But I’m angry now.
I stalk across the hallway. Students part like I’m radioactive—and maybe I am, maybe that video just made me toxic to touch—but I don’t care.
I need to understand. Need to know what McKenzie did. What she threatened. How she convinced someone Harpertrustedto destroy us both.
“What have you done?”
My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds cold. Calm. Lethal.
McKenzie examines her nails like I’m a mild inconvenience. “Unlike some people, I respect the morality clause of the student handbook.” Her eyes flick up, sharp and satisfied. “You should take a refresher course. Page forty-seven in particular. The section about conduct unbecoming of a Westfield student.”
She leans in. Close enough that I can smell her expensive perfume. Close enough that no one else can hear.
“They’ll drop you from the debate team before the bus leaves,” she whispers. “Harvard’s student body handbook has a similar morality clause. I don’t imagine they’ll want asister-fuckeras part of their prestigious freshman class. Not after this video gets forwarded to their admissions department.”
My blood turns to ice.
“Who’s boring now?” she adds, voice sweet as arsenic.
Then she pivots on her designer heels and walks away. Marie stumbles after her, still unable to look at me.
Leaving me standing in the wreckage.
My phone buzzes. Once. Twice. A dozen times in rapid succession.
Text alerts. Screenshots multiplying across group chats and social media like a virus. By lunch, this will have hit every phone in the school. By tonight, it’ll be on every parent’s radar.
And Harvard… Jesus Christ,Harvard…
I should move. Should walk to the principal’s officeand get ahead of this. Call Silas. Call a lawyer. Control the narrative before it controls me.
That’s what smart people do. Strategic people. People who have their shit together.
But my body won’t move.
I just stand there, locked in place, and watch everything I’ve built collapse.
Every late-night study session. Every debate trophy. Every perfect grade and carefully curated achievement. All of it evaporates in the five seconds it takes for that video to loop.
Because I thought perfection could protect us. Thought if I was good enough, controlled enough,perfectenough, nothing bad could touch us.
Turns out perfection is just another kind of lie.
The bell rings. Students flood past me, whispering without bothering to be subtle anymore.
“—saw the video already?—”
“—his ownsister, that’s sick?—”
“—always knew he was too perfect?—”
“—bet Harvard rescinds his acceptance?—”
My phone keeps buzzing. Won’t stop buzzing. Each notification is another nail in the coffin.
My chest constricts. Air won’t move right. The hallway tilts slightly, edges going fuzzy.
I can’t breathe.