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One

Now

I would do unspeakable things to get through this day faster.

My thumb taps impatiently against the top of the desk as I watch the second hand tick closer to the bell with full-body apprehension. I’m not even pretending to listen to what Mr. Peters is saying about the homework. He’ll put whatever the assignment is up on the student portal anyway, and I can deal with that at home.

When I have my answer.

3:19 p.m.

One more minute.

Mr. Peters clears the phlegm from his throat, and my attention snaps back to him. For a second, I think he’s asked me a question, but he’s not looking at me. He’s gesturing to the class at large with his wrinkly hands.

“Final reminder: your French Revolution paper is due first thing on Monday, but you can turn it in through the portal over the long weekend if you prefer. Do not forget about this assignment. Tomorrow is a teacher workday, and I don’t want to listen to any whining about extensions. There won’t be any.”

I want to roll my eyes. I haven’t forgotten an assignment in my entire life. It’ll take more than a three-day weekend to throw me off. Besides, I’ve had that paper done for a week and a half. These things aren’t difficult for someone like me.

The bell rings—beeps actually, seven quick jabs of sound slicing through the excitement in the air—and I’m at the head of the aisle before anyone else can even gather their things. Mr. Peters holds up a hand to stop me before I pass his desk. He looks a bit like an elderly Stanley Tucci, complete with thick, black-framed glasses. He’s one of the oldest teachers at Waldorf and probably should have retired a decade ago.

When he smiles, it reveals a piece of salad stuck in his yellow dentures. “Good luck today, Brooke. You’ve got Yale in the bag.”

God, I hope he’s right.

“Thank you! Fingers crossed!” I say, like I’m hopeful. Like I’m excited. Like I’m sure of the result, when I’m absolutely not.

I scoot from the room and into the crowded hallway, focusing on Waldorf Prep’s checkered marble flooring to avoid anyone else stoking the fires of my anxiety with more well-wishes.

Ivy Day has been looming on Waldorf’s Google Calendar for six months. If I wanted to, I could walk down the hall and pick out every other Ivy hopeful by sight alone. All of us vibrate with a similar kind of urgency, rushing from the school like someone’s chasing us, only that someone is our future. And we can’t escape that.

The best we can hope for is to be locked in our rooms, away from prying eyes, when the inevitable rears its ugly head. Because at four o’clock today, those of us who applied to the Ivies get our answer. It’s a day I’ve been preparing for in one way or another my whole life. Today’s the day that could change everything or nothing at all, and that pressure makes it hard to function.

Yale is my family’s legacy, and I’d do anything to make it mine too.

I already have.

Every time I look up, friends smile at me across the hallway or people I barely know wish me luck. Teachers give thumbs-ups or pat me on the shoulder. Other Ivy hopefuls give me the nervous-eyed nod. Everyone knows what’s at stake today. And for the millionth time since the fall, I kick myself for not applying early decision. I could have had my answer months ago, but I missed the deadline because of… the incident . Yet another thing I lost because of her .

I grin back and straighten my shoulders, pretending I’m not falling apart on the inside. I can’t change the past. Early decision is behind me, and Ivy Day is here.

Besides, Goodwins don’t get to fall apart.

They don’t get rejected by Yale either.

I make a quick stop at my locker and cram in everything I can afford to leave behind for the weekend. My history book lands in a heap at the bottom, and I leave it there. I need to get home and hunker down to refresh the application portal in privacy.

A group of girls from my AP Chemistry class stop at a locker a couple down from mine.

“So is it a party party, or is it just for Ivy hopefuls?” one of them asks.

“It’s a party party. Beau said it’s for everyone to celebrate Ivy Day, but it’s really an excuse to get people to his beach house. He’d throw a party for the full moon if it meant being the center of attention.”

I groan into my pale pink peacoat. I completely forgot about Beau’s party. Jena’s going to want to go to that damn thing and there’s no way I have it in me. Especially if I don’t get the answer I want today—I can’t stomach the idea of walking into Beau’s beach shack with a no, while everyone else celebrates their dreams coming true.

Besides, my parents haven’t let me go to a party since September anyway.

I have to get the hell out of Waldorf before Jena has a chance to ambush me with whatever argument she’s been undoubtedly practicing since news of the party spread at lunch. I can hear it already: Brooke, obviously this party is for you. Why would Beau throw an Ivy party for a bunch of people he barely knows? This is the perfect time for you to reenter the social scene!

No, thank you.

I lift my coat from the hook and slide my arms into it, checking my hair in the gold magnetic mirror stuck to the inside of the door. I take a breath. Goodwins don’t show stress either. We’re always composed. I slam the locker and smile at everyone who makes eye contact on my way out of the school, like I’m super chill. Like I don’t have a care in the world. Like I’m expecting today to be the day my dreams come true.

I push through the glass doors and shield my eyes. It’s weirdly bright outside.

This is probably the first time I’ve left school on time since senior year began. Between dance team practices, student council meetings, prom committee planning, and helping the principal—my mom—with the food drive, I’ve been here most days until after seven. Today is blissfully obligation-free, and I can’t tell if that’s a good omen or a bad one. My heels click-clack down the stone stairs, and I don’t lose my stride.

In another life, Waldorf Prep used to be an old textile factory. The benefactors bought it and renovated the massive brick building into a sprawling educational masterpiece with two library outbuildings, manicured athletic fields, and more immaculate lawns and landscaping than any other building in Salem. The best students in the Pacific Northwest go here. Which is why so many of us have a stake in today—and why there’s an entire party devoted to Ivy acceptances. Waldorf prepared us for Ivy League lives, but it’s on us if we don’t get the answer we want.

I cross from hundred-year-old pavers to the sparkling white concrete sidewalks bordering the school, and head for the smaller parking lot on the side of the building that’s reserved for those of us in student government. There are perks to being president.

I try my best not to glance at the soccer field as I pass it. I hear them though. The guys whoop and laugh as they gather on the grass, and I know Dylan’s out there somewhere. Leading the team. Looking hot. Always just out of reach. I adjust my posture, glad I wore my shorter Waldorf skirt, the black fabric rustling around the middle of my thighs, almost perfectly aligned with the bottom of my peacoat.

Before I turn behind the library, my resolve cracks. I glance over my shoulder at the team and find several of them staring at me. They all turn away when I catch them.

Except Dylan, standing in the middle, running warm-ups.

He’s fun to look at in his Waldorf suit and tie, but Dylan on the soccer field? His slightly-too-long dark hair brushed out of his face as he dominates a game in Waldorf Blue? Forget it.

He smiles wide and waves, and I realize I’ve stopped to stare at him.

I feel a blush working its way up my neck, but I throw back a quick wave and walk until I’m safely out of sight behind the library.

Get ahold of yourself, Brooke.

I catch myself wondering if he’ll be at the party tonight before I remember I’m one hundred percent not going. Even if he smiled at me. Even if I’ve been trying to earn his smiles since he moved here from Florida three years ago.

It’s simply not an option. Not anymore.

I’m halfway across the parking lot before I see them.

I jerk to a stop. What the actual fuck.

My car is covered in newspapers. At least a hundred of them, still folded up, their weight keeping them from blowing away in the breeze. I look around to see if anyone’s watching, but not only am I the only one in the parking lot, all the other student government cars are still here. I’m the first out of the school.

I speed walk to my Subaru in the end spot and I snatch one off the bright red hood.

January 7th

Lake Drowning of Local Teenager Ruled

An Accident by Special Investigation

Below the headline are two photos: the lake and the girl.

I don’t look at the photo of her. I can’t. Not when I’m already digesting a stomach full of anxiety. Why today? Of all days, why does this have to happen today ?

At least my tires aren’t slashed this time, so I can still get out of here. But I have to get rid of these newspapers before anyone else sees them, otherwise it’ll be all over the Waldorf text chain before I even make it home.

I drop my bag on the ground and fill my arms with as many newspapers as I can carry and chuck them into the recycling bin on the sidewalk. This is going to take so many trips. Someone’s going to catch me doing this; then there’ll be questions. People finally stopped talking about—

“What the hell?”

I freeze halfway to reaching for another armful and spin around, but it’s only Felix, huffing and puffing in his soccer uniform.

Felix Aguilar is student body vice president, Jena’s on-again-off-again boyfriend of two years, and the third leg in our exclusive little group of perfectionists. We’ve known each other since long before the pressure of our future became all we could think about— also long before he was the six-foot-three soccer prodigy he is now. He was the gangliest little kid in middle school. His carefully-styled mop of curls is the one thing that hasn’t changed about him over the years.

Felix plucks a newspaper from my hands with a frown, and I watch his eyes skim the headline with a lead stomach.

His frown deepens. “People have a sick sense of humor. These papers are three months old. What did they do, bulk-order a bunch of copies and wait for Ivy Day to mess with you? Someone needs to get a fucking life.” He grabs a bunch of them off the top of the Subaru. Likely ones I wouldn’t have been able to reach. “This is the stupidest prank I’ve ever seen.”

Relief crashes through me, and I smile. He thinks it’s a prank. This I can spin. I scramble to grab the rest before anyone else can see them. “It’s not a big deal. Just someone messing around.”

“It’s immature harassment. And you don’t deserve it.”

I toss the last of the papers in the bin. I don’t dare tell him this is tame compared to some of the other pranks I’ve weathered lately. They’ve slashed my tires multiple times, dumped water through the slats in my locker, then milk, which was significantly worse. Carved the date of the incident into one of my sideview mirrors; the list goes on. My least favorite was when they slapped twenty holographic “Get Fucked” bumper stickers on my trunk. Took me six hours to peel them all off.

So far, I’ve kept most of it quiet. Felix and Jena only know about the time someone printed “brOOKE GOODWIN IS A MONSTER” on hundreds of pieces of pink paper and taped them all over the school. But that was months ago, and they’re both under the impression it was an isolated incident. A retaliation by someone who wasn’t happy with the results of the special investigation. My friends have no idea how bad it really is, and I plan to keep it that way. If they knew the whole story, they’d get massively freaked out. There’s no sense in worrying them when they can’t help.

The only thing that can help me is a yes at four o’clock.

Felix leans against the hood, the deep blue of his uniform the same color as his eyes. “Do you have any idea who it is?”

“Not a clue.” At least that part isn’t a lie.

“My money’s on Claire’s brother. Especially the way he came at you at the memorial. That guy’s got some problems.”

The thought had crossed my mind a time or two. “Be nice. He’s hurting and doesn’t know what to do with his grief. His sister died.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “Brandon Heck isn’t just grieving. He’s an unstable loser. He was an unstable loser when he went to Waldorf, he was an unstable loser after graduation, and he’ll be an unstable loser forever. What happened to Claire is his newest fixation and either way you shouldn’t take that hit. If he keeps this up, you should report him. Your dad could probably help you get a restraining order or something, especially if he escalates things.”

Too late for that.

I change the subject rather than admit I will never bring this to my father’s attention. He’s already disappointed in me enough. I have to deal with this myself. “Aren’t you supposed to be at practice? Isn’t there a game today?”

He nods. “Yeah, I saw you walking to your car. Figured I’d catch you before you left and give you a heads-up about Jena.”

“The party?”

“She’s on a mission. Something about you never having fun anymore and wasting your final year at Waldorf? She even asked me to covertly find out if Dylan is planning to be there to try and tempt you into going too.”

I groan and pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s on airplane mode for…reasons. The second I toggle it off, a whole slew of messages and missed calls pop up. Starting at lunch. I scan the messages before I flash the phone at Felix.

12:19 p.m.

Did you hear about Beau’s party?

Hello?

We should drive together. I don’t think my car will make it.

12:23 p.m.

If you’re ignoring me on purpose, it won’t work. I know where you live. ?

3:02 p.m.

I mean it. We’re going to that party.

?

Wait for me in the parking lot after school!

He laughs. “You have to appreciate her use of emojis.”

I tuck my phone back into my coat pocket. “Consider them appreciated. There’s still zero chance I can go to this thing. My parents would flip.”

He throws up his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I only wanted to prepare you for what’s coming. I love her, but she’s tenacious.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

He slings an arm around my shoulder for a side hug. Felix is like the older brother I never wanted, but his hugs are comforting and he mostly has my best interests in mind. Jena could definitely have done worse than a cute, understanding jock with a B+ average.

He lets go and backs down the sidewalk. “I gotta get back before Dylan has my ass about leaving practice, but good luck today. You’re going to make Yale your bitch.”

I laugh and my phone rings in my pocket. I feel the smile decay on my face as fear jolts through my insides.

Not today. Please, not today.

When I pull it out and see Jena’s name flashed on the screen, the panic subsides. Okay, not who I thought it would be.

“Something wrong?”

I look up. Felix’s forehead is crinkled with concern, and I realize I let my face slip. I flash him a sarcastic smile and show him the screen. “It’s begun.”

His laugh echoes across the parking lot. “I warned you! Get out of here while you still can.”

He starts to turn away when I absolutely lose my fucking mind and ask, “Just out of curiosity, is Dylan going to the party?”

“He is.” Felix’s smile is as wide as his face is smug. “We’re driving to the coast together as soon as the game is over. We’ll be a little late, but we’re definitely going. Why do you ask?”

I glare at him, and he throws his head back and laughs again.

“Ass.”

He winks and jogs off to the soccer field. As soon as I’m alone, I let my smile fall. My gaze catches on the recycling bin, and a shudder goes down my back. If I thought I was desperate to get out of here before, I’m even more desperate now. I slide into the driver’s seat and plug in my phone. Today isn’t about that . Today is about me . Today is about my fresh start, and I’ll be damned if I let Brandon, or anyone else, ruin it for me with their guilt and hyperfocus on the past.

My phone pings with a voicemail from Jena, and I toss it into the cup holder as I back out of the parking spot. I’ll listen at home…if she doesn’t show up at my door before I have the chance.

God, I’m going to have to deadbolt the doors.

I pull out of the school lot and head for home, but I don’t make it two blocks before my phone rings again. This time the Bluetooth picks up, flashing the incoming call on the dashboard screen.

No Caller ID

My stomach drops so fast a burst of nausea crawls up my throat. I clench my hands around the steering wheel as the panic spreads through my entire body. I jab the decline button. They’ll call right back. Like they always do, like they have every single day for the last three months.

At the next stop sign, I slam on my brakes and scramble to put my phone back in airplane mode, but my hands shake so bad I drop it. It jerks out of the plug and lands on the floorboards on the passenger side. Out of reach.

Fuck.

I take a deep breath to calm down. I’m safe. It’s only a bunch of phone calls. No big deal. Nothing to panic about.

A car horn blares and I jump out of my skin. There are three other cars behind me. I swear and hustle through the intersection, my heart beating a mile a minute.

I don’t know who’s making the calls, what they want, or why the hell they chose me to harass, but I know I can’t make them stop. I’ve tried.

As quick as Felix is to call out Brandon Heck, I honestly don’t think he has the brain cells to keep up this level of harassment. Brandon’s more of a yell-at-a-memorial or start-a-fight-at-the-gym type of person. He’s not calculating, and whoever is doing this, whoever’s behind No Caller ID absolutely is.

They want me to carry the weight of what happened in September for every minute of the rest of my life—I mean, how dare I even think about having a life or moving on.

No Caller ID wants me to suffer, and I don’t know how to make it stop.

Or how much further they’re willing to take this.

My phone rings again from the floor.