In Some Other Life: A Novel

  I push myself from the bed and start for the door. I look back once at the phone still lying on my bed. Then, before I can second-guess myself or overanalyze my actions, I run back, navigate to Laney’s profile again, and click “Follow.”

  Then the Dean Plays Hardball

  I assumed I’d be able to catch up on my sleep this weekend, but apparently that was wishful thinking, because when the elephants trample through my room at five thirty a.m. on Monday, I feel more wretched than ever. And don’t get me started on my face. Let’s just say the purple shadows under my eyes have been upgraded to black holes.

  The good news is, I finally feel like I’m caught up on my schoolwork. I studied nearly nonstop all day Saturday and Sunday, ticking off tasks from my to-do list like no one’s business. Now, I can confidently say that I’m in control of the app. Instead of it being in control of me.

  After our morning study session in the student union, Sequoia and I pack up our stuff and head to Royce Hall for AP history. But just as we’re ascending the grand staircase, Dean Lewis’s voice comes over the speaker system.

  “Attention, Windsor students and faculty. I am calling an emergency school assembly. Please head straight to the Lauditorium. Thank you.”

  I look to Sequoia, who’s wearing an uneasy expression. “What do you think that’s about?”

  She appears pensive, like maybe she has a theory, but then she shakes her head and turns around on the steps. “No idea.”

  * * *

  The Lauditorium is housed in a cylindrical structure attached to the student union. It’s a beautiful round amphitheater with stadium seating laid out three hundred and sixty degrees around the stage.

  I would be excited to be sitting in these plush comfy seats for the first time if the energy in the air wasn’t so ominous. It’s clear Dean Lewis’s unexpected summoning has put everyone on edge. Even the teachers. Small hushed conversations reverberate around the room as everyone attempts to speculate what this could be about.

  Dean Lewis takes the stage. She has a lapel mic fastened to her immaculate purple pants suit. I’m in awe of the students’ respect for her. The din around the rotunda immediately quiets down without her even having to say anything.

  Everyone is so reverent and attentive.

  Well, everyone except him.

  As I scan the crowd, my eyes immediately fall on Dylan, sitting in approximately the same row as me on the other side of the circle. He’s staring at something in his lap. Probably his phone.

  I can’t believe the nerve of that guy. The least he could do is show some respect for Dean Lewis. I mean, the woman went to Vassar, Harvard, and Yale. She’s basically a legend.

  I shoot him a dagger look from across the Lauditorium. I don’t really expect him to see it since his eyes are averted, but for some strange reason he happens to look up at that exact moment, and his gaze just happens to land right on me.

  He gives me another one of his obnoxious smirks. I roll my eyes and focus back on Dean Lewis.

  “Thank you all for coming,” she begins in a somber tone. “I apologize for the late notice, but something has come to the administration’s attention that simply cannot be delayed.”

  I watch her intently, trying to focus on what she’s saying, but I can’t help stealing another peek at Dylan. He’s gone back to staring at whatever is in his lap and suddenly I’m desperate to know what it is. What is so über important to him that he can’t take ten minutes out of his day to listen to the dean of the school?

  I lean forward, trying to peer through the heads blocking my view, but I still can’t get a good look at his lap. I sit up extra tall, craning my neck to the left and right. I can almost make it out. I just need a few more inches. I ease onto my feet and just catch sight of a newspaper lying open on his legs, when Sequoia yanks me back down, hissing, “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I say casually. “I was stretching my legs.”

  She lets out a frustrated huff and goes back to listening to the dean.

  “Unfortunately,” the dean goes on, “the section of the Windsor Academy’s honor code dealing with unlawful testing procedures has been breached once again.”

  What?

  I look to Sequoia to gauge her reaction, but her face is blank.

  “Cheating,” the dean says forcefully, “will not be tolerated at this school.”

  My chest tightens.

  “We have an 89 percent Ivy League acceptance rate here and a zero tolerance policy for this kind of behavior.” She pulls her reading glasses off and lets them hang around her neck. “I’m disappointed to report that stolen exams have been discovered in the possession of three additional Windsor Academy students who have all been expelled.”

  A gasp echoes throughout the room. I admit one of them came from me.

  Who would buy stolen exams? It’s unethical and illegal, not to mention deceitful. Don’t people want to succeed the right way? The honest way? If you cheat just to get into an Ivy League school, then you can never truly feel the satisfaction of your accomplishment.

  “This cannot continue,” the dean says, turning to glare at each and every one of us. “I’ve spoken with the administration and a decisive action plan has been made.”

  Good, I think, nodding along with her words. They should take action. They should do whatever they need to do to put an end to this. I’m still so horrified that this kind of thing even happens here.

  “Whoever has been stealing and selling unauthorized copies of Windsor Academy exams,” the dean continues, “we strongly urge you to step forward and confess to your crimes.”

  That’s it? That’s their big plan? Asking the culprit to confess? He’s never going to turn himself in. Who would do that?

  “So,” Dean Lewis says, casting her gaze around the room, “would anyone care to step forward and take responsibility for their illegal actions?”

  The Lauditorium is utterly silent. No one even dares to breathe. Everyone is glancing out of the corners of their eyes to see if someone is willing to stand up.

  No one does. Dean Lewis looks extremely disappointed.

  She clears her throat. “I am giving the offending student until the end of Thanksgiving break to contemplate their actions and make the right decision. Step forward and confess your crimes to a staff member by first period Monday morning.”

  A small titter breaks out among the students.

  “Otherwise,” Dean Lewis goes on, silencing everyone immediately, “starting next week, we will begin docking one percentage point a week from every student grade until the person responsible decides to make the right choice.”

  Another gasp permeates the silence of the Lauditorium. The students are no longer sitting politely in their seats. They’re now looking at each other with accusing, openmouthed stares. Murmurs of “That’s not fair” and “This is ludicrous” start to percolate through the crowd.

  Dean Lewis raises a hand, bringing the complaints to a halt. “I realize this comes as a shock, but this has gone on long enough. If you have any information about who is behind this, then I beseech you to come forward and save your peers.”

  Sequoia turns to me with tears brimming in her eyes. She’s about to lose it.

  I still can’t believe anyone would do this. It doesn’t seem worth it. Why would a student, fortunate enough to go to this amazing school, risk their future and all of their hard work just to sell a few tests and make a quick buck?

  The second the thought enters my mind, my gaze immediately swivels back to the boy sitting across the room from me. The one who couldn’t be bothered to even pay attention to the dean’s speech. Curiously, he’s paying attention now.

  He’s no longer reading the newspaper in his lap. Like every other student in this room, his eyes are trained on Dean Lewis. But unlike the other students in this room, his expression isn’t one of shock or fury or accusation.

  It looks suspiciously like pride.

  Then I Make a Life-Changing Decision


  It was him. It has to be him. He’s the only person I know with enough motive and disdain for this place to risk getting caught. It makes perfect sense. Dylan hates Windsor. He hates all the students here. So what better way to make a mockery of this zombifying institution than to steal exams and sell them to the students?

  By the time the assembly lets out, I’m so mad I could punch him.

  “I can’t believe this is happening!” Sequoia is full-on crying now. Actually, she’s pretty close to hyperventilating.

  I take her by the elbow and guide her into the adjoining student center, sitting her down at a table. “Relax,” I tell her. “Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.”

  She tries, but it just comes out as a shudder. “What am I going to do? I’m already dangerously close to a B in four classes. If they start docking percentage points, I’m doomed! I’ll never get into Harvard. I’ll never become a senator. I’ll never be able to run for president!”

  “Hey!” I say, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at me. “Stop. Of course you will. You’re going to be the best president this country has ever seen.”

  She sniffles, trying to focus on me through her glassy, tear-filled eyes. “Have you ever heard of a president who got a B in calculus?”

  “I…” I stammer. “I’m sure there are plenty of presidents who got worse than a B in calculus. Besides, you’re not getting a B. I’m sure someone will come forward.”

  She shakes her head and wipes her runny nose. “No they won’t.”

  “You don’t know that,” I argue.

  She gives me a doubtful look. “This is the Windsor Academy.”

  “Exactly! This is the Windsor Academy. The students here are the most upstanding in the country. Someone has information and they’ll bring it to the dean.”

  She drops her head into her hands and sobs.

  I sit next to her and rub her back. “Maybe Dean Lewis was bluffing. Maybe they won’t dock anyone’s grades.”

  “Dean Lewis doesn’t bluff,” comes Sequoia’s muffled response.

  I bite my lip and stare into the massive student union. People are still shuffling out of the Lauditorium, looking completely distraught and hopeless. Everyone except Dylan, that is. I spot him the moment he saunters in and strolls over to an empty table. He pulls out his newspaper and spreads it on the table, looking like he couldn’t care less that the vibe in this place is akin to a bomb threat.

  My eyes narrow in his direction.

  I know when someone is guilty. It’s a journalistic talent. You have to be objective about a situation, but you also need instincts like a tiger. And right now, my instincts are roaring at full volume.

  This cheating thing would make a perfect front-page story. I can already see the headline:

  Slacker Boy Nabbed in Prep School

  Cheating Scandal

  That’s the kind of headline that wins Spartan Press Awards.

  I glance over at Sequoia, who’s still blubbering into her hands, and I’m suddenly struck with an idea. It’s so incredibly genius, I’m not sure why I didn’t think of it earlier. Probably because I was so busy trying to wrangle my unruly task list and build robots in Robotics Club and make wise investments in Investment Club and launch my Internet company in the Young Entrepreneurs Club, that I completely overlooked my true passion. The one thing that has always made me happy.

  “Sequoia,” I say, standing up from the table, “I’ll be right back.”

  With a swift, decisive motion, I toss my bag onto my shoulder, march out of the student union, across the lawn, and up the steps of Royce Hall.

  I barge into Mr. Fitz’s classroom like a girl on a mission, but it’s empty. I must have beaten him here from the student union. I take a seat at the table and wait.

  Mr. Fitz arrives a few minutes later. “Ms. Rhodes,” he says, looking surprised to see me. He takes a seat behind his desk. “What can I do for you?”

  I stand up and watch as he types in a username and an excessively long password to unlock his laptop. It momentarily distracts me from my reason for being here.

  “Are all the teachers’ passwords that long?” I ask.

  He sighs. “Yes. They made us change our passwords again last week. They think whoever is stealing the tests was able to hack the server where the teachers keep their files. Now the passwords are ridiculous. It’s like Fort Knox around here.”

  I bite my lip, trying to process what he’s just said. Is that a clue somehow? Does Dylan have some kind of secret hacking skill that no one knows about?

  “Anyway,” he interrupts my short reverie, “did you need something?”

  “Oh! Yes!” I say, suddenly remembering my brilliant idea. I puff out my chest and stand up straighter. “I’d like to start a Windsor Academy student newspaper.”

  Then I Get Stonewalled

  I’m so excited as I stand before Mr. Fitz and declare my decision, I can hardly contain myself. This is going to be even better than the Southwest Star! It’s going to be legendary. I even started brainstorming names on my walk over here. So far I like The Windsor Express, The Windsor World, and just The W.

  I came to Mr. Fitz because he’s the head of the English department, so I assume he’d be the one to talk to about starting a new writing-oriented club. And as soon as he signs off on it, I’m going straight to Dylan Parker to get to the bottom of this test-stealing scandal.

  If I work extra hard—like really hustle—I might even be able to get an issue out in time for the Spartan Press Awards deadline at the end of this week!

  And why wouldn’t I win? I know exactly what it takes to win. I’m a winner. No, I’m a crusher!

  And I will crush this, too.

  Mr. Fitz closes his laptop and leans back in his chair, looking extremely intrigued by my idea. Even he thinks it’s a winner. In fact, he’s probably sitting there right now, wondering why he didn’t think of it himself.

  “You want to start a student newspaper?” he confirms.

  I nod. “Yes. And I already know what my first story is going to be.”

  His eyebrows rise inquisitively. “And what is that?”

  “The test-stealing scandal.”

  He looks hopeful. “Do you know who’s behind it?”

  “Not yet,” I admit. “But I want to investigate. And I want to publish my findings in a school newspaper.” I hitch my bag farther up my shoulder. “So, what’s the protocol? Do I need like a faculty sponsor or something?”

  He reopens his laptop. “No.”

  I blink in confusion. “No, I don’t need a faculty sponsor?”

  “No, you do need one of those. You’ll need a faculty member to sign an activity activation form and then you’ll need to file it with the dean’s office, but I’m saying no. I won’t sign it.”

  My mouth falls open. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  I stand there speechless for a few seconds before resolving, “Fine. I’ll just ask another faculty member.”

  “And I’ll make sure they say no, too,” he says evenly.

  “B-b-but, you can’t do that,” I protest, shocked. “Doesn’t every student have a right to form a club?”

  “Yes,” he admits. “Every student but you.”

  So much for being Fitz’s favorite. This man obviously has some kind of vendetta against me.

  “Why?” I demand, tears of frustration springing to my eyes.

  “That,” he says, pointing at my face. “Right there. That’s why.”

  I sniffle. “Because I’m crying? You won’t let me start a newspaper because I’m a sensitive person who shows her emotions? Would you rather I be a heartless robot who never shares her feelings and walks around all day acting like a … like a … zombie?”

  Fitz doesn’t even blink. He stays perfectly calm and replies, “No. I won’t let you start a newspaper because you’re too hard on yourself. You’re already stretched far too thin and I’m worried about you.”

>   “Well, I’m fine!” I insist, wiping my cheeks with the backs of my hands. “And I’d be better if I could just do what makes me happy. And right now, that’s starting a newspaper.”

  Fitz rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, looking like he’s trying to summon strength. “Look, I’m going to be honest with you. You’re what the administration calls an ‘at risk’ student. Your ambition has the tendency to get the better of you. You stress easily. You let the pressures of succeeding here compromise who you are. I’ve seen it happen too many times. Like with Lucinda Wallace. I let her down. We all did. We didn’t get involved soon enough. Maybe if we’d recognized the signs earlier, we could have saved her from self-destructing.”

  I squint at him, unable to believe what I’m hearing.

  He’s crazy. He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know me. I want to scream at him to take a look around. Everyone here is stressed out. Everyone wants to succeed. Sequoia just had a complete meltdown in the student union! Why am I being singled out? Because I’m too ambitious? Last I checked, ambition wasn’t a bad thing. Ambition is what won me three Spartan Press Awards in a row. Ambition is why I’m at the top of my class in one of the most prestigious schools in the country. Ambition is the reason Geraldine Watkins is recommending me for admission to Columbia University!

  Mr. Fitz sighs. “I don’t want to see the pressure get to you, too. I don’t want to see you crack. I worry that one more thing on your plate, one more responsibility, will be the thing that breaks you.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about me,” I say, as sternly and calmly as I can when all I really want to do is scream and throw something. “I’m not going to crack. I’m not Lucinda. I’m my own person. I’m Kennedy.”

  Mr. Fitz nods, like he wholeheartedly agrees. “Exactly. And I’m trying to save you from her.”