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Then the several turned into dozens. Paper tore as people dug through the envelopes, some making off with the letters inside, some pulling out the bills stuffed in. It was a feeding frenzy. More and more people were joining, and I was pushed farther and farther back, and I cried out for people to stop, stop,stop,but my voice was smothered under the ruckus.

One guy grabbed an envelope and started backing away, and another lunged for him, shouting that it was his. They collided against the locker door in a crunch of metal, the first guy hitting it hard with his shoulder and letting out a yelp of pain.

“Hey!” Mr. Elliot materialized out of nowhere and stormed toward us. “Break it up. Enough.”

Kids scattered in various directions.

The envelopes were gone.

The locker was empty.

And its door was bent very slightly out of shape. I tried to push it closed, but it no longer fit snugly into its hole. I took my hand away and it sadly swung a few inches outward.

“Whatwas all that about?” Mr. Elliot asked. I wasn’t sure if he directed the question at me, or the remaining spectators, but thankfully none of them ratted me out.

“Long story,” I said. “We’re fine. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well.” He gave me a suspicious look. “Save the bloodshed for Black Friday sales, got it?”

He continued on to class, and I turned to look at the last few students.

One of them, a girl I didn’t recognize with curly black hair and glasses, raised her eyebrows at me. “I just got here. My letter was in there,” she said, nodding at the empty locker.

Ah.

This.

Wasn’t great.

When I was called to the principal’s office halfway through next period, I was expecting it.

My history teacher, Joan (Mrs. Lobethal to everyone else), came over to my desk and told me to pack up and head over there as quietly as she could. That’s how it was done at our school: the teacher would get an email, and they would tell you to head on over. No P.A. announcements. Theydidn’t want to shame anyone, as a general rule. I’d agreed with the approach before, but now that it was applying to me for the first time, I was especially grateful for it. The last thing I wanted was for the rest of the school to know my shame.

For Brougham to know.

The classroom burst with whispers as I stood up. Brooke glanced at me sideways, but she didn’t show any emotion. The embarrassment might have been bearable if she’d cared.

In his office, our principal, Stan, sat at a large, cluttered wooden desk on a cushioned leather desk chair, going through his emails on his desktop computer, which sat on one side of the curved desk. When I knocked on the door, he minimized the email screen and swiveled around, gesturing for me to take a seat on one of the two blue fabric chairs.

No sooner had I sat when Mom walked through the open door behind me without knocking and stood behind the spare seat, resting her hands on its back. “What’s going on?” she asked Stan.

Stan was one of those people who had no business being called Stan. When I pictured aStan,my mental image was of someone kind of weedy, nonconfrontational, maybe with a handlebar mustache and a nervous sense of humor. But our Stan was a tank who wouldn’t look out of place in the marines, a stocky, Terry Crews lookalike. His eyes were usually kind when he saw me in the halls or the staff room, though.

Today they weren’t looking awfully kind. They lookedpissed.

“Please, take a seat,” he said to Mom. She shot me a concerned glance and sat as Stan went on. “It has come tomy attention Darcy has been running some sort of agony aunt advice business on school grounds, and charging students for it.”

In my peripheral, I could see Mom turn to me. I kept my eyes fixed on the desk.

“I’m of the understanding that she’s been doing so for several years now. This morning there was an incident in which multiple students had their private information stolen after Darcy allowed others to access the locker.”

“That wasn’t my fault—” I started, but Mom shushed me.

“I’ve already received several complaints from the students involved, along with a formal complaint from a parent. On top of this, some damage was sustained to school property.”

“That was an accident,” I said, ignoring Mom’s warning look. “And it wasn’t even me.”

“What property was damaged?” Mom asked.