Social Suicide (6 page)

Just in time to see the guy straighten up, turn away, and shove his hands back in his pockets.

“Hey!” Chase yelled. “Don’t move!”

Which, of course, the guy totally ignored. Instead, he spun around, took one look at Chase barreling down on him, and bolted, taking off in the direction of the choir portable at a dead run.

Chase didn’t miss a beat, running after the guy as he rounded the corner of the classroom.

I tottered after them as fast as I could, but actual running in three-inch heels and a tube dress was a total joke.

I came to the edge of the classroom and saw Chase still running after the guy. The other guy had a head start, but Chase was taller and easily gained on him. By the time they made it to the end of the line of portables, Chase was almost on top of him. I watched as he leaped forward, tackling the other guy from behind and bringing him crashing to the ground with a grunt.

I clacked forward on the blacktop with my heels, closing in on the pair as Chase flipped the guy over onto his back. It was dark back here, but the ambient glow from the stadium provided just enough light to make out his features as I got my first good look at the guy’s face. And realized it was one I knew well.

Chris Fret, the
HHH Homepage
’s sportswriter.

“NO FLUFFIN’ WAY!” I
yelled, disbelief hitting me as I finally caught up to the pair.

I’d known Chris since fifth grade, lived just two blocks away from him, and had spent every other afternoon with him at the paper for the last two months. While he was on the skinny side to actually play football, he knew the sport inside and out, and attended every single game for the paper. His commentary was smart, funny, and thorough, making it entertaining reading even for those of us who weren’t obsessed with stats and scores. Chris was a decent student, a nice guy, and an asset to the paper.

And the last person I would have expected to be selling cheats to the student body.

Chris blinked, his gaze going from Chase to me. “Guys?” he asked, confusion lacing his voice. “Dude, what’s goin’ on?”

“I should ask you the same thing,” Chase growled.

“Chris, how could you?” I asked, realizing I sounded frighteningly like my mom when she’d clucked her disappointed tongue at my less than stellar report card last semester.

“What?” he said, his eyes still bouncing back and forth. “How could I what?”

“Drop the act, Chris,” Chase told him. “We caught you selling them red-handed.”

“Dude, ‘selling’? What are you talking about?”

“You were picking up the payment,” I said.

Chris blinked. “I swear I wasn’t picking up anything.”

Chase gave him a hard stare then hauled him to his feet by his armpits. “You’d better start telling the truth or else . . .” he said, letting the rest of that threat hang in the air.

Chris made a small yipping sound in Chase’s grip. “Wait, you’ve got this all wrong. I’m innocent, I promise.”

“Then what the hell were you just doing?” Chase asked, his right hand still fisted in Chris’s shirt.

Chris licked his lips. “Okay, fine. Look, I was leaving payment under the rock.”

“Leaving payment?”

Chris nodded. “For the answers to Mrs. Perry’s chem quiz on Monday.”

Mental face palm. Chris wasn’t selling the cheats; he was buying them.

“The money was supposed to be under the rock before the game started, and the text said the answers would be there by halftime.”

“But the game’s already started,” I pointed out.

Chris shrugged sheepishly. “I’m a little late. I had to convince my dad to let me borrow the car first.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, and Chase leaned in with a growl. Chris yipped again.

“I’m telling the truth!”

“What are you doing buying answers, Chris?” Chase asked. “You want to get suspended, too?”

Chris’s cheeks tinged pink with guilt. “Look, you can’t tell anyone, okay? My dad threatened to take away my driving privileges if I didn’t keep my grades up. I’m totally failing chem, and if I don’t pass this quiz, I can say adios to my dad’s station wagon.”

“Ever heard of studying?” Chase asked.

Chris blinked at him. “Between being at all the games, and the paper, and my after-school job, I don’t have time to study!”

I rolled my eyes.

“Okay, then tell us this,” I asked. “Who are you buying the cheats from?”

Again he licked his lips. “I dunno. I never got the guy’s name.”

“How did you contact him?” Chase asked.

“Texts,” Chris said. “I asked around, and this senior gave me a phone number. I just texted the guy with what test answers I wanted, and he told me to drop the money here. He said he’d put the answers on a flash drive and swap it for the cash.”

In the distance, we could hear the sound of the crowd roaring. From the cheers, it sounded like HHH had made a touchdown. Chris looked from Chase to me.

“You have to believe me. I’m just an innocent consumer in all this.”

I shot him a look.
Innocent
was a relative word.

“There’s one way to prove that,” Chase said. “Empty your pockets.”

Chris nodded, then proceeded to turn the pockets of his jeans inside out for inspection. They were empty, as promised. The only things remaining in his sweatshirt pocket were his wallet (containing a student ID, a driver’s license, and three dollars in cash) and a set of keys attached to a chain with the eBay logo on it.

“See, I told you. I put the cash under the rock. I’m just the payer, not the payee.”

Chase didn’t answer. Instead, he kept one hand on Chris’s shirt as he led him back to the rock.

Whatever cash Chris had deposited was gone. In its place was a small black flash drive.

“He must have come and gone while we . . .” I looked at Chris.

“While we chased you down,” Chase finished, his teeth still gritted together.

“Sorry?” Chris said.

I felt my spirits sink as fast as my muddy heels when I realized I’d squatted in the bushes for nothing.

Chase picked up the drive, turning it over in his hands.

“These must be the test answers,” he said.

Chris reached out a hand to take the drive, but Chase quickly slipped it into his pocket.

“Oh, come on!” Chris protested.

But Chase got right up in his face, his voice low and menacing. “If you get caught cheating, not only are you going to be suspended, but I’m losing a staff member from my paper, which I cannot afford to have happen.”

Chris gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he took a small step backward.

But Chase wasn’t done with him. He took another step forward, his eyes narrowing. “So far, your only crime is being stupid enough to give this guy a wad of cash. Which means I have no reason to turn you in to the administration.”

Chris’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“But,” Chase continued, “if I find out that you have actually used stolen answers to cheat on a test? I have no choice but to tell the vice principal. Got it?”

Chris swallowed again. “Yeah,” he squeaked out, his voice an octave higher.

“Good.” Chase finally backed off. “Now you’d better get back to the game. Because I expect a finished article on our victory over Saratoga in my in-box first thing Monday morning.”

Chris nodded. “Yep. Right. Cool. I’m on it,” he said, then scuttled off toward the bright lights of the stadium.

I watched him go, feeling the disappointment of our busted evening.

“Now what do we do?” I asked. “We totally missed the guy selling cheats.”

“Now,” said Chase, “there’s only one thing left to do.”

I almost hated to ask. . . .

“What?”

“Set up a sting.”

“SO, HOW WAS THE DATE WITH CHASE?” SAM ASKED THE
next afternoon as she pulled her American Government book from her backpack.

“Stakeout,” I corrected, mirroring her actions and adding a notebook to the pile of studying materials on her bed.

“Bummer.” She paused. “Did Chase even mention your outfit?”

I fought down heat in my cheeks as I answered. “Yes. And I am never going out looking like that again.”

“Why? You looked hot.”

“I looked like a girl who thought she was going out with a guy and ended up on a stakeout, squatting in the mud in a pair of heels and smelling like jasmine! I felt ridiculous.”

“Oh.” Sam bit her lip. “Sorry. I was just kinda hoping you guys would get together.”

“God, why?” I asked, trying to ignore the blast of embarrassment still coursing through me.

Sam shrugged. “I know how uncomfortable you get around Kyle and me.”

I bit my lip. Was I that obvious? “You guys aren’t that bad.”

“I just thought it would be fun to double-date. Then maybe our kissing and stuff wouldn’t squick you out so much.”

“Thanks.” I shot her a smile. “But I’m not squicked. You guys are fine.”

“Cool,” she said, grinning back at me as she reached into a drawer in her desk and came out with a pencil, pad of paper, and an eraser, all in a matching purple desk set.

My school supplies, on the other hand, consisted of a beat-up spiral-bound notebook and a number two pencil with bite marks on the end.

While Sam is my best friend, her bedroom could not look more different from mine. My walls were a blank eggshell, the same color that had been there when Mom and I had moved in, and were covered in posters and photos ripped from fashion magazines. I had a corkboard tacked to the wall, where pictures of Sam and me were attached with different-colored tacks, and a full-length mirror on the other side of the room. I had a desk, somewhere, but it had been a while since I’d actually used it as a desk—more often it just doubled as a place to put clothes from the overflow of my closet. My bed was rarely made, school papers kind of lived where there was a surface to put them down, and the overall appearance was lived-in.

Sam’s room, in contrast, looked like an ad from Pottery Barn. The walls were pale violet, to go with the bedspread on her perfectly made bed, and all her furniture matched: a white clapboard look dominating the headboard, dresser, and desk. Above the desk in the corner was a board covered in quilted fabric with ribbons running diagonally across it to keep photos in place (a couple of them copies of the ones on my board at home), and every drawer, cubbyhole, and cupboard was perfectly ordered inside and out with organizers of every size.

And, for as much as Sam was into fashion, I didn’t see a stray piece of clothing anywhere.

Sam was like my tidy evil twin.

I shifted on her bed, almost afraid to make a wrinkle as I flipped my binder open to my American Government notes.

“So how did the stakeout go?” Sam asked.

“Terrible.” I shoved my book bag onto the floor then filled Sam in on the Chris fiasco.

“And by the time we got back to the rock,” I finished, “the cash was gone. We’d totally missed him.”

“Wow,” Sam said, shaking her head. “Chris Fret. I never would have figured him for a cheater. He always seemed so . . . normal.”

“Yeah, well, apparently ‘normal’ also means too busy to study for a quiz.”

“You know,” Sam said, scrunching up her face, “it’s totally unfair to those of us who are struggling to get those good grades. I mean, take this American Government midterm we have coming up. How many people do you think already have the answers to that? Mr. Bleaker grades on a curve, you know. Those cheaters are ruining the curve for the rest of us.”

I had to agree—it sucked big elephant balls.

“Not only that,” Sam went on, “but we have to compete against these cheaters to get into good colleges. Chris is my Stanford competition. How can I compete with someone who’s buying all the fudging answers?”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “‘Fudging’?”

“What? You liked ‘fluffin’’ better?”

I shrugged. “Either way, I don’t think Chris is much competition for you, stolen answers or no,” I said, recalling our encounter.

“So, what do we do now?” Sam asked.

“Well . . .” I hedged. “Chase had an idea last night.”

“What?” Sam asked.

“He thought we should set up a sting. Try to catch the guy in action again.”

Sam nodded. “Sounds like a reasonable plan.”

“Only, we’re going to need someone to contact him about getting test answers.”

“Right.”

“And it can’t be me or Chase because everyone already knows we’re working on the story for the paper.”

“True.”

“So we’re going to need a third person to make the contact with the guy selling cheats.”

“Good point. But it could be hard to find someone willing to do that.”

I stared pointedly at Sam.

She blinked back at me. “What?”

I bit my lip and stared some more.

Realization slowly dawned behind her brown eyes. “Oh no. Oh, no way, Hartley. I am not going to be your bait!”

“Please, Sam,” I pleaded. “You’re perfect. Everyone knows how grade-driven you are, and you said yourself that we’re in trouble with the midterm coming up in American Government.”

Sam shook her head so violently that her blond hair whipped at her cheeks. “No way. Big capital N-O. What if I get caught? Teachers are totally looking for cheaters now with the whole Sydney thing. I cannot get caught cheating!”

“You won’t get caught,” I assured her. “You’re not actually going to cheat. We’re just buying the answers. Heck, you won’t even see the answers. If all goes well, we’ll catch this guy in the act of grabbing the money before he even has a chance to drop the flash drive.”

Sam bit her lip. “This feels like a really bad idea, Hartley.”

My turn to shake my head. “No. It feels like a really good story. A good story that I need to jump on now before someone else does,” I said, remembering Ashley’s total ton of hits. “And one that no one else is pursuing because everyone thinks Sydney killed herself. Her killer’s going to go free to commit Twittercide again unless we figure out who he is,” I pointed out, trying to butter her up with her own phrase. “Please, Sam. For Sydney?”

Sam clenched her jaw. Then she finally threw her hands up. “Okay, fine. I’ll be your bait.”

“Thank you!” I squealed, coming in for a hug.

“But,” she said quickly, “if I get caught, I’m so pulling a Sydney and ratting you out to save my own GPA.”

I nodded. “Deal. Fine. You rock, Sam.”

“Yeah,” she said, grabbing her cell phone. “Let’s just hope I don’t rock it all the way to fudging suspension. What’s the guy’s number?”

I rattled off the digits that I’d extracted from Chris last night and watched as Sam punched them into her phone.

“What should I say?” Sam asked, turning to me.

“Hmm.” I thought a second. “Say that you got his number from a friend.”

Sam nodded, texting as I dictated.

“And that you have too many honors classes to keep up right now. You need the answers to Bleaker’s American Government midterm.”

I watched Sam’s thumbs fly across the mini keyboard as the words appeared on the small screen. I reread it over her shoulder, then we hit Send.

“How long do you think it will take to hear back?” Sam asked.

I shrugged. “Let’s hope not long.”

We settled in to do our American Government homework together (if we weren’t really going to cheat, we did really need to study) and waited, Sam checking her phone every couple of minutes to make sure we hadn’t missed him.

About twenty minutes later, just as we were going over the checks and balances system, Sam’s cell buzzed. We both jumped off the bed and dove for it. The text was from our mystery cheat seller, and Sam quickly opened it, both of us reading off the screen.

$50. drop under rock by mascot room friday b4 game. answers will b there @ 1/2time.

I shook my head. “We can’t wait that long. The midterm’s Friday. Tell him you need the answers today in order to have time to memorize them for the test.”

Sam complied, texting back. She hit Send and we both waited, staring at the blank screen. Three minutes later, a response buzzed in. Sam punched it open and we leaned forward to read the message.

2 soon. need more time

I pursed my lips together. “Tell him you’ll pay double for a rush job.”

Sam raised her eyebrows at me. “And where are we going to get a hundred bucks?”

“Don’t worry about that. Just type it.”

She shrugged, then did.

will pay $100 for answers 2day

A minute later, our response came in:

2morrow. oakridge mall. 1pm. $100 under the kangaroo’s paw at the kids playland.

Yes!

Commence Operation Stakeout: the Sequel.

By the time Sam and I finished studying and I walked the mile and a half from her place to my house, it was starting to get dark. I found Mom at the kitchen table once again, laptop open, eyes glued to the screen.

“Hey, Hartley,” she said, still not looking up. “That you?”

“Yeah.” I dropped my book bag on the floor and followed the scents of dinner into the kitchen. “What’s cooking?” I pulled the top off a pot on the back stove burner, leaning in to smell.

“Lentil and quinoa stew,” Mom answered.

I wrinkled my nose, wondering what the chances were I could sneak a pizza upstairs instead.

“Hey, come look at this guy on Match and tell me what you think.”

Oh boy. I could tell her what I thought without looking—nothing good could come of Mom internet dating.

“Uh, wow. You know I have a lot of studying to do. . . .”

“I thought you were studying at Sam’s.”

“I have a lot more studying to do.”

“This will only take a sec,” Mom said, hailing me over. “Come look at this guy’s profile.”

Clearly I was not getting out of this, so I did glance at the screen. In the upper left-hand corner was a picture of a guy with graying hair and kind of a crooked smile. He was standing on the beach with a yellow dog next to him.

“What do you think?” Mom asked.

I shrugged. “He seems kinda old, doesn’t he? I mean, gray hair?”

“He’s not that old,” Mom said, cocking her head to the side. “He’s just a little salt and pepper. And his profile sounds very nice,” she said, indicating the paragraph of description under the “about me” section.

I scrolled down. “He says he likes long walks on the beach,” I read, rolling my eyes. “Cheesy.”

“What’s wrong with the beach? I like the beach,” Mom said.

I frowned at her. “And ‘holding hands at sunset’ and ‘candlelit dinners.’”

“So?”

“Mom! How cliché is that?”

“It’s not cliché,” she argued. “It’s romantic.”

I made a fake gagging motion.

“All right, enough. Don’t you have studying to do?” Mom said, making a shooing motion at me.

Thank God for midterms.