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  I can no longer hear Byron humming in his office, or footsteps, or anything over the blood pounding in my ears. Six bottles. Even if three of them went to Ariel and Devon and Zoe, and one went to me, that would mean there are still two doses of the serum that haven’t been accounted for. At least two more doses. There could be more briefcases, more bottles. There’s no way to know for sure.

  The closet door swings open, and I flinch, biting back a scream. The briefcase topples off my lap and hits the floor with a thud.

  Zoe narrows her black eyes. “What are you doing? Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Is he gone?” I crawl out of the closet and push myself to my feet.

  “He went to the bathroom, I think. But he’ll be back soon.” Zoe glances longingly at the computer. “Damn. If we had a few more minutes, I know we’d find something.”

  “We did.” I pick up the briefcase, letting it fall open so Zoe can see the spaces in the foam.

  Her eyes go wide. “You think that was for the serum?”

  I snap the briefcase closed. “If it was, then at least two doses haven’t been accounted for.”

  A door opens and closes somewhere in the basement, the sound echoing down the hallway. Zoe crosses the office silently and pushes the door open a crack.

  “Still clear,” she says. “But we should get out of here before he comes back.”

  I shove the briefcase into the closet, and we sneak out of the office, down the hall, and up the stairs. Zoe doesn’t say another word until we’ve reached the main floor. The corridors are already crowded with students making their way to the first classes of the day. We must’ve missed the bell.

  “Should we go to the dean?” I ask in a low voice.

  Zoe shakes her head, hooking an arm through mine. “I have an idea,” she says, steering me away from the throng of people.

  “Hello? We have homeroom.”

  “We’re not going. Think about this: How did I figure out you’d taken the serum?”

  “I kicked your ass at fencing and you made a lucky guess?”

  Zoe tightens her grip, making all the little tendons in my elbow pinch together. “Exactly. If we want to know where the rest of the serum went, we just need to figure out if there are any other Weston students kicking ass. Easy, right?”

  We stop in front of the school library. A brass chandelier winks behind the glass doors.

  “The latest sports scores are all listed on Weston’s website,” I point out. “We don’t have to skip class—I can check them on my phone during first period.”

  Zoe peers through the glass doors, probably looking for Ms. Stotchky, the librarian. “We’re going to need a lot more than that. Weston is a good school—it’s not surprising when we win things. We need to find someone who was mediocre and isn’t anymore. And I don’t think we should limit our search to sports. We should look at anyone who’s shown a sudden improvement in anything, from academics to … personal hygiene.”

  “Caitlyn Lee got a nose job.”

  Zoe scowls. “This is serious. Are you in?”

  There are only a few days left before the Med Center gala. Mother will be back in town soon, and if she finds out that I’ve skipped another class, I’m done here. Forever.

  But this is why I came back, I remind myself. Staying at Weston shouldn’t matter anymore.

  I nod and follow Zoe through the heavy library door and over to one of the study tables near the back of the room. The towering stacks of books block these tables from view, and Ms. Stotchky would never wander far enough from the front desk to catch us here without a pass. I drop my stuff onto a chair and slide a laptop across the polished wood table, hitting the track pad with one finger. The screen blinks to life, Weston’s website staring back at me.

  “I’ll start with the recent stuff and work back,” I say, sliding into a chair. “You start old and work up. We can meet in the middle. Sound good?”

  Zoe slides into the chair next to mine. “Let’s do it.”

  We work in silence. I click on the link marked “Recent Stats” and start reading through our sports scores. “Boys’ Basketball Beat Dalton High 50–19.” “Girls’ Squash Beat Browning 7–0.” “Varsity Wrestling Placed in the Regional Qualifier.”

  The results go on like this for pages and pages. My eyes glaze over as I try to find a pattern. After a while, I click over to the “News” section, where we list recent academic achievements. It’s not much better. “Weston Wins Best Delegation at Princeton Model Congress.” “Weston Weekly Selected Best in Show by NSPA Student Press.” “Monica Donovan Named USEF Junior Equestrian of the Year.” Etc., etc., etc.

  I close my eyes to give them a break from the glare of the computer screen. Stats and headlines flash across my closed lids. Best, won, placed, scored. We win again and again and again. That’s the only pattern I see.

  “Find anything?” Zoe asks after we’ve been at it for hours. Or what feels like hours. I shake my head, and she sighs. “Me neither. Everyone at Weston is already the best. It’s ridiculous.” She closes her laptop and leans back in her chair. “What’s that phrase? This is like trying to find a needle in hay?”

  “Haystack,” I correct her. She wrinkles her nose.

  “That makes no sense. Who goes around dropping needles in hay? When was that ever a problem?”

  “I don’t think—”

  Zoe suddenly sits up straight, her eyes widening. “Oh.”

  She stands and starts sticking notebooks into her bag.

  “Are you leaving?” I ask.

  She glances back at me, like she’d forgotten I was still sitting there. “I … well, I think I have an idea—but I’m not sure if … No. I need to check something out first.”

  “But what—”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” she says, hurrying into the stacks. I stand and, for a second, I consider chasing after her and forcing her to tell me what just happened. But she’s already gone. Sighing, I sink back into my chair, my eyes shifting to the glowing computer screen on the table in front of me. The headlines blur together. I close my eyes. I can’t stand to look at them anymore.

  Like finding a needle in hay indeed.

  I go to a few of my afternoon classes, hoping Zoe will be in our dorm when I get back. No such luck. The only thing waiting for me is a padded envelope with a Japanese return label. I drop my bag onto my bed and rip the envelope open. A tangle of black wires falls out.

  It’s the charger I ordered for Ariel’s mystery phone. Finally. I dig out the nondescript black cell from the rip in my mattress where I’d been hiding it and plug it in.

  “Come on,” I mutter, pressing my thumb into the power button. I stare at the black screen. Seconds tick by. Nothing happens.

  I hit the power button again, and the phone makes a beeping sound, but the screen stays blank. I wait a few seconds, and then try again—the same thing happens. Something inside the phone seems to be working, but water damage is keeping the screen from functioning properly. Damn, damn, damn.

  I briefly consider throwing the phone against the wall, but that’s not going to make Ariel’s video play. I press it between the palms of my hands, a string of profanity echoing in my head.

  It beeps again—more insistently this time—and I jerk my head toward the screen before realizing the beep came from my phone, not Ariel’s. Groaning, I dig the cell out of my pocket and check the screen.

  Jack. You around? Meet me after practice? It’s after four. Track practice only lasts for another twenty minutes or so. I cast one last glance at Ariel’s malfunctioning phone, but there’s nothing I can do with it now.

  Be there in 5, I type back, grabbing my coat.

  It’s too cold for the track team to practice outside, so they’re in the gymnasium today. Hurdles stand at intervals around the track while Jack and his teammates line up at one end, crouched in low lunges as they wait for the coach to blow his whistle. I duck through the doors and up the stairs, finding my usual
spot in the bleachers. Jack sees me and nods, his hands propped on either side of his front foot.

  I smile and wave. I haven’t been to one of Jack’s practices since before Ariel died. I keep expecting her to push through the double doors and drop onto the bench next to me. My smile suddenly feels fake. I dig my cell out of my pocket so that I have something to do with my hands.

  I pull up a browser and search for “cell water damage fix.” The coach blows his whistle, and the gym is filled with the sound of squeaking sneakers and panting. A hurdle or two smacks to the ground, but I don’t bother looking up. I scroll through the results on my phone. Everyone seems to agree that I’m screwed. Water damage can’t be fixed. Buy a new phone. Good luck with that. Triple shit.

  The coach blows his whistle again. “Looking good, Calhoun!”

  I glance up and see Jack panting and high-fiving his teammates. Maybe my brain is skewed from studying stats and records all morning, but that seemed fast. And when did Jack ever beat someone at hurdling?

  A sick feeling floods my stomach.

  The coach has the hurdlers line up again. Jack crouches into place, his hands to either side of his front foot. He stares straight ahead, eyes narrowed in concentration. I scoot to the edge of the bench, both hands gripping the wood beneath me.

  The coach blows his whistle again.

  The hurdlers are off. Jack clears the first hurdle, and the second. I’ve never seen him leap like that before. There could be springs attached to his sneakers. Back when Ariel and I used to watch practice, he was always the slowest runner. It took him twice as long as everyone else to get around the track.

  Now he pulls ahead of the others easily, and then he’s jumping over the fourth hurdle and the fifth, never slowing, never showing any sign of fatigue. His back foot clears the top of the hurdle by several inches. Is that normal? It looks strange. Superhuman. I consider looking up pictures of other hurdlers online, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Jack. He has one hurdle left, and then he’s jogging to a stop and the coach is blowing his whistle. The others have barely made it halfway around the track. He’s won again. He never wins.

  I think of the six empty spaces in the foam walls of the briefcase. Six doses of serum. A snatch of conversation whispers at the back of my head.

  You think we’re going to die?

  I don’t know what I think.

  I curl my fingers around the edge of my seat. Jack glances up at me again and winks, but I can’t bring myself to smile or wave or do anything but stare.

  Jack took the serum. Jack is going to die.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I head for the boys’ dorms instead of waiting for Jack at the locker room. He’s always surrounded by teammates after practice. I need to talk to him alone.

  I huddle in the trees outside his window, shivering, as I wait for a light to flick on. I used to come here at night with Ariel. She’d knock on Jack’s window and slip him a note or a good-night kiss while I hovered behind her, waiting to walk her back to our room so she didn’t have to brave the woods alone. I’d pretend I didn’t hear them whispering and giggling. I’d tell myself I wasn’t jealous. Now it’s just me and I’d give anything to have her standing beside me. I wrap my arms around my chest, bouncing impatiently on my toes.

  A light switches on, glowing gold between the slats in Jack’s blinds. I rise to my tiptoes and knock on the cool glass. The blinds move, and Jack’s hand appears to push them aside. He frowns when he sees me.

  “Hey!” he says, grunting as he pushes the window open. “I thought you were going to meet me after practice.”

  “I …” Someone laughs inside his room. I hesitate, imagining one of his teammates lounging inside.

  “Charlotte?” Jack glances over his shoulder and then shakes his head. “It’s just my laptop. I’m alone.”

  “Oh.” I try not to let the relief show in my face. “Can I come in?”

  The skin between Jack’s eyes creases. Girls aren’t allowed in the boys’ dorms under any circumstances. Being found means automatic expulsion for both parties. Even Ariel only came as far as the window.

  But the concern leaves Jack’s face, and he leans out his window, reaching for my arm. “Here,” he says.

  I grab hold of his shoulder, and Jack wraps his arm around my waist, hoisting me up with a grunt. I wedge my free hand against the sill and pull myself inside.

  I’ve never been in his room before. I take a moment to notice all the small things that make up his space. The plaid comforter, and the balled-up socks on the floor, and the framed photographs of his family and friends sitting on his dresser. I don’t know a single other boy our age who has actual photographs printed out and framed, but it seems oddly fitting for Jack. A sweet kind of rebellious.

  A photograph near the back of the dresser catches my eye. It’s a picture of Ariel and me from freshman year, grinning at the camera like fools. Our heads are pressed together, our cheeks side by side. We’ve never looked anything alike, but in this picture, we could be sisters. We could be two halves of the same person.

  I turn my back on the photograph. “Look,” I say, “I wanted to ask you about—”

  Jack’s lips are on mine before I finish my sentence. His mouth is warm and tastes like sweat. His hands wrap around my waist.

  I lean away from him. “Jack—”

  “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he murmurs, kissing me again. He pulls me closer, but I press my hands against his chest.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say, stopping him.

  He frowns. “It can’t wait?”

  I shake my head. Jack drops his hands, but he doesn’t seem to want to move away. He leans over me, his broad chest rising and falling beneath a thin white T-shirt. He’s still pink-cheeked from track, and his hair is wet and slicked back from his face. All Weston dorms are small, but his seems too small to hold us both at the same time. The walls have shifted closer. The ceiling is only inches from our heads.

  There are only two places to sit—the bed and the chair at his desk. I choose the chair. Jack remains standing.

  “This might sound kind of weird.” I feel Ariel staring out of her photograph behind me and I have the sudden urge to turn her around so she’s facing the wall. I knot my hands together in my lap to keep them still. “Did you … take something this year?”

  Jack’s frown deepens. He never frowns, and the expression looks strange on his face. “You think I’m on steroids?”

  “No. It’s not like that at all. This was kind of like a serum, and it came in a small bottle. Mr. Byron would have given it to you at the beginning of the year.”

  I don’t say: You’d know if you’d taken it—it gives you superpowers and makes you feel dead inside.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jack says. He shifts his eyes to a spot on my chin. I don’t think he knows that I can tell he’s no longer looking at me.

  Ariel’s voice whispers in my ear: Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  “You can tell me,” I say.

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jack says. He’s using his father’s voice, the one that persuades donors to add another zero to their checks. “But you’re not supposed to be here, so maybe you should head back—”

  “Look, I won’t judge you or anything. It’s just that it’s—”

  “Judge me?” Jack’s eyes snap back to mine. “It’s funny, hearing that from you.”

  He’s angry with me. I see it in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin. I twist my hands together so tightly that the tips of my fingers go numb. “Funny?”

  “After everything you and Ariel did. But you won’t judge me.”

  “Jack—”

  “The sneaking out and the drinking. Lying.” He doesn’t say cheating, but he doesn’t have to. I hear it anyway.

  “I didn’t do those things to you,” I point out. Jack laughs. It’s just a single ha that doesn’t contain any humor.

&nb
sp; “No. You just cut me out of your life right when—” He stops talking, jerks a hand back through his hair. “And now you think I’m on drugs.”

  I don’t know what to say. Finally, I come up with, “That’s not fair.”

  It’s both the truth and a lie.

  Jack swallows. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down in his throat. “Who said I was playing fair?”

  It’s the same thing I said to him just a couple of weeks ago, but hearing it now, here, feels like a slap. Anger flares through me, so hot and so sudden that it almost knocks me over.

  “Fine,” I say. I’m halfway to the window when Jack grabs my arm.

  “Wait. I’m sorry.”

  I turn back around, my heart a rapid thud. For a moment, my anger was stronger than my need to solve the mystery. It felt … wonderful. I want to cradle it close to my chest, like a pet, but it’s already gone, like someone flipped a switch. I look at Jack, and I can’t remember why it bothered me that he pointed out how Ariel and I used to sneak out and drink and lie. We did all those things and worse.

  Jack sits at the edge of his bed. I watch the muscles in his shoulders tense beneath his T-shirt, his back rise and fall as he inhales. If he can make me feel anger, maybe he can make me feel other things, too. Maybe I’m not totally numb inside yet.

  I cross the room and lean against Jack’s knees, stretching my arms around his shoulders and interlocking my fingers behind his neck. He looks up at me, hopeful.

  “Are we good?” he asks, smiling with the left side of his mouth. There’s so much feeling in his face—the optimistic curve of his lips, the fear in his eyes, the anxious set of his jaw. I study him. His emotions are raw as fresh wounds. They’re so much more vivid than anything I’ve felt in days. He couldn’t have taken the serum.

  I press my mouth to his and feel another flare—anger and heat and want—but it’s gone in an instant. Jack wraps his hands around my waist and pulls me onto his lap. I kiss him harder, wondering if I can suck the emotion out of his body like breath.