part in the ruse? I look at him through my lashes, subtle. No ire seems to be coming my way. In fact, the next thing he does is apologize.
“Sorry, I know they’re your friends, but to be honest, I never got why.”
“What does that mean?” It comes out a screech without my meaning it to.
“One of these things is not like the others,” he singsongs like a Muppet.
I scowl and cross my arms over my chest. “Because I’m poor?”
Seth laughs. “I was going to say nice, but poor works, too.”
“I’m not nice,” I say. It comes out petulant. What a horrible thing to say to an ambitious woman. Nice gets left in the dust. Nice doesn’t catfish Seth Feldstein for three months to help Emma land the captainship of the FIRST Robotics team. But I’m not going to tell him that. It’s my dirty little secret, the worst thing I’ve done as an Ivy. Seth can just continue hating Emma for that. After all, she did put him on the List. Ingrid is on her.
“All right, fine, not a backstabbing bitch, then. Whatever the opposite of that is, that’s you. I don’t think you know half of what your friends have done. We all talk, you know, about what the Ivies get up to behind our backs. Your name doesn’t come up very often. And if you’re asking me what happened later that night at the party, that means your friends aren’t telling you shit.”
He has me. I am on the hook. I need to know more about what people have said about the Ivies. Did they figure out we were the ones who set off that Whitley alarm before finals last year? Do they know how we got into all the best classes? Does Seth know about the catfishing but have a spectacular poker face?
“You’re right,” I concede, hoping it will gain me the upper hand. “They’re keeping something from me about that night. Which is why I want to piece together Emma’s final hours myself. I was hoping I could look at your phone.”
“That isn’t what I was expecting. And it’s a big ask. One’s phone is sacred.” He holds it to his chest, raises an expectant eyebrow.
“Dude, one of my friends is dead, and the other three are lying. Don’t be a dick.”
“Fine, fine.” He unlocks his phone and hands it to me. I go right for Instagram, click onto his profile page, and tap to create a new set of highlights. Select from archive, slight scroll, and there they are. Seth’s Stories from Wednesday night. I select all of them and save.
I tap into the new highlight group and watch. Most of the photos and videos are inane: selfies with dumb stickers affixed on top and neon scrawl drawn with too-thick fingers, so the words jumble together; Boomerangs of people zippering; video bursts of students shouting “Chug!” at willing victims. There are a few of the fight, video I refuse to watch for more than a few seconds. I catch Margot draped all over Milo in a drunken group shot, and Avery in the background of another, talking intently on the phone. I’m nearly at the end when I see a flash of red in the background. Emma’s sweater. I press and hold with my index finger, stilling the image. Emma’s on the stairs, going up. Pin-straight black hair folded into an immaculate French braid peeks out from behind her right shoulder. Margot.
I feel heat at my back. Seth hovers over my shoulder, and I jerk away, craving my own space. “What time did the party end, Seth?”
“About eleven-thirty, because of curfew. All the girls left, and after that what’s the point?”
I tap back out to the highlight. The photo is near the end of the set. So maybe it was 11:15. Why was Margot going upstairs with Emma? I do some housekeeping, deleting the party highlight, and slide Seth’s phone across the table. “Thanks.”
“No problem. You know, if you want to find out more about your friends, talk to Rebecca Ito. She has a lot of opinions. And maybe she saw more of Emma at the party.”
There’s a glint in Seth’s eye that I don’t like, like he’s a trickster god, delighted to lead me down the path of destruction.
“See you later, Seth.” I gather what’s left of my dinner onto my tray for busing and turn to leave.
“I bet.”
I save a single roll before I dump the rest of the tray