As I file out of the office, Mom’s arm proudly around my shoulder, my head hangs low. I don’t think I’ve ever felt worse.

“Are you ready for chow time?” Aimeigh bumps my shoulder with hers.

I realize I’ve just been standing by my locker, not even capable of turning the combination, of putting my copy of Ulysses away and grabbing my trig textbook for after lunch.

Thoughts keep tracking through my mind, like a playlist of two conflicting emotions set on repeat: anger that Tru would set me up like this and confusion over why he would take credit for it anyway. That sort of defeats the purpose of setting me up.

“Hey,” she says, ducking down to look into my eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“You saw it, right?” I ask.

She frowns. “Saw what?”

“The front of the school. The words in red plastic.”

“No clue what you’re— Oh.” Her mouth snaps shut as she figures out what I’m saying. She leans in close, whispers, “Did you—?”

“No!” I finally find the brainpower to open my locker. I punctuate each turn of the combination dial with a word. “I. Didn’t. Do it.”

The lock releases and I pull open the royal blue metal door.

“But Haverford called you in, right?” she asks. “I mean, you would have to be his first suspect.”

“I went in on my own,” I explain. “I told him I had nothing to do with it. He didn’t want to believe me.”

“But he did?” Aimeigh asks, sounding surprised.

I nod.

I’m still trying to figure out what to think.

“That’s a shocker.” She leans against the locker next to mine. “He’s not usually the type to trust so easily.”

I shook my head. “He didn’t believe me.”

“Then why—?”

I can hear the question she doesn’t want to finish. Then why are you out here in the hall, going to class, instead of standing expelled on the sidewalk with your tail between your legs?

“Tru,” I whisper. “He…confessed.”

“What?” Aimeigh jerks upright. “Tru confessed? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t…” I shake my head.

To be honest, I can’t wrap my mind around why he would confess. I would hardly blame him if he’d pulled off the copycat act to punish me. I deserve it, after how I treated him last week. But then why confess and save me from exactly what he wanted to happen? Guilt?

It doesn’t make any sense.

“Did he do it?” Aimeigh asks. “I mean, do you believe him?”

“I don’t know what to believe.” I wrap my fingers around my heavy chemistry textbook and pull it out. “He must have. I don’t know why he would say he did, if he didn’t.”

But then why did he confess? Especially considering how much shit he’s going to get from his parents over this. His dad is going to be furious.

“I can’t believe he—” Aimeigh throws her hands up in an inexplicable gesture. “That’s so un-Tru-like. His rebellions are more about his parents than school. I never thought he would…”

“I know,” I agree. “But I’m not sure what else to think. Who else could have done it?”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“My name wasn’t in the papers,” I explain. “The only people at NextGen who know about The Incident, besides Principal Ben and some of the staff, were you and Tru.”

Aimeigh puts her hands up. “Well it wasn’t me.”

“I know,” I say. “Why would you?”

Why would anyone? Aimeigh’s my friend, apparently my only friend. She has no reason to get me in trouble. At least Tru had a motive.

Aimeigh drums her fingers against my locker door.

“Wait, I know. That day you told me and Tru,” she says, “when I guessed at lunch, Jenna came up right after to call us to Mrs. K’s room. She must have overheard.”

I frown. “You really think Jenna might have done this?”

Jenna is a weird duck, to be sure, but rebellion doesn’t seem like her thing. Doing anything against school policy doesn’t seem like her thing.

“Why would she?” I ask.

Aimeigh shrugs. “Who knows why that freak does anything? Maybe she just wanted some attention. Or maybe she has it in for you?”

“I never did anything to her. It makes no sense.”

I try to imagine odd but seemingly nice enough Jenna, in her hideous orange sweater, climbing all over the school to recreate my art. And for no apparent reason whatsoever. I don’t get it.

“It makes more sense than Tru doing it,” Aimeigh argues. “Or me. You should go to Haverford, tell him that Jenna knows.”

I consider it. But I don’t have any proof that Jenna did it. I don’t even have any proof that she knows about The Incident.

All I have is Tru’s confession.

As much as it kills me to think so, I have to face the possibility that maybe he really did do it. Maybe he wanted to punish me for pushing him away. And maybe he felt too guilty to go through with it.

Even if my heart doesn’t want to believe it, that’s the only theory that makes sense.

At around two in the morning, my phone dings with a new text message from Tash. Seriously? At two in the morning? Which means it’s three in the morning back home.

After rolling over to snatch my phone off the nightstand, I hold it above my head.

Tash: Y rn’t u home yet?

Me: Me n mom made a deal. Home after 1st qtr

Tash: Not soon enuf. I miss my Sloanie

Me: I miss u 2

If she had to wake me up in the middle of the night, I’m glad it’s not because she’s still moping over Brice. Tash is still Tash, after all.

For a minute, I think that’s going to be the end of the conversation. I let the phone rest on my chest and close my eyes, drifting back into slumberland.

I’m just about back to the dream where Tru is standing on top of the school, holding a roll of red sheet plastic over his head and singing to me at the top of his lungs, when my phone rings.

“Hey, what’s up?” I ask, my voice rough and sleepy.

“Sloooaaaannnnne,” she wails into the phone.

But unlike the last time we talked, this isn’t the moaning wail of the brokenhearted. It’s the incoherent wail of the drunk.

Great.

After the day I had, I’m not in a mood to deal with wasted Tash.

“Call me when you’re sober,” I tell her.

“No, no, wait,” she begs. “Just wait.”

I do, holding the phone against my ear while I’m waiting for her to continue.

“Sloane?” she asks tentatively.

“I’m listening.”

“Oh, I thought you hung up.”

“Nope,” I say. “Still here.”

I switch over to speakerphone and let my hand drop to my side.

“When are you coming home?”

I sigh. “I told you. After first quarter.”

“No, you should come home now. I have to tell you about Mr. Noble.”

Since I don’t know Mr. Noble, I assume he’s Tash’s hot new painting teacher. I’ll be amazed if she hasn’t flirted herself to an A in the class already.

“I would if I could,” I tell her. “But you know Mom. I’m lucky I even got her to make this deal with—”

“No!” Drunk Tash turns petulant when she doesn’t get her way. “You come home now. I need you, so just tell her—” I’m not sure what pushes me over the edge. It could be the crappy day. Or the late hour. Or I could be just at the end of my rope when it comes to Tash.

Whatever the reason, I bolt up in bed, switch off speakerphone, and snap, “You know what? I’m sorry if my absence is inconvenient for you. But do you think I want to be here? Do you think I asked to be moved halfway across the country? Do you think I wanted to have an arrest on my permanent record?”

“No, but—”

“Ever since that night, my life has been pretty much shit,” I continue. I’m really on a roll now. “And I’m sorry that you don’t understand it, since you got off scot-free, but I actually do have to pay the price for what we did.”

“Sloane—”

“We couldn’t both be around the corner making out with the guy who was supposed to be mine.” I pace a pattern between my bed and the window. “But then I guess I actually owe you for that one, don’t I?”