The Ivies - Alexa Donne Page 0,103

same thing. Not as well as me, though.”

I dig my fingers into my palm to stop myself from correcting his grammar. He’s a sociopath.

“Did you ever think that maybe you didn’t get into Cornell because they saw right through you? That maybe you’re just mediocre.”

Avery’s words spark a flash of white-hot anger. Tyler’s mask slips, charm leaking from him, and all that’s left is cold derision.

“I almost killed you, you know. I narrowed it down to the two of you. But I had to consider who would make for better essay fodder. Emma hid her sins better than you did. She made a better victim. Nobody mourns the mean girl.”

“I’d rather be a bitch than a sociopathic murderer. You’re done, Ty. We got you.”

For a second I’m confused. What happened to Avery conspiring in my murder to save her from being SAT scam collateral damage? Then I see her draw a phone from the back pocket of her pants.

“Your passcode was easy to guess,” she says, tossing me my phone. “Sorry for pretending to want to murder you.” Then to Tyler: “Say hi to Detective Cataldo. She’s been listening attentively to your confession.”

“That won’t hold up in court,” Tyler scoffs, but his bravado is false. I can see the panic in his eyes.

“No, it won’t. Recording people without their consent is illegal in the state of Massachusetts, so we didn’t bother. But the point is, she knows. You don’t get to lie anymore.”

I am momentarily awestruck by the sheer unadulterated badass bitch that is Avery Montfort. I was right to never underestimate her.

But there is still the matter of Tyler and the gun. He raises it with his left hand, tries to anchor his grip with the other hand, but grimaces. I seize the opportunity, charging forward in my best impression of a football player. I hit his chest, and it’s like barreling into a solid wall; Tyler grunts but doesn’t fall. So I punch him between the legs and wrest the weapon from his hand as he winces in pain. Then both Avery and I stand over him, skillet and gun poised, until the police arrive.

In the movies, they cart away the killer in handcuffs, shoving him into a police car whose blinding lights throw swirls of blue and red onto the wan faces of the shocked partygoers. It’s in slow motion, with a dramatic swell of music as the camera cuts to the heroine, who survived the fight, shaken and bloody but triumphant. Justice is served. Everything is going to be okay.

That’s not how it goes in real life. Not when the rich and privileged kill and get caught.

Mr. St. Clair hires Tyler the best defense lawyer money can buy, the kind who has all sorts of connections with respected journalists and rags alike. The best defense is a good offense.

Stories smearing Emma’s character begin to appear immediately.

She cheated and backstabbed her way to the top of the class.

She stole her best friend’s spot at Harvard by sleeping with the college counselor.

She ran a test scam for years.

Emma Russo was a common criminal.

From there, it snowballs and explodes into an international media frenzy. The College Board and ACT void the scores of everyone involved in the scam and launch an investigation. Claflin’s name is dragged through the mud, first for hiring a predator like Tipton and then for producing such students and allowing the scheme to take place on its grounds. And, you know, there’s the murder and all that.

The school opens an inquiry before winter break is even over, and the administration comes to a conclusion swiftly. It was my name that was used over and over again to print the fake IDs. The files themselves are wiped, but the digital traces remain. I was her roommate, one of the notorious Ivies. There is no proof that I wasn’t involved.

I am informed of my expulsion by telephone one day before I’m due to return to campus. My things will be packed up for me and shipped to my home in Maryland, at Claflin’s expense. The expulsion isn’t official, don’t worry; it won’t be on my transcripts. I’m simply not welcome to return. Claflin wouldn’t want to invite a lawsuit. Not that Mom and I could afford the lawyer.

My only consolation is that none of this is public. When the SAT cheating story is published by Slate, I am spared by the truth. I had nothing to do with it. But tell that to Harvard, which