High and Dry (24 page)

I gaped at Bridget. “Is blackmail your default answer to
everything
?”

“I said ‘Get her drunk,'” Bridget repeated, on a loop.

I wanted to tell her to refresh her homepage.

“I tried, it was impossible, she's like a monk,” Posey retorted.

Mr. Donovan finally spoke. His voice was tired and his words circled the girls' throats like lassoes, squeezing them into silence. “You stupid children. She's already on lithium. You could've killed her.”

Don't count them out yet, I thought. They still might.

“So it wasn't a bad batch,” I said. “It was only a bad batch for Maria Salvador.”

“I didn't know,” Posey wailed. “It's not my fault.”

“How did
you
know about the lithium?” I asked Mr. Donovan.

“They give the teachers relevant health information at the beginning of the year in case something ever happens in class.”

Ellie'd told me Maria was the last person on earth who'd take drugs or alcohol. Because she'd known any interactions could be harmful, even fatal.

I turned back to Bridget. “What made you so sure the flash drive was in the library?”

“Just a guess.”

My eyes strongly suggested she guess harder.

“Fine, like I told you before, I saw
West Side Story
Maria—”

“Stop calling her that. Call her by her real name.”

Bridget cleared her throat. “I saw Maria Salvador on Friday at the library second period. When the bell rang, she was conferring with a librarian, looking shifty, and then they disappeared into a back room.”

“To get the Chekhov key,” I said.

“I didn't think much about it until the party, when I heard her tell
this genius
she'd hidden it at school,” Bridget added. “I needed to know who else was there second period and might've seen her hide it, or might've taken it for themselves.”

“You just needed the right patsy to interview the people you didn't have access to,” I muttered.

“I also needed to work fast. While you were
slowly
making your way through the front of the list, I tackled the back of it.”

“What were you going to do?” Posey said to Bridget, deadpan. “If you'd found the flash drive?”

“Sell it to you,” I answered for Bridget. “For three times the price. Make you think it was Ellie brokering the deal so you wouldn't send Griffin after her.”

“She didn't think it was fair,” said a male voice.

A Hispanic man of about twenty had let himself in. He sat down in the last available seat. Everyone shifted to face him.

“Badtz-Maru?” I said.

He nodded without looking at me. But really I'd come to think of him as Brother de Maria.

“He's here. Can we start now?” Posey said.

“She couldn't live with herself,” BM continued, in a manner that told us he was settling in for a story and anyone who didn't like it was free to leave empty-handed. “She needed the money, but she couldn't live with herself. That's why she changed her mind. She was writing a college essay, and it hit her that every word would be a lie if she pretended her grades were true. And if every word was a lie, why was she going to college at all? What was she hoping to get out of it that would feel worth doing, if getting there took what it took? And she started to think about the person she'd be displacing at the university, the person whose spot she stole through tampered grades. And then she started to wonder if Mr. Donovan was the only teacher at Palm Valley padding the scores, or if it was endemic across every subject in every grade. She became obsessed. She and the newspaper editor, Jane Thomas, decided to find out. They were working together to prove other teachers were involved.
If
other teachers were involved. But she never got the chance.”

I remembered Thomas' English Muffin closing her computer window when I'd walked into the journalism room.

Mom, I thought, with increasing alarm. What did you do? By making Fresh Start's tests the only way to measure knowledge and progress, what did you do? It wasn't her fault. But a remarkably high number of people were not to blame, and getting higher. “And the thing is,” BM said, his voice rising, “her grades were
good
.”

He turned his chair so he was looking at Mr. Donovan, who reluctantly looked back.

“No, they weren't perfect,” BM admitted, “but she would've
worked
for it. You didn't need to change her scores. You needed to teach her better.”

“Well, my debate team isn't so lucky,” said Mr. Donovan, a fire in his voice. “If I didn't meet the test quota, they would've lost their funding. What about them? What about
their
college prospects? I wanted to make a difference for them. Memorizing random dates and facts until you've regurgitated them onto a multiple-choice test and not a second longer wasn't helping them become better scholars! Debate
means
something to them. Forming arguments, seeing both sides of an issue, learning to think critically, facing their fears of public speaking—they
lived
for that one Saturday a month they could shine. They needed something in their lives to be proud of. I couldn't take that away from them.”

I thought of their third-place trophy in the cabinet in Mr. Donovan's classroom, how he kept it polished and gleaming.

“I know it was wrong. I didn't think I had a choice. My contract's up for renewal every single year. Every bonus I made went straight into to the team fund: bus rentals, travel expenses, photocopies, books, food for after-school practice …”

“You have a choice now,” I said. “How many zeroes are you willing to add to the number five?”

“You're a cold son of a bitch,” BM snarled.

“Wait'll you find out who the bitch in question is,” Bridget said. “Fresh starts for all?”

I ignored her. If I acknowledged her words in any way, I would lose it. “Opening bid is five hundred dollars. Who's got it?”

“It's kind of sick how much you're enjoying this,” Bridget said.

“Says the girl who planned on doing the exact same thing.”

“I don't have much money,” said BM.

“You don't have five hundred dollars? What about your car? Mine's called Amelia, and she's been having some trouble lately. I could use an upgrade.”

“Five hundred fifty,” said Mr. Donovan, looking ill.

“Six hundred,” said Bridget.

“She's just going to turn around and blackmail the rest of us,” Posey protested. “It'll never end! She shouldn't be allowed to bid.”

“Easy fix. Outbid her,” I enunciated.

“Five thousand,” Posey shot back.

“Now we're getting somewhere,” I said, and laughed.

“My car's worth six,” BM blurted out. “You can have my car.”

Mr. Donovan swallowed. “This is madness. If I'm losing my job anyway, I can't be spending this kind of money.”

“Then I guess you better hope Posey wins, since you both want the same thing,” I said. “Pool your resources.”

“I can contribute two hundred more,” he said weakly.

“Six thousand seven hundred fifty,” Posey told me promptly.

“What do you need the money for?” Bridget asked me. “You're getting seventy percent off tuition as it is.”

“Maybe I want to take Ellie to prom.”

“Where? Vegas?”

My phone beeped. “Oh, good! It's the pizza,” I said. “Just kidding. It's an off-site bidder. Just kidding—”

Posey leapt toward me and grabbed my shirt collar in her bony fist. “Quit screwing around. Make a decision.”

I peeled off her fingers and shoved them at her, turning away to hunch over my phone and read the text message that had just come in. It was from Ryder: “Nailed 'em.”

One down, one to go
. I was feeling mighty pleased with myself.

“Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Six thousand seven hundred fifty … going once, going twice—”

“My car, plus oil changes, tire rotations, and maintenance for a year, on the house,” BM cried out. “I work part-time at a gas station.”

“Tempting. At seventy-five bucks a pop, once a month, that's about … Hmm, I was never good at multiplication. Too bad you weren't my math teacher,” I said to Mr. Donovan. “Then it wouldn't matter.”

“Seven grand, final offer,” said Posey.

BM jumped up and hurled his folding chair against the wall. “I don't have anything else to give you.” He got in Posey's face. “You ruined her life. Live with that,
puta.
All of you.”

The folding chair still had some fight left in it, so for good measure, BM kicked it over and left the room.

“Where's my flash drive?” said Posey.

“Where's my money?” I said.

“In two installments once I turn eighteen next month.”

“No. First installment now, and make it five grand since you obviously have access to that much, and I give you a copy of the flash drive. Second installment arrives, I give you the original.”

“Fine. Right now?”

“Right now.”

She pulled a variation of the Velvet Rope pose from her party, one hand on her hip, other hand extended and open, as if still waiting for me to produce my invite.

“It's not
on
me,” I snapped. “You think I've been carrying it around? Did you see what Maria's brother did to that chair? Meet me in the park in twenty minutes. Can you get the cash by then?”

In response she produced a check from her purse. The original five grand intended to buy off Salvador.

“It's already made out to Charlie
Dix
on. How'd I say your name this time?” she retorted.

Everybody went their separate ways.

As we'd planned, BM was waiting for me in the backseat of my car, crouched low.

“Seven thousand,” he marveled. “I didn't think she'd take the bait.”

“Sorry to be such a jerk in there. I had to get the numbers up, had to make you sound desperate,” I said.

He scratched his nails through his hair. “I couldn't think of anything else to sell. I should've gone higher.”

“No, any higher and she would've gotten suspicious. I liked your shtick about working at a gas station, though.”

BM smirked. “I am but a humble pobrecito Mehican. People like her can't imagine me in pre-med.”

“It was inspired. And you got more than what she was going to pay your sister,” I reminded him.

He looked conflicted. “I wanted to let Maria decide what to do with the drive. I hate letting that spoiled princess get away with hurting her. But the most important thing is putting a dent in the hospital bills and hiring a private nurse for a while. Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

We shook hands. “I'll get the check from Posey tonight and sign it over to your bank Monday morning.”

By the time I reached Ellie's, it was 10:30, a wee bit late to come a-calling, but it didn't seem to bother her.

“I didn't think I'd get to see you tonight,” she said, standing on her tiptoes and greeting me with a kiss.

“Surprise,” I said, kissing her back. “I can't stay.”

“Who's there?” called her father.

“I think my parents would agree,” said Ellie.

Ellie's dad appeared, mug of tea in hand. “Are you okay, Charlie?” he said. Translation: Why are you here, and when are you leaving?

“I'm fine, sir.” I looked pointedly at Ellie for the next part. “I just remembered I left a flash drive here, and I need it for a test.”

Drift received, Ellie glided upstairs to get it.

“Sorry to stop by so late. I know you're off to Maxwell Park tomorrow, so I thought I'd better grab it tonight,” I explained to Ellie's father.

Sometimes I'm so good with adults it's eerie.

Ellie returned, looking pale.

“What's wrong?” I said, reaching her side at once, gently searching her expression.

“It's—it's not there.”

“I left it in your room, on your desk,” I said slowly and carefully, feeling something shake loose inside me and drop into the pit of my stomach, where it rolled around like a marble.

“I know. I can picture exactly where it was, but it's not there anymore.”

We heard a door opening and closing above us, and I looked up, where Jonathan stood at the top of the stairs, in his pajamas and glasses. His hand was curled around something.

“I have the flash drive,” he said, standing perfectly still.

“What are you doing awake?” Ellie's dad asked him. “Time for bed, you've got a big day tomorrow.”

“J-Dawg, why do you have the flash drive?” Ellie said in barely tethered exasperation.

“It doesn't belong to you,” I added. “Can I have it back?”

“It's not yours, either,” he said.

“Jonathan, give it back to Charlie,” ordered Ellie's dad.

Jonathan remained at the top of the stairs, his body a fixed line, his face a mixture of defiance and fear.

I strode up the steps. “May I take a look at it?”

Jonathan glanced from his father to his sister before shoving the drive into my hand; his palm was sweaty. The penguin sticker was still intact and the drive didn't seem to be damaged, but I had to make sure. I moved immediately into Ellie's bedroom and approached her desk.

Ellie was two seconds behind me.

“What's all this stuff?” I asked, looking at a series of colorful pamphlets spread across every surface. They were brochures for colleges; colleges that weren't Lambert. Included in the stack of papers was an acceptance letter from MECA—Maine College of Art. “We are pleased to offer you a spot in the class of 2018 …”

“Let me clear those away,” she said quickly, sliding the brochures off the edge of her desk and into the trash below. “It's just for my dad, so he thinks I've covered all the bases.”