how available I’ll be until then.”
“I can take care of everything,” I say. “Don’t worry.”
“You’ll have to approve this week’s issue and send the files to the printer,” he says. “Carlos can tell you where the files are saved, and I’ll email you the directions to upload them. Just make sure to enter your email address instead of mine to get the proofs on Saturday morning. There’s a limited window to approve it, so make sure you’re on top of your email.”
“No problem,” I say.
“I know we’re still finalizing lots of this week’s content,” he says. “But you’ll do fine. If you’re not sure on anything, just trust your gut, Jules. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say as he hands over the folder of current submissions.
“Monday you’ll have to sign for the printed copies,” he says. “You’ve seen me do it a thousand times, so that’s no problem. And as for the pizza—”
“I can pay for the pizza!” I say. It feels like the very least you can do when someone’s dad is dead is pay for pizza.
“Keep the receipts, and you’ll get reimbursed when I’m back,” he says. “Thanks for everything, Jules. It’s a huge relief knowing you’ll be managing everything.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He pats my shoulder. I’m not sure how old Mr. Wheeler is—we’ve asked him, but he’s not particularly forthcoming—but I know that he’s younger than my moms. He’s not even forty yet. Whatever age he is is way too young to not have one of his parents anymore.
“Thanks, Jules. You’ve given me one less thing to worry about, and your mom—Lisa, that is—is going to run me to the airport.”
“Good,” I say, because even though I’ve never liked how friendly Mom and Darcy are with Mr. Wheeler, right now it makes sense. If you’re far from home and your family, someone has to step in when things happen. I suddenly feel so young to have never seen that before. “See you next week.”
“See you then, Jules. Thanks again.”
I walk back to Topics in Economics, and now that I’m not looking at Mr. Wheeler, something overtakes my sadness and sympathy. Mr. Wheeler asked me to take care of the Crest. He didn’t call in another teacher or an administrator. He called in Jules McAllister-Morgan.
I’m in charge.
By the next day, news of Mr. W
heeler’s temporary departure has made its way around the school. It’s not exactly the biggest gossip, but no one’s surprised not to see him in our fourth-period class for the Crest.
“What sub are we stuck with?” Carlos asks. “Does anyone know?”
Everyone starts volunteering what they’ve heard about Mr. Wheeler’s other classes, while I walk to the front of the room. A man’s father is dead, so I try not to beam.
“I’ll actually be handling this class for the next couple of days,” I say. “So it’ll just be business as usual.”
“This is awesome,” Marisa says, and I wait to be congratulated. “We can run the Chaos 4 All piece. Since Mr. Wheeler was the problem.”
“That’s your only concern?” I ask.
“Jules, I worked my ass off on that article,” she says. “And you’re the one so obsessed with preserving our print heritage or whatever.”
“I’m not obsessed,” I say, which might be a mistake because lots of people confuse passion with obsession, and that’s probably why other kids flat-out laugh when I say it. “I care about preserving it, absolutely. I think it’s my—our responsibility.”
“I care about that too,” Marisa says. “Think of how many people would be reading it if we were picked up by a major publication.”
She’s right. Natalie might have created TALON, but how important will that look next to coverage from national media?
“Okay,” I say, but then I worry I’m making the decision too quickly. I have Mr. Wheeler to think about, and of course Alex. I’ll be helping him let go of the guilt he must be carrying, but I wasn’t prepared to be doing that this week. “Let’s seriously think about moving forward with it.”
Alex wants to take me out to celebrate my scores, and even though I’ve been putting off time alone with him since I read the article, and even though I couldn’t find time for Sadie, I agree to it that night.
“Hey.” Alex grins at me once he’s in my car and in between kisses. “Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere,” I say. “Well, not anywhere. But anywhere you want where people from school wouldn’t be.”
“Feels like a lot of potential places.” He leans in to kiss me again. “What’s, like, your favorite place here?”
“You’ve probably seen it,” I say. “School or Stray Rescue maybe? Oh!”
“Jules McAllister-Morgan has an idea,” he says.
“Have you see the ocean?” I ask. “Since you moved here?”
“I haven’t,” he says. “Let’s go.”
I pull the car into drive and head toward the 110 Freeway. I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten on the freeway to drive so far this late. Everything seems open ahead of me right now, though.
“Can I ask you something?” I sneak a look at Alex, though of course I believe in responsible driving. “Why haven’t you learned to drive yet? I’m not judging you, of course, I’m just curious.”
“Of course you’re not judging me.” He laughs and trails his fingertips down my arm. “Look, I’ve tried. My mom tried to teach me, and when that didn’t work, my dad tried to teach me. My friend Jack at my old school tried, and so did my ex-girlfriend—well, she wasn’t my ex at the time.”
I can’t lie; I definitely had fantasies where I was the first person who actually made Alex learn how to drive. But if his Michigan girlfriend couldn’t teach him, I’m not sure what would give me an advantage.
“I don’t like feeling out of control,” he says with a shrug. “Why put myself in a situation where I do if I can help it?”
“But you’re in control,” I say, my hands gripped on the steering wheel. “That’s the whole point.”
“It doesn’t feel like it,” he says.
We drive past downtown LA, its brightly lit skyline always a tiny surprise when it appears. Los Angeles doesn’t feel like that kind of city, because the beauty it’s known for is full of palm trees and ocean waves. But its urban beauty is striking too.
“It’s strange that we’ll be gone in a year,” I say. “Maybe it’s not to you, since you’ve moved before, but I’ve been here since I was born.”
“It’s weird I get to pick where,” he says. “When your dad’s a professor, you move for the schools, not the places themselves. It’s not like I decided to move to Lawrence or Ithaca or Ann Arbor.”
“Or here,” I say.
“Or here. But here sounded good,” he says. “In all the other places, it was… really weird to be the guy from Chaos 4 All.”
A chill slips around and inside me, for just a moment.
“In LA, though… it’s definitely not the weirdest thing.”
“It’s not weird at all,” I say.
“Jules, it is,” he says, laughing. “I won’t think you’re a jerk for admitting that.”
I sneak a smile over at him before locking my eyes back on the freeway as I merge onto the 10. “I like that you’re weird.”
“Good!” He’s still laughing. “Anyway, our part of LA isn’t really… LA? We don’t have a beach and we don’t have Hollywood. It’s just a normal town. Where people don’t think Chaos 4 All is that weird. And where I can forget everything that happened.”
Everything?
“I just want the next part of my life to be my choice,” he says.
“You want to be in control,” I say with a smile.
“I know that for someone like you that’s never an issue,” he says. “But me… I’m still working on it.”
Traffic moves quickly until we get to Santa Monica, where the exit ramps clog with cars trying to get to restaurants, shopping centers, bars, and the beach. When we get out of the car once I’ve parked a couple of blocks from the sand, the cool ocean breeze wraps itself around us. We’re only about thirty miles from our houses, but it’s another atmosphere.
“Thanks for taking me here,” Alex says as we arrive at the sand and pause to take off our shoes. “Do you want to walk in?”
“It’ll be cold,” I say. “And wet.”
He cracks up, so loudly that people look in our direction. “Really, Jules? The ocean’s going to be wet?”
“I just meant that we didn’t bring towels or anything.”
He kisses me softly. “I’ll take my chances.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I’m exhausted when I sit down in women’s history the next morning. I force all my energy into a smile at Sadie so that I won’t have to make up a reason I’m so tired.
“Your favorite show’s coming on,” she says as the TV starts up for TALON.
Natalie starts off in her typical perfect newscaster way, and if there’s any part of her that’s still embarrassed to be known as an exceptionally bad dancer, even among children, it doesn’t show on her face.
Natalie throws it to Kevin for the AroundTown segment, which apparently this week is just about places nearby where E.V.A. students hang out. There’s footage of TALON staffers Jesse and Joramae hanging out in front of the fancy fountain at the Americana, and then a serious shot of Natalie at the downtown library. How can they take themselves seriously as journalists? It’s literally just footage of students in places.
And then it’s me. It’s me, and it’s Alex. It’s me, and it’s Alex, and we’re in front of Donut Friend, and we’re holding hands. While I’m figuring out ways to explain that this must be old footage from the brief original time we went out, the street decorations for a local autumn celebration give us away.
I expect the room to react, but most people are just silently watching the next clip, which is of the camera crew in front of the big streetlamp art piece at LACMA. Most people, except for Sadie.
“Oh, this explains everything,” she says.
“Miss Sheraton-Hayes,” Ms. Cannon says. “No talking.”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she says, loudly, while on-screen, kids are frolicking at the Grove. “Please.”
I realize that Sadie’s voice is breaking. Sadie must be this close to crying.
“Fi
ne, Miss Sheraton-Hayes,” Ms. Cannon says, writing out a pass. “Hurry back.”
“Me too,” I say, following Sadie up to the front of the room. “Please.”
Ms. Cannon narrows her eyes but writes out another pass. “Be back by the time class resumes, girls.”
I wait for the classroom door to shut behind us. “Sadie, I—”
“No,” Sadie says as tears stream down her cheeks. When you’ve been friends with someone since infancy, you’ve seen them cry many times.
I had just never caused it before.
“You lied to me,” she says. “You lied to everyone.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But with everything going on between the Crest and TALON—”
“No one cares about that,” she says. “No one cares except you and Natalie, but instead of realizing it, or just trying to be my friend, you’re letting your stupid newspaper—”
“The Crest isn’t stupid,” I say. “The Crest is the most important part of my senior year, maybe of all of high school.”
Oh my god, why am I defending the Crest right now?
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” she says. “We’ve all noticed. You care about it more than you care about any of us. You know, Thatcher’s on the Crest too, and I know he’s involved in all your little plots, but he still manages to be a good boyfriend and be honest to Em.”
“I’m not your boyfriend,” I say.
“No, you’re my best friend,” she says. “Which should be equally important, if not more so. And you freaking know that, Jules. And Alex—”
“I wanted to tell you,” I say.
“Then you should have. You’ve made me feel…” Sadie cries silently for a moment, and shoves my hand away when I try to touch her shoulder. “Like nothing. I know I’m just stupid Sadie with my stupid hair and my stupid problems and I’m not going to an Ivy League school, but—”
“You’re not stupid,” I say, and I try to touch her shoulder again. I can’t hear Sadie talk this way about herself. “I just have so many important things going on right now.”
