“Sunday?” Bailey prompted her. She got the feeling Bailey wanted her to be cleared from this just as much as Sunday did.
But she couldn’t speak. Even as she thought of Eli’s spitefulness, the way he’d tried to get her to stop liking Micah by revealing his secret, she knew she couldn’t tell. If she ratted him out, he’d tell on Micah, and Micah didn’t deserve that. He’d been doing his thing long before she got there—she couldn’t make everything come crashing down for him in just two weeks. He didn’t deserve it.
And she thought of Emma Franklin, the pregnant girl back in Chicago. The youth pastors, parents, and even their friends had tried to get Emma to reveal who the father of her baby was. But Emma never told. Sunday didn’t know if she was protecting someone in the youth group or maybe an older guy she was never supposed to be seeing, but Emma kept her mouth shut, and even after she virtually disappeared, the secret never got out. Sunday had always respected that, even if other people called Emma cowardly and immature.
Sunday wasn’t sure what her father would do; she’d never been kicked out of anything. Or been in any trouble, really. What if this meant she couldn’t get into any other private schools in the city? Or that she couldn’t study art in a place where people respected it? They’d searched long and hard for Brinkley, and there’d been a huge celebration when she was accepted. They had been so proud, her father and Ben. She didn’t want to think about how they’d look at her now. She didn’t want to think about the fact that they might not believe the mushrooms weren’t hers.
But most of all, she didn’t want to listen to that little voice at the back of her head. The one that said maybe it wasn’t her father at all who would be the most upset—that maybe this would disappoint Ben so much that he’d no longer want to adopt her. What if he decided she was too much trouble, that he didn’t want to be the official dad of someone stupid enough to get caught with drugs? She knew he wouldn’t announce something like that, but she also knew it would be much worse if they just became silent about the topic—swept it under the rug until they thought she’d forgotten about it and was too embarrassed to bring it up herself.
She wanted Eli to pay for what he’d done, but was it worth ruining Micah’s life too?
The second hand on the clock in Ashforth’s office ticked and ticked, counting down to the worst decision Sunday had ever had to make.
“Call my dad,” she finally said, her voice quiet.
Bailey closed her eyes and exhaled. Ashforth shook her head as she reached for the phone.
Sunday’s lips trembled but—with the last amount of dignity she could muster—she kept her mouth closed and held her head high.
Jackie was laughing. “If that doesn’t win for best story, it should definitely win an award for best bullshit.”
“It wasn’t bullshit,” Sunday said. “It’s true.”
Lucinda was smiling. “So you had two hot guys after you that you blew off, and one planted drugs on you as revenge?” She shook her head. “Sounds less like a problem and more like a party.”
“For real,” Tino said. “Maybe when we’re out of this, I could visit you in L.A. and—”
“You really think we’re going to speak to one another after this?” Sunday asked. “I mean, get real. My dads wouldn’t let me within a mile of any of most of you.” She glanced at Georgia. “No offense or anything.”
“I get it,” Jenna said. “My parents are the same.”
“That’s because parents are assholes.” Lucinda’s smile had faded. “It’s true, right? They’d look at Jenna and see a pyro, David a perv, Sunday a drug dealer, Cody a—” She stopped, tilted her head. “Well, I think your story was bullshit, so I don’t know what they’d see when they looked at you, but it probably wouldn’t be good.”
“We’re all fuckups, right?” Jackie said.
“I’m not a pyromaniac,” Jenna said defiantly.
Jackie shrugged. “I got arrested for stealing a movie prop from a sci-fi con. We’re all fuckups.”
“Exactly,” Lucinda said. “Except we’re not. We’ve been out here two whole days, and we’re still alive. Maybe we won’t make it back to camp today, but we will make it back. Our parents see us as these problems to solve, delinquents to deal with. But we’re more than that. David clearly cares about his sister—”
“Maybe a little too much,” Tino added.
“Shut up,” David said.
“And Sunday’s always helping out when she can, and Cody’s protective and Jaila’s the smartest person I’ve ever met.”
“None of that makes a difference, though,” Jenna said. “Not if all people see is what we’ve done rather than who we are.”
Lucinda smiled; grinned, really. “But that’s the thing. What we’ve done is who we are. Even if we don’t want to admit it.”
“What’d you do, then?” Tino asked. “And don’t give us some old-time movie version of it, either.”
“That’s easy,” Lucinda said. “Mine is a story of pure injustice. And it’s totally true.”
“A VIOLATION OF RULE 16”
by Suzanne Young
THE LIGHTS IN the hallway between English class and the principal’s office flicker above me. They’ve been in need of replacing for at least three months, and I once asked Mrs. Greer, my English teacher, why it hasn’t been done yet. She told me some excuse about how the fixtures were outdated and the bulbs were special order. I feel like that sums up my entire school district—out-of-date and waiting for replacement.
I pull open the office door and walk into the lobby, warm air blowing over my pale skin. The woman behind the desk frowns when she sees me, but it’s not because she doesn’t like me. In fact, Mrs. Patron is one of the coolest adults at this school. She has a superstraight bob and a killer collection of silk scarves. And like me, she thinks this rule is bullshit. She nods for me to go in.
I pause at the entrance of Mr. Jones’s office and then knock on the open door. He looks up from his desk and immediately sighs when he realizes it’s me. His agitated reaction stings a bit, but I go to sit down when he waves me in.
Mr. Jones is in his fifties, black with a shaved head and a crisp gray suit. He keeps his beard neatly trimmed; his desk is immaculate. I often joke that he seems like someone who uses a ton of hand sanitizer. And to support my theory, his office always smells a bit like rubbing alcohol.
“Ms. Banks,” he says in his deep voice. “Lucinda.”
“You know this is bullshit,” I say, and he closes his eyes.
Mr. Jones has been my principal for my entire career here at Heritage High—he’s exceedingly patient, even when I’m not the most tactful.
“If you could please watch your language,” he says, and motions for me to start over. I take a steadying breath, trying to temper down my annoyance, and smile politely.