CHAPTER 2
The high from the margin note lasted exactly four days.
It was a secret warmth in my chest during a dull history lecture, a private smile during a brutal calculus quiz. In English class, I didn't dare look at her for more than a second. But sometimes, I'd catch her gaze steady, with a faint, knowing curve to her lips. A silent conversation.
Then, on Friday, the hammer fell.
The email arrived just after the final bell: URGENT: Academic Integrity Review.
My blood turned to ice. Plagiarism. 94% match. My essay on Gatsby. It was impossible. Every word was mine.
Panic sharpened into a single, desperate point: my scholarship. Zero tolerance. This was the end.
I ran to Room 214. The door was closed. I raised my hand to knock.
And I heard voices. Angry, hushed.
"...crossing a line, Claire. Everyone sees it." Mr. Briggs. The math teacher. His tone was a low growl.
I froze, my knuckles an inch from the wood.
The other voice was calm, but strained. "I don't know what you're talking about, David." Miss Hart.
"You smile at him. You keep him after class. You think we're all blind?" A cold feeling, worse than the plagiarism panic, slithered into my stomach. Him. They were talking about me.
"He's a gifted student who needs guidance," she shot back, a defensive edge in her voice. "That's my job."
"Your job isn't to look at him like he's the only person in the room. I've seen you. It's inappropriate. Dangerous. For him and for you."
My face burned. I'd imagined the connection, the secret understanding. But if Briggs saw it… who else did?
"Is that a threat, David?" Her voice was ice now.
"It's a warning. From a colleague. End it. Distance yourself. Or I'll take my concerns to Greeley." The sound of a chair scraping. "He's a kid, Claire. Don't ruin your career."
I couldn't breathe. He made it sound so cheap. So small. It wasn't small. It was the biggest, most terrifying feeling I'd ever had.
Footsteps moved toward the door. I stumbled back, my bag hitting a locker with a loud, echoing CLANG.
The voices inside stopped dead.
The door swung open. Mr. Briggs stood there, his face flushed with anger. Miss Hart was behind him at her desk. Her eyes, wide and green, met mine. In them, I didn't see guilt. I saw fear. Not fear of being caught,It was fear for me.
"Leo," Mr. Briggs said, his voice tight. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Just… just got here," I mumbled, staring at the floor.
He didn't believe me. He looked from me to Miss Hart and back, his expression hardening into a grim conclusion. "Detention is in the library today. Go. Now."
I turned and walked away quickly, my hands shaking. The hallway tilted. The plagiarism email was a professional death sentence. But Briggs's words were a personal one. They poisoned the secret.
I was almost to the library when a soft voice called my name.
"Leo. Wait."
I turned. Miss Hart hurried toward me, her heels clicking on the tile. She looked composed, but her hands were clasped tightly.
"Leo, what you heard…" she began, her voice low. She glanced over her shoulder. The hall was empty. "Mr. Briggs is wrong. He's misreading a professional interest. I need you to understand that."
I just nodded. The words 'professional interest' stung. Was that all it was?
She took a deep breath. "I got the plagiarism alert. I know about your essay."
The two horrors collided.
"I believe you didn't cheat, Leo." Her eyes held mine, pleading for me to believe her. "The system flagged it, but I know your voice. This is a mistake."
The relief was so potent it made me dizzy. She believed me.
"But the committee won't," she continued, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "They'll revoke your scholarship. Unless…" She hesitated, wrestling with something. "Unless I can submit a reassessment. Based on supplementary work. An independent project."
Another secret. "What project?"
She bit her lip, a gesture so un-teacher-like it shocked me. "I… I need a favor. A personal one. My car. It won't start in the east lot. Could you look at it? You're good with engines, right?"
The shift was so jarring I just stared. A car? Now?
"It's just… I'm stranded. And I can't ask…" She trailed off, her meaning clear. She couldn't ask another teacher. Not with Briggs watching. She was asking me. Using the plagiarism as leverage for a personal, secret favor.
It felt wrong. But her fear was real. And she held my future in her hands.
"Okay," I said.
"Meet me there. Four-thirty." She gave me a small, worried smile. "Please, Leo. Don't tell anyone."
She turned and walked away, her arms wrapped around herself.
I stood there, frozen. A teacher was asking me for a secret favor. A teacher who was just accused of paying too much attention to me.
At 4:30, I went to the east lot. Her silver car was the only one there. The hood was already up.
She stood beside it, hugging herself. "Thank you for coming."
I walked to the front of the car, my mind racing. I leaned in to check the battery. The connections were fine. I looked at the engine. Everything was normal.
Then I saw it. Tucked behind the battery, wrapped in black plastic. It wasn't a car part.
I reached in and pulled it out. A small, cheap phone. The kind you buy with cash.
I held it up and looked at her.
Her face went white. All the color drained away.
"That's not mine," she whispered.
Before I could speak, the phone in my hand buzzed. A text flashed on the screen.
Unknown Number: You have something I want, Claire. Tell the boy to stay out of it. Or his scholarship disappears.
I looked from the phone to Miss Hart's terrified face.
The phone buzzed again. A picture came through. It was a photo of me. Walking into school this morning. A red circle was drawn around my head.
Another text: Clock's ticking.
The world stopped. The plagiarism, Briggs's warning, the secret favor it all crashed together into this single, terrifying point. This wasn't about a car. It wasn't about an essay.
This was about a secret. And I was now holding it in my hand.
And again it just dawn on me that all these is coming from one person.