The camera catches every detail.

“That bitch,” I mutter.

Jenna smiles. “Told you.”

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go confront our saboteur.”

“Saboteur?” Jenna asks, amused.

I shrug. “I’m feeling very French spy today.”

She smiles. “Me too.”

I smile back. Jenna may be a bit of an odd duck, but she has a good heart. And that counts for a lot.

We meet Aimeigh on the sidewalk between Buildings D and E. At first she looks surprised to see us—maybe shocked to see us together—but she recovers quickly.

“Hey, found it.” She waves the tablet up for me to see. “I was bringing it to you. You didn’t have to meet me.”

“I thought we were friends,” I accuse.

She jerks back. “We are.”

“Then we have very different definitions of what that means.”

“Sloane, what’s going on?” she asks, her fake concern almost believable.

“Cut the crap, Aimeigh,” I say. “We just watched you delete my portfolio from my tablet.”

“What?” She sounds stunned. “No, I—”

Jenna opens her laptop, holds it facing out so Aimeigh can see the screen still open to the webcam. Still transmitting the very spot where she just committed her act of sabotage.

She scowls. “What is this?”

“This,” Tru says, walking up behind her from the other direction—with Principal Ben at his side, “is getting evidence that you’re the one who set up Sloane.”

“That you stole my sketchbook,” Jenna adds.

“And got Jaq and Mira booted.” I can’t believe I actually trusted her. “Heck, you probably gave Liza’s computer a virus and convinced Hannah to drop out of class, too. Did you blackmail her?”

“You guys don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aimeigh says, her voice high with desperation. “Principal Haverford, you have to believe me. I had nothing to do with any of that.”

Principal Ben gives her a disappointed grimace. “I watched the feed, Aimeigh. I saw you delete Sloane’s files.”

She stands there, shocked and affronted-looking. Then something cracks. Her demeanor changes instantly from wrongfully accused to crying out for sympathy.

“You don’t understand,” she says. “I need that scholarship. There’s no other way I’ll be able to afford college. I’m desperate.”

Is that even the truth?

Tears start down her cheeks and, if my eyes weren’t wide open, I might have thought they were believable. But now I can see the real Aimeigh lurking beneath the pathological surface. Even if it is true, even if she is sorry and desperate, that doesn’t excuse what she did.

“It doesn’t give you the right to ruin someone’s life.” I shake my head.

She turns to me. “What’s the harm?” she cries. “You didn’t get in any real trouble.” She flicks her gaze at Tru. “Either of you.”

Beneath the tears and the desperation, there is a shadow of bitterness. Of jealousy. Almost like she believes we deserved to get in trouble. Almost like she’s angrier that we didn’t than that she got caught.

How had I not seen this? Had I been so glad to have a friend that I didn’t see what lurked beneath her surface?

I won’t make that mistake again, either.

“Other girls got in trouble,” I say. “Other girls got hurt.”

“Aimeigh, you’ll have to come with me,” Principal Ben says.

She turns to him, gets a bit of a wild look in her eyes, like she wants to bolt.

“Please,” he says, “don’t make me get security.”

All of the fight drains out of her.

We stand there, watching, half in shock, as she follows Principal Ben toward Building A. This whole experience is kind of surreal. Like a bad movie.

“Did that just happen?” I ask.

“I can’t believe she went for it,” Tru says. “How did you know she would?”

I shrug. “If she really was guilty, she would have seen our setup as the chance to get rid of two birds with one action.”

“How so?” Jenna asks.

“Well, she could ruin my chances by deleting the portfolio,” I explain. “And since you would have been the one to—quote—find my tablet, she could blame you for deleting it.”

“Devious,” Tru says.

“She had already planted the idea with me that Jenna was the one who set me up with the vandalism.” And I almost fell for it. “I need to apologize to you, Jenna. For even thinking you might be guilty without any evidence.”

She frowns at me, like she’s confused by my apology. “You had no reason not to trust her. She was your friend.”

Was being the operative word.

It was stupid of me to believe the worst of her just because of Aimeigh’s say-so. I won’t make that mistake again.

“Well, I’m still sorry,” I say.

She beams. “Apology accepted.” She jerks a hand back over her shoulder. “Now, I’m going to get back to class before the project is decided without me.” She turns and hurries down the sidewalk.

Tru and I follow behind at a more leisurely pace. And a more roundabout route.

“So…” I say, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jeans.

Tru nudges my shoulder with his. “So…”

The tingles are back.

“I guess I should thank you,” I say.

“What for?”

“If you hadn’t confessed, I’d have been out of NextGen so fast no one would have ever wondered why all the girls in AGD were dropping like flies.”

He laughs. “You New Yorkers and your colorful language.”

“We have to get our color somewhere,” I say, nodding down at my all-black outfit.

In a rare moment of seriousness, he shrugs. “I couldn’t let you go out like that.”

We walk a few more paces in silence. A comfortable quiet, like most of our car rides. I’ve missed this. It’s amazing how, in such a short amount of time, he’s become a touchstone in my world. Just walking side-by-side with Tru makes everything feel right.

And there’s something more there, too. Something I didn’t realize before. Working with Tru to catch Aimeigh showed me what a great team we make. Not just where we’re sparring with words or swapping stories about crappy home lives, but actually working together toward a goal.

It’s like what I said in senior seminar, that art is about connection. Tru and I have a connection. We are a connection. So, in a way, we are art.

That thought kind of blows my mind.

My fingers itch to reach for his hand, to make that tangible, physical connection, but I’m not sure if we’re all the way back to okay yet.

“Does this mean you’re back to hauling me to and from school?” I ask. “Because I’m not sure I can survive many more commutes with my mom.”

He throws me a sideways grin. “I might be convincible.”

I smile back. “I have cookies.”

“What kind?”

“Oatmeal raisin?”

He scoffs. “A bullshit cookie.”

“Why bullshit?”

“Cookies are supposed to be unhealthy.” He makes a grand sweeping gesture. “That’s practically like eating a bran muffin.”

“Okay…” I mentally scan the shelves of our pantry. “Oreos?”

“Now that’s a cookie.”

“Technically, a cookie sandwich,” I correct.

“Touché.”

Tru opens the door to Building E and we start down the hall toward senior seminar. We’ve taken as much of a roundabout route as we can without leaving school property.

“Want to meet me on the roof tonight?” I ask. “After the week we’ve had, I think we’ve earned an entire package of Oreos.”

“That depends.” He stops just outside the senior seminar classroom, leans up against the wall.

I can hear voices inside, where our classmates are already discussing the group project. I’m in no hurry to join the conversation. I’m pretty happy right where I am.

I mirror his leaning stance.

“Depends on what?” I ask.

There’s that cocky grin. “Do you have milk?”

I make a face. “I think my mom has some soy milk.”

“A bullshit milk,” he teases, but his gaze lowers to the floor. “What will your mom think about me coming over?”

I see through the cracks in his cocky, couldn’t-care-less facade. It really hurt him when I said Mom wouldn’t approve, that I couldn’t see him anymore because it might cost me New York. My chest tightens, and I wish I could take that all back.