“This is the one class where you’re not only allowed but encouraged to use your phone,” Mr. Forrest told us at the start of my media technology elective on Friday afternoon. So naturally, everyone’s heads are bent over theirs as he talks about emerging platforms. If the other students are anything like me, though, they keep getting distracted by existing platforms. I’m on Charlotte’s Instagram page, which is unlocked now that she’s accepted my follow request. I’m scrolling through it to see what a Charlotte Holbrook party is like. Because of course I’m going tomorrow night, even
though I told Tripp I wasn’t. Poke around, Carly said.
I checked Delgado Properties’ annual giving over the last ten years, and the one and only time they ever gave money to the Sturgis Police Foundation was the year Mr. Larkin died. I texted the information to Lindzi, who replied Interesting! Let me see if I can find the actual date of the donation. But I haven’t heard back from her yet.
Media technology is the only class I have with Shane and Charlotte, and I glance at the corner of the room where they’re clustered with Tripp, Abby Liu, and another boy and girl I don’t know. I’m as far away from
them as I can get, trapped in a corner next to Colin Jeffries. He’s wearing an overpowering amount of cologne that doesn’t cover the stench of cigarette smoke wafting from his clothes, and he keeps restlessly tapping his foot on the floor, too close to mine. This is my punishment for showing up at the last second before the bell rang, when every other seat in the classroom was taken.
“So, here’s what we’re going to do,” Mr. Forrest says, and I force my attention back to him. He turns to the whiteboard and writes Nike, Apple, and Purina on one side, and TikTok, YouTube, and Instagram on the other. “You’re going to partner up, and then you’re going to pick a company and a platform. Find a promotional video for your chosen company on your chosen platform, and be prepared to share with the class what you like and dislike about it.”
My eyes stray to the elite corner—I can’t help using the name; it’s weirdly catchy—where Charlotte drapes herself over Shane, and Abby turns a hopeful smile toward Tripp.
Tripp, who lied like a rug yesterday about not being able to go to Charlotte’s party. I know this because he always rubs his thumb and forefinger together when he lies. He’s done it ever since he was a kid, although I’m not sure anyone else has ever noticed. If only he hadn’t been clutching a volleyball with both hands in gym class four years ago while he reamed me out, I could’ve known for sure whether he actually believed what he was saying.
It’s useful knowledge to have up my sleeve. When I was in eighth grade, I accepted everything Tripp, Shane, and Charlotte said about Mr. Larkin’s death. I was mad at Tripp, sure, but I couldn’t imagine that he’d lie about something so important. But Carly and Lindzi are starting to rub off on me, and suddenly I’m questioning everything.
What do you know, Tripp? I think as he gives Abby a thumbs-up and her smile widens. And what did you do?
“Everybody, pair up,” Mr. Forrest says.
Mason is in this class too, but he’s several rows away. By the time I catch his eye, he offers an apologetic shrug, already moving his chair closer
to Pavan Deshpande. Who also would’ve been a good partner, because Pavan remains cute and, from what I can recall, was a solid kisser for a seventh grader. Quick and light, with zero attempt at tongue.
“Wanna be partners?” a voice rumbles from my right.
Oh God. It’s Colin Jeffries, the original dreg. I’d feel bad about calling someone that, if it weren’t what they called themselves. My eyes dart away, searching for an escape hatch, but everyone else in the class has already paired up. “Sure,” I say, suppressing a sigh. “Do you have a preference for which company, or—”
“I don’t give a shit,” Colin says.
Off to a great start. “Well, I pick Purina, because dogs. As for platform
—”
“YouTube,” Colin says, and if he interrupts me again, I’m going to
walk away and insert myself between Mason and Pavan. Rules be damned. “Fine,” I say through gritted teeth.
There’s a moment of blessed silence while we both stare at our phones, and I let my blood pressure settle down with a puppy video. Then Colin has to ruin it by saying, “You should wear your skirt shorter.”
I know, even before the words escape my mouth, that I’m going to deeply regret engaging with him, but…“Excuse me?” I ask.
“You know.” His eyes linger on my knees, making my skin crawl. “Some of the girls here hike their skirts up, shorter than they’re supposed to be. You should do that.”
“If I’d wanted your fashion advice, I’d have asked for it,” I say icily. “But I didn’t, since it’s none of your fucking business.”
Colin snorts. “Typical elite bitch.”
“You throw around a lot of labels for someone who’s so rude,” I snap. “Maybe the people you call elite just don’t want to talk to you.”
“Whatever,” Colin grunts, turning back to his phone.
To hell with him. I’m reaching for my bag so I can join Mason and Pavan, when Mr. Forrest calls, “Anyone have anything to share yet?” He started walking around once we broke into pairs, but now he returns to the front of the room and gestures to a laptop perched at the edge of his desk.
“Feel free to connect your phone to the whiteboard and show us what caught your eye, even if you haven’t done a full analysis of the content yet,” he says.
There’s a chorus of “no” throughout the room, because we’ve barely gotten started, until Colin calls out, “Yeah, sure. There’s something that caught my eye.”
“What are you doing?” I protest as Colin gets to his feet. “We haven’t talked about anything yet.”
“Don’t worry,” he smirks, with a leering wink that makes me want to bleach my eyeballs. “I got this.” I look away, repulsed, and catch Tripp watching us from across the room with a furrowed brow. As soon as our eyes meet, his flick away. He bends his head toward Abby and says something that makes her glance my way.
I glare daggers at Tripp, even though he’s no longer looking at me.
Jerk. It’s not like I chose Colin.
Colin plugs his phone into the cable dangling from Mr. Forrest’s laptop, and a paused YouTube video fills the whiteboard.
“Okay, Colin, great,” Mr. Forrest says. “But that doesn’t look like—”
Colin taps his phone, and too-loud music makes everyone jump. Then a man’s face comes into focus: cleft chin, broad nose, steely gray eyes that are too close together, a head full of thick hair that’s suspiciously brown for somebody with that many wrinkles. A sense of déjà vu hits me—I’ve seen him before, and recently—right as the man announces, “I’m Gunnar Fox, and you’re watching Don’t Do the Crime, the only true-crime show that takes a no-holds-barred look at what it means to literally get away with murder.”
Mr. Forrest cocks his head, frowning. “This is off topic.” “Wait for it,” Colin says.
The camera pans back to show Gunnar Fox striding purposefully at a weird angle, like the ground beneath him is tilted. “This spring I’m launching a new series called Killer Kids—about boys and girls on the periphery of murder cases who might not be as innocent as they seem. We’re starting next week with a dead prep school teacher in Massachusetts
whose wealthy thirteen-year-old student left fingerprints on the murder weapon, yet walked away”—Gunnar pauses and stares directly into the camera—“scot-free.”
And then, to my shock, Shane’s face pops up on-screen. It looks like a Saint Ambrose yearbook photo; he’s in his navy blazer and striped tie, smiling confidently, just like the real-life version would.
Real life. Which, I have to remind myself, is happening now. Shane’s barely ten feet away from me, staring blankly at the whiteboard screen as Colin sneers, “Anyone want to explain why we’re letting murderers walk around this school?”
Images flash on the screen: police tape, the chalk outline of a body, and a leafy redbrick campus that’s not actually Saint Ambrose. Whoever pulled these shots together did it sloppily, with crappy production values to boot. For a second there’s total silence in the room, and then everyone starts talking at once.
“What is wrong with you?” Charlotte shrieks, her voice rising above the noise. “Turn it off!”
“Colin, for God’s sake—” Mr. Forrest makes a move for his laptop, but Tripp is faster. I didn’t even see him get up, but he’s suddenly at Colin’s side, pulling the phone from Colin’s hand and disconnecting it with a vicious yank.
“You’re an asshole,” Tripp hisses as the whiteboard screen goes blank. “Give me my phone!” Colin orders, reaching for it. Tripp leaps nimbly
backward, and Colin stumbles from his own momentum, banging his knee hard against the leg of a desk. His face twists as he rears one arm back and takes a wild swing at Tripp that misses by a mile.
“Boys, stop!” Mr. Forrest tries to come out from behind his desk, but he’s not looking where he’s going and gets tangled in a bunch of cable wires. He twists left, then right, but only makes it worse and nearly falls over. “Do not touch one another!” he orders, hopping on one foot as he tries to extricate himself.
“Nice punch,” Tripp says tauntingly, holding Colin’s phone over his head. Nearly everyone is on their feet now, forming a semicircle around
Tripp and Colin—except Shane, who’s still frozen in his chair. “Want to try again?”
“If I do, I’ll end you.” Colin makes another futile grab for his phone that Tripp easily dodges. “You were in those woods too. You and—”
He turns toward Charlotte, and Tripp moves with him. “Eyes on me, Colin,” Tripp says, pulling the case from Colin’s phone and tossing it to the ground. Then he throws the phone itself into the air, and catches it one- handed. “Or I might accidentally drop this while you’re not looking.”
“You better not, you murderer,” Colin snarls. “Bunch of psychopath elite freaks, all three of you. Think you can kill a teacher and get away with it.”
“Fuck you,” Tripp says, eyes glinting as he transfers Colin’s phone to his left hand and curls the right one into a fist. His face is suddenly a hard mask, his temper taking over to the point where he almost looks like a different person. And for a second—just a split second—I can imagine him losing control and doing something terrible.
The thought should make me recoil, but instead it propels me out of my seat. I push through my classmates with one thought: Stop him before he does something he can’t undo.
“Tripp, don’t!” Abby calls. Her arms are fastened tight around Charlotte, who’s glaring furiously at Colin, like she’s hoping to incinerate him with her eyes. “You’ll get expelled. He’s not worth it!”
“Fight!” a boy yells, and a bunch of other people pick up the chant: “Fight, fight, fight, fight!”
Mason slips into the hallway, probably to get help, because Mr. Forrest is useless. He hollers, “Everyone, settle down! This instant!” at the top of his lungs, while yanking a cable from the wall in yet another frustrated attempt to break free. A loud whine of feedback fills the room, a girl screams, and Colin and Tripp keep circling one another as I reach Tripp’s side.
Tripp pulls back his arm, and I lunge for his sleeve. After that, everything happens at once: I grab air, because Shane has materialized behind Tripp to drag him away; Colin lets out a wild-banshee cry as he
stumbles forward with another flailing punch; and when I turn to face him, he’s both off balance and much too close.
Then the side of my head explodes with pain, and I go down.
—
“Explain this to me again. Like I’m five,” Uncle Nick says after picking me up from the nurse’s office an hour later. He had to take a Lyft here, so he could sign me out and drive my Volkswagen home. The nurse wouldn’t let me leave without an adult family member, and Uncle Nick was far and away the best choice. The administration knows him from when he used to work as a teaching assistant, plus he’s a grad student with a flexible schedule. “I’m not supposed to tell your parents you got punched in the head because…”
“Because they’ll freak out,” Ellie finishes from the back seat.
“Not a good reason,” Uncle Nick says. “You could have a concussion, Brynn.”
“The nurse says I don’t,” I say, although her exact words were You’re not currently showing symptoms, but they don’t always present right away, so make sure you’re evaluated by your family doctor. Close enough. “It’s not like I blacked out or anything.”
As soon as I hit the ground, I tried to get up, but Mr. Forrest, who’d finally freed himself from the cables, wouldn’t let me. He got another teacher to take over our class and brought me to the nurse’s office with Mason’s help, even though I insisted I could get there on my own. Now I have a headache, and a bruise on my temple that my hair helpfully covers, but that’s it.
“Jesus,” Uncle Nick mutters, braking extra hard at a red light. “What the hell is happening at that school? It never used to be like this.”
“Gunnar Fox happened,” I say. “He’s a parasitic hack with no journalistic credibility whatsoever.” That’s a direct quote from Lindzi.
“Okay, but doesn’t that tell you something? Reopening old wounds about Will is setting people on edge,” Uncle Nick says. “Maybe you should
tell Motive to take a step back.”
“Motive is nothing like Don’t Do the Crime!” I protest. “Your parents should be the judges of that,” he says.
Ellie lets out a disappointed tsk. “Way to sound like Dad, Uncle Nick,” she says.
“My niece. Got punched. In the head,” he replies.
My sister leans forward between the front seats. “Do I need to remind you about the vase incident, Uncle Nick?” she asks.
He groans. “Ellie. Come on. I was sixteen.”
“And I was six,” Ellie reminds him. “But I still took the blame after you knocked over Mom’s favorite vase when you got drunk at Dad’s birthday barbecue.”
“I shouldn’t have let you do that,” Uncle Nick says. “That was a terrible, irresponsible move on my part. And look where it’s gotten me. Covering for a couple of teenagers.”
“Leave me out of this,” Ellie says loftily, settling herself back against her seat. “I’m an observer and occasional consultant in this drama. Not a participant.”
“So you’re covering for me, Uncle Nick?” I press.
There’s a long beat of silence, during which, I suspect, Uncle Nick pits the angel on his shoulder who’s insisting that his brother needs to know, against the devil who’s reminding him that Dad can be a judgmental jerk. “Only if you let me take you to Urgent Care to get your head checked out,” he finally says. “No driving until we do.”
“Thank you!” I say. I’d hug him—if I didn’t want to prove my maturity by not making him accidentally swerve into the other lane. “You’re the best. I love you.”
“I’m a pushover, is what I am,” Uncle Nick grumbles. “Just promise me you’ll keep your distance from the kids involved in this mess.”
“I promise,” I say, mentally crossing fingers while I reply to Charlotte’s worried text.
I’m fine. Can’t wait for tomorrow night!
Don’t tell Tripp I’m coming, though. I want it to be a surprise.
