My heart races. This was never supposed to be real. “It—it was a project, for her ethics class.”
“Whose ethics class?”
“Gretchen’s.” I close my eyes, but my nostrils flare. “It was her idea of a joke.”
Ms. Dixon lets out a fatigued sigh. “Are you telling me you knew about this, but it isn’t your website?”
“Yes, sort of.” I scramble to collect myself, try to make sense without completely losing it. “I didn’t know it was live—it shouldn’t have been. You can ask Mr. Hanover.”
Ms. Dixon removes her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose. “I will. But first you need to explain this to me, from the beginning.”
“Okay.” The edges of my vision go black. “She got the assignment a couple of months ago. The idea was to present a fictional example of an unethical business practice. Gretchen’s was supposed to look like one of those sites that sells essays and term papers. She asked if she could use some stuff I’d written for content. She thought it’d be funny since that was so not me. . . .” I curl my fists in my lap. “She swore they’d never be posted online.”
The room is silent apart from the hum of the computer and the roar in my ears. Ms. Dixon has always been laid-back, open, someone I could easily confide in, but the way she avoids looking at me now . . .
“I saw the assignment, or I never would’ve—” I stop, grit my teeth. I’m mad at Gretchen, but this is my own fault. I let it happen. I was so careful until I got into Penn, and then I got lazy and let my guard down. “How bad is this? Could I—could they take away my scholarship?”
She puts her pen down. “I’ll get on the phone with the university and try to explain . . . but this is serious. It looks like the site was actually set up to accept payments.” She shakes her head and frowns. “Did you ever make a profit from it?”
“No. Of course not. I didn’t even know she’d made it functional.”
She exhales. “I’ll set up a meeting with the ethics teacher later this morning, though this is especially difficult with Gretchen—without her here to clear this up.” She picks up her phone, drumming purple nails on the edge of her desk. “I’m sure the people at Penn heard what happened . . . in the news.”
Minutes drag by. Ms. Dixon places calls, waits on hold, and I sit flashing hot and cold between rage and fear . . . until guilt takes over and the cycle starts again. Finally, Ms. Dixon gets through to the Penn admissions office, but she ends up getting voicemail and has to leave a message.
“Is there anything else we can do?” I ask.
“We’ll have to wait for a call back.” She reaches for a pad of paper to write me a pass. “I’ll get everything straight with Mr. Hanover and have you paged as soon as I know something.”
I bite my lip. “What if I go talk to them, in person? Would that help?”
She raises her eyebrows. “It might.”
It’s probably a dumb idea, but if it makes any difference pleading to the dean with my own eyes, I’ll do it.
I’ve got everything to lose.
I dig my nails into my legs, trying to remember Dina’s schedule. It’s almost four hours between here and Philadelphia. My mom would never let me go alone, but if I pick a day the diner is slow . . .
“How about Monday? Do you think someone would see me then?”
She purses her lips. “It’s short notice. And I’d have to excuse you from your classes . . . but I’ll find out.”
I look at the clock and stand abruptly, but hesitate in front of her desk.
Ms. Dixon waves me on. “There’s no sense waiting here, Sonia. Get to class. I’ll catch up with you once I know what’s going to happen.”
What’s going to happen. I pick up my backpack and head for the door, but my vision clouds in a rush of panic, betrayal—anger. Gretchen pushed and pried until I gave her those essays. And now she’s not even here to admit this is her fault. I swallow hard, shame rising in my throat, because it’s not like I can stay mad at her now. But it was set up three or four weeks ago—right after I chose Penn over Stanford. After she declared she’d keep us together.
“Sonia?” Ms. Dixon calls over my shoulder.
I look back.
“I’ll be damned if they take that scholarship from you. I don’t know anyone who deserves it more.”
My mind is completely preoccupied by the time I make it to my locker. I only notice Aisha and Derek making out in a doorway down the hall because Kip snaps their picture and they protest. Haley walks by and waves, but hurries past me into a classroom. Reva is kneeling in front of her locker, not looking at me. I’m vaguely aware that Kirsten’s not here—she’s been waiting in front of my locker the past two mornings—but all I can really think about is Penn. I’ve envisioned myself there so often, the future seems like a big blank hole without it. I barely notice the rectangular card that flutters to the floor when I open my locker until some well-intentioned guy from my gym class picks it up and hands it to me.