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THE SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL seated across from me has baby-blond hair, a pretty face, and wide innocent eyes. She has excellent grades, volunteers on the yearbook committee, and played varsity volleyball until a wrist injury sidelined her last year. She is popular with her peers, charming and polite to adults, and was awarded an “all-around student” at the last year-end assembly. But I’m not fooled. I’ve known this girl for five years, her name is Fiona Carmichael, and she is pure evil.

When I was studying to become a counselor, there was an emphasis on understanding behavioral issues. Most challenges stem from some form of trauma: physical, emotional, or psychological. In the program, we learned that adolescents have reasons to push boundaries, to try on different personas, to rebel against expected norms. But every now and then, I encounter a bad seed. Fiona seems to come from a stable home with two loving and supportive parents. And yet this bright, attractive girl in her designer sweatshirt is poison.

“Who took the video of Abby?” I ask. I know Fiona won’t tell me. There is honor among bullies. But I have seen the offending footage with my own eyes. Last term, Maple Heights implemented an online reporting tool where students can send an encrypted, anonymous message to the school regarding concerning incidents or behaviors. This “snitch tool,” as we affectionately call it, is popular in the Australian school system. The administrators (three vice principals) have received reports of bullying, sexual assault, self-harm, and threats of violence. As a counselor, I have been brought in to provide intervention and support. The portal allows screenshots or images to validate the claims. That’s how I learned about the video of Abby Lester.

“I don’t know, Ms. Lane.” Fiona’s voice is childlike. “I don’t really remember what happened.”

“But you must know who sent the video to you?”

She looks at her hands in her lap. “It was from a fake account. I really don’t know who it was from.”

We are seated in my tiny office, so close together that I can smell Fiona’s perfume, see the flick of her eyeliner, hear the smack of her gum. Her eyes drift over the three framed prints on my wall, muted watercolor landscapes. My décor is simple and impersonal. I keep a photo of Liza in my drawer but not on my desk. The students here don’t need to know I have a daughter their age.

“But you decided to share the video on social media,” I press.

“I know I shouldn’t have. I just… I thought it was funny at first.”

Funny. Abby Lester had taken multiple capsules of MDMA, between three and seven, according to her so-called friends. They’d been at a sleepover party in Abby’s basement, three girls in attendance. She had ended up naked, vomiting, and convulsing. No one woke her parents. No one called for help. Instead, they laughed. They filmed her. And Fiona Carmichael uploaded it to Snapchat.

“I thought Abby was your friend?”

“Not really. I mean, she’s okay, but I don’t know her that well.”

“So that excuses what you did to her?” My tone is harsher than it should be. I’m not here to punish this girl. Monica Carruthers, the vice principal, will take care of that. My job is to understand what went on, and to offer my counsel. I soften my voice. “Tell me about that night. Who was there?”

“Abby invited me, Lily, and Mysha. But some other kids sneaked in later.”

“Who?”

“I don’t really remember.”

Yeah, right. “Was everyone taking Molly?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you get it?”

Fiona shrugs, like I knew she would. “It’s all kind of fuzzy.”

“Why did Abby take so many pills? Did someone pressure her?”

“No.” Fiona looks up, her eyes clear and blue. “I think she was trying to impress us. Abby was kind of desperate to get in with our friend group.”

Sadly, it rings true. Abby is a STEM kid, a founding member of the robotics club. Fiona and her posse are solid students, but they’re more focused on their social than academic lives. And it’s not the first time I’ve seen kids overdose trying to keep up with more experienced peers. “And no one thought to tell her to slow down? That she didn’t have to impress you?”

“Like I said, we didn’t really know her. It’s not our fault we didn’t know her tolerance levels.”

Abby Lester can’t remember what happened that night, her memory wiped clean by the drugs and the trauma, and I’m getting nowhere with Fiona. She knows more than she’s telling, I’m sure of it, but the space between my eyebrows is starting to pound. “You can go see Ms. Carruthers now.”

Fiona gets up, and I turn back to my desk. There’s a bottle of Tylenol in my top drawer for these types of encounters.

“I read your book.” The girl hovers in the doorway. “It was really good.”

She’s in trouble so she’s trying to flatter me. And it works. I smile. “Thank you, Fiona.”

“You know a lot about kids and their problems.” Her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches. “That’s probably why your book was so real.”

Is there an accusation in her words? Or am I just defensive after that attacking email?

“My background in psychology was helpful,” I say.

“And working with all of us must have helped, too. Kids tell you such private things.”

“My book is fiction,” I retort. “It has nothing to do with any of my students.”

“Of course not.” Those wide innocent eyes…

“Ms. Carruthers is waiting for you.”

Before the door closes, I’m already reaching for the bottle of pills.

When I let myself into the apartment that night, there’s still a dull ache in my temples. A tinkle of laughter travels from the far end of the apartment, and my heart swells. It’s my week with Liza, and her presence is like a warm bath. My daughter has gone through the typical teenage phases: sullen, rebellious, angry, and superior. But over the past year, she’s matured, grown into a kind and warm young woman. And she’s been my biggest cheerleader through my publishing journey. In just two months, Liza will graduate, leave for college soon after, and the thought makes me want to curl into a ball and cry. But I know my daughter is going to soar. And I’m grateful I have my new career to focus on.

“Hey, Mom.” She swishes into the room wearing huge gray sweatpants and a short T-shirt revealing her pierced belly button. “How was your day?”

“I need a hug.” I hold out my arms and my girl steps into them. Her honey-colored hair smells like vanilla, her neck like the lavender soap she uses. She is taller than I am by three inches with her father’s strong, lithe build, but her smile and her gray eyes are mine.

“What happened?” Liza asks.

I give her a playful squeeze. “You know I can’t tell you what goes on at the school.”

“Worth a try,” she teases, stepping away.

I’m suddenly aware of a presence behind us. “Oh. Hi, Wyatt.”

“Hi, Camryn.”

Liza has been dating Wyatt since the end of eleventh grade. He’s a nice kid, quiet but well mannered, if a little directionless. While Liza was accepted to several colleges and chose a prestigious university across the country, Wyatt is planning to take a gap year. He’s very bright and got a full-ride academic scholarship to an elite private high school. He could have his choice of colleges, but he says he needs to decompress after the rigors of twelfth grade. He’s planning to spend a few months on the beaches of Queensland.

“I didn’t realize you were here.” My tone is pointed as I turn to face my daughter. The pair was obviously in her bedroom, and that is against the rules when I’m not home. At least it is at my place. Things are very different at Adrian’s house. His new wife, Tori, is a “cool mom.” Her daughter, Savannah, is seventeen, and has been dating her girlfriend for about six months. They’re allowed regular sleepovers, and Adrian and Tori recently brought the young couple to Hawaii where they booked them their own room. In contrast, my parenting style is delay, delay, delay. I believe there are no decisions—about sex, substances, romantic relationships—that won’t benefit from more brain development.

“Relax, Mom.” Liza’s eye roll is subtle, good-natured even. “Wyatt just came by to go over some stats problems.”

“I have to go,” he says. “I’ve got practice.” Wyatt is tall and athletic, a competitive soccer player.

“I’ll walk you out,” Liza offers. She prefers to kiss him goodbye in the hall, away from my prying eyes. I prefer it, too.

“I’ll order sushi,” I call after her. “Bye, Wyatt.”

“Bye, Camryn.” The door closes behind them.