Page 79 of All These Beautiful Strangers

“Relax, we’re just giving you a hard time,” Yael said. “Anyone down for fro yo?”

“Me!” Stevie said, shooting her hand in the air.

“No thanks,” Drew said.

“I’m good,” I said.

I waited until Stevie and Yael left before I nudged Drew under the table.

“Hey, so Dalton needs our lists,” I said, my voice low.

“What list?”

“For preferred registration,” I said. “I sent you my list last week but I never got yours.”

“Oh, right,” Drew said. “Sorry, I haven’t looked at it yet.”

“Um, okay,” I said. I didn’t understand why she was being this way. Here was our one chance to get our top class choices next semester and ensure we had matching schedules, and she was completely blowing it off.

“Why don’t you just give your list to Dalton so you don’t miss the deadline?” Drew asked. “I’ve got your list so I can build my schedule off that.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Hmm?” Drew said, distracted. “Oh, yeah. I just have a migraine.”

She was being weird, evasive. Her migraine excuse was as transparent as my tired excuse.

“Hey,” I said casually, “did you figure out how you’re going to get Mr. Franklin’s trig exam yet?”

“Oh yeah, I think so,” Drew said.

“Need any help?” I asked.

“No, I’ve got it covered,” Drew said. “Thanks, though.”

“So, that’s it?” I asked. “You’re not even going to give me any details?”

“You guys, you’re not going to believe it,” Stevie said, sitting back down at the table, juggling three bowls of fro yo. “Mocha Midnight Madness is back.”

She scooted one of the bowls across the table toward me and elbowed the other in Drew’s direction.

“I got spoons!” Yael said, dumping a handful of silverware on the table.

“Yum,” Drew said, but I could tell her smile was feigned. She reached for a spoon and averted her eyes from me. I had the strange feeling that even if Stevie and Yael hadn’t come back to the table just then, she would have found a way to avoid answering my question.

Later that night, I was in Dalton’s room doing research for a report we had been paired together on in Mr. Andrews’s Introduction to Photography class. We had to write about a modern photographer who was doing something innovative in the medium.

Girls were allowed in the boys’ dormitories during study hours, which were after dinner and before curfew (seven to nine o’clock on weekdays). But we had to leave the door ajar and have three feet on the floor at all times. I sat on Dalton’s bed next to him, my back leaning against the dormitory wall and one foot tucked under me, one dangling on the floor. I was trying to stay focused on the task at hand, but my mind kept wandering to Mr. Andrews. I wanted to ask Dalton about the compromising photo (what did the A’s want with it?), but I didn’t know how to broach the topic. Dalton wouldn’t be allowed to tell me the purpose behind the compromising photo without betraying the A’s confidence, and I didn’t want to put him in that position.

On the one hand, Mr. Andrews seemed like a decent human being, and blackmailing him or undoing him with these misleading pictures seemed cruel. But on the other hand, I didn’t have a choice. If I failed, would the A’s release the photographs they had of me and Leo? Forget the public humiliation I would suffer—Leo would suffer too, and he had done nothing wrong. I couldn’t do that to him.

“Earth to Charlie.”

I looked up to see Dalton staring at me.

“Hmm?”

“You seem a bit distracted,” Dalton said. “Everything all right?”