His office is located in the administration building just outside the chapel. My heart is thundering, my palms sweaty as I make my way out the door and along the windy gravel path. The gardens on either side are beautiful, carefully manicured, and filled with late winter flowers like daffodils, California golden currants, and fragrant rosemary. The sun is shining, and the air is perfumed with sweetness. I’m nervous, but not overly so.
Not until I knock on the man’s door and hear a gruff invitation from the other side.
Vice Principal Paul Castor is in his late fifties, early sixties with graying hair, a short beard and mustache, and arms thick from strenuous workouts. Sometimes I see him jogging around campus after school and on weekends. He lives on the Burberry Prep campus, several miles down the road in the staff housing.
“Come in and take a seat, Miss Reed,” he says, his voice hard. The way his gray-blue eyes track me, I know right away I’m in trouble. He’s staring at me like I’ve already done something wrong, and he’s simply deciding on the correct form of punishment.
I do as he asks, folding my skirt underneath my thighs, and doing my best not to think about Tristan’s hands roaming around down there. As soon as that thought enters my mind, a hot flush comes to my cheeks, and I have to swallow around a lump in my throat.
Last night, I had a three hour texting conversation with Lizzie about Tristan. The way she talks about him, you’d think he walked on water. She actually likes the guy. When I tried asking her how she felt about breaking up with him, she waited almost a half an hour before texting me back.
If I had any other choice, I’d still be with them.
And what sort of answer is that?
“Miss Reed,” Mr. Castor repeats, folding his hands on the top of his desk. He stares me down like we’re in an interrogation room. “Do you know why I called you here?” I shake my head, but I’m still all jumbled up with thoughts of Tristan, so it’s hard to force my mouth to speak coherent thoughts. “We’ve received almost two dozen complaints from students across all four years here at Burberry Prep, that you’ve been selling your services.”
My mouth drops open, and my cheeks flame red.
Services … as in … does Mr. Castor think I’m a Working Girl from the Brothel, too?
“Homework, essays, answers to test,” he continues, and I almost breathe a sigh of relief. Oh, those sorts of services. But then I realize the implications present in that. Over two dozen complaints?! “The accusations have come from students with very credible reputations, and we need to take them seriously.”
“As seriously as you took the accusations about my out of control drinking?” I snap, a high note of panic in my voice. Mr. Castor looks chagrined, and sighs.
“Look, I understand you’ve been having trouble fitting in, but two dozen complaints is too many. Miss Reed, you are talented and bright, but unless there’s some secret coup against you then—”
“There is a secret coup!” I shout. I don’t mean to raise my voice, but I’m starting to panic here. My hands curl into fists in the red pleats of my skirt.
“We have proof, copies of identical homework assignments with your handwriting on them.”
My brows crinkle up, but I can’t figure out how exactly they swung that one.
“Can I see these copies?” I ask, because I know if I take a look at them, then I’ll be able to determine if it really is my handwriting. Mr. Castor gives me a tight half-smile and opens a folder on his desk, passing over a sheet of paper that most definitely has my writing on it. The only difference is that the name’s been changed. Two minutes with Photoshop could fix that. I wrack my brain as I stare at the sheet of paper, and then it all clicks.
My locker, the day my panties were stolen. I had this exact assignment in there, and when I couldn’t find it, I just asked our Japanese teacher, Mrs. Suzuki—Suzuki Sensei—for another one.
“We have four students who turned this in as proof, another dozen with identical math homework, and so on. Miss Reed, if you confess right now and give up the names of all the students involved, we’ll make the punishment light. After all, buying these services is nearly as bad as selling them, and we can’t exactly expel over two dozen students.” He sighs and sits back in his chair. “We’ll start with a two week suspension wherein you’ll return home, but take your schoolwork with you. Any assignment that’s been copied will have a grade of zero, and you’ll lose your place in the student rankings.”
My heart turns to ice and plummets into my stomach, shattering to pieces. I clamp my hand over my mouth and feel so sick that I’m not sure I’ve even got the strength to stand up and make it over to one of the potted plants in the corner. I’ve been working hard, so fucking hard.
