opportunity. Bay already feels half-empty. Juniors with generous teachers or paper exams are also gone. The police threw a fit. Cataldo wanted the campus on lockdown to conduct a “thorough investigation.” But in the end, irate parents with deep pockets won out. Money always wins out.
“Hey, Cathy,” I greet the administrative assistant. Her hair—short, spiky, and mostly silver—is tipped with magenta today. Cathy may be a grandmother, but she’s a hip one. “I thought I’d drop by to see if you need me, since I missed my shift yesterday.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her cinnamon-brown eyes crinkle at the corners. She reaches for my arm and gives it a squeeze. “You’ve been through a trauma. Bless you for coming in today at all. But I could actually use your help. We’ve received a ton of take-home exams that need sorting. You know the drill.”
Indeed I do, and this is a small hitch in my plan, which was to chat with Mr. Tipton. It’s also more work than I anticipated having to do, but needs must.
“Is Mr. Tipton here?” I ask, carefully nonchalant.
Cathy indicates that he’s in his office, and I head back. At first I’m sure she is mistaken. Nothing but shadows spill through the glass window of Tipton’s office. Maybe he left for the day. But as I get closer, I see the dim glow from his computer screen. I peer inside. He’s staring at his monitor, sitting so still that the motion detectors powered down the overhead lights. As soon as I knock on the doorframe and step inside, they flicker on.
“Hi, Mr. Tipton.”
Tipton blinks against the brightness, head snapping up to look at me in the doorway. He forces a smile. “Olivia, good to see you. What brings you here?”
I cross the tight space between the door and the two chairs that face his desk, then pull out the nearer one and sit down. “I need to speak to you about early-decision acceptances.”
“Congratulations on Harvard. It’s quite the accomplishment.”
My jaw clicks tightly as I swallow a curse. “That’s just the thing, Mr. Tipton—”
“Call me Joe,” he interrupts.
“Joe,” I grind out. “I know you emailed the Ledger the list this morning, and I was wondering how you knew about my acceptance.”
“My buddies at Harvard admissions shot over the whole list. Perks of being an alumnus. Plus, one of the guys in admissions used to be my roommate. Probably gave you an edge getting in, so you kind of owe me.”
He all but waggles his eyebrows at the insinuation. Wow, I hate this guy. “Well, I need you not to share the information with anyone else. Please.”
“Why? It’s Harvard. That’s prime bragging rights.”
“Because I don’t want anyone else to know,” I say, tone falsely bright. Why is he making this hard?
“If this is out of some kind of deference to Emma, I think she would have wanted—”
“You don’t know what she would have wanted.” I cut him off. Tipton corrects his too-casual posture and puffs up his chest, but I continue before he can get defensive. “You didn’t know her, um, Joe. And you’re the one who got us into this mess. Did you even talk to Ms. Bankhead about her recommendations? The numbers got fucked, and Emma paid the price.”
Tipton’s cheeks have gone pink. “Language, Miss Winters.” He plays adult for 2.5 milliseconds, then gets back on his bullshit. “And why are you mad that I got you, and Emma, into Harvard? Ms. Bankhead isn’t the be-all and end-all of Ivy League admissions so none of the other counselors should bother trying. I’m good at my job.”
“But what if doing your job is what got Emma killed?”
“Excuse me?”
I stop myself before I can say any more, though I’ve already said too much. Tipton is looking at me as if I’ve sprouted a second head.
“Is that why you want to keep your own acceptance a secret? Olivia.” He says my name like it’s a terminal medical diagnosis. “If you know something, you need to tell—”
“It’s my own private news, which I should get to share how and when I want. All I’m asking is that you not tell anyone else. Please.” I try to force confidence into my tone, but under Tipton’s pitying stare, I’m thrown off-kilter. Maybe my entire theory about Avery and Harvard is bonkers. That’s what Mr. Tipton’s thinking right now. Does Ethan think that, too?
I need air.
“Have a good holiday,” I say, breaking from my chair and hightailing it back to the front office. I