Gemma Halliday - Social Suicide

“See, I told you. I put the cash under the rock. I’m just the payer, not the payee.”

Chase didn’t answer. Instead, he kept one hand on Chris’s shirt as he led him back to the rock.

Whatever cash Chris had deposited was gone. In its place was a small black flash drive.

“He must have come and gone while we…” I looked at Chris.

“While we chased you down,” Chase finished, his teeth still gritted together.

“Sorry?” Chris said.

I felt my spirits sink as fast as my muddy heels when I realized I’d squatted in the bushes for nothing.

Chase picked up the drive, turning it over in his hands.

“These must be the test answers,” he said.

Chris reached out a hand to take the drive, but Chase quickly slipped it into his pocket.

“Oh, come on!” Chris protested.

But Chase got right up in his face, his voice low and menacing. “If you get caught cheating, not only are you going to be suspended, but I’m losing a staff member from my paper, which I cannot afford to have happen.”

Chris gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he took a small step backward.

But Chase wasn’t done with him. He took another step forward, his eyes narrowing. “So far, your only crime is being stupid enough to give this guy a wad of cash. Which means I have no reason to turn you in to the administration.”

Chris’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“But,” Chase continued, “if I find out that you have actually used stolen answers to cheat on a test? I have no choice but to tell the vice principal. Got it?”

Chris swallowed again. “Yeah,” he squeaked out, his voice an octave higher.

“Good.” Chase finally backed off. “Now you’d better get back to the game. Because I expect a finished article on our victory over Saratoga in my in-box first thing Monday morning.”

Chris nodded. “Yep. Right. Cool. I’m on it,” he said, then scuttled off toward the bright lights of the stadium.

I watched him go, feeling the disappointment of our busted evening.

“Now what do we do?” I asked. “We totally missed the guy selling cheats.”

“Now,” said Chase, “there’s only one thing left to do.”

I almost hated to ask…

“What?”

“Set up a sting.”

“SO, HOW WAS THE DATE WITH CHASE?” SAM ASKED THE next afternoon as she pulled her American Government book from her backpack.

“Stakeout,” I corrected, mirroring her actions and adding a notebook to the pile of studying materials on her bed.

“Bummer.” She paused. “Did Chase even mention your outfit?”

I fought down heat in my cheeks as I answered. “Yes. And I am never going out looking like that again.”

“Why? You looked hot.”

“I looked like a girl who thought she was going out with a guy and ended up on a stakeout, squatting in the mud in a pair of heels and smelling like jasmine! I felt ridiculous.”

“Oh.” Sam bit her lip. “Sorry. I was just kinda hoping you guys would get together.”

“God, why?” I asked, trying to ignore the blast of embarrassment still coursing through me.

Sam shrugged. “I know how uncomfortable you get around Kyle and me.”

I bit my lip. Was I that obvious? “You guys aren’t that bad.”

“I just thought it would be fun to double-date. Then maybe our kissing and stuff wouldn’t squick you out so much.”

“Thanks.” I shot her a smile. “But I’m not squicked. You guys are fine.”

“Cool,” she said, grinning back at me as she reached into a drawer in her desk and came out with a pencil, pad of paper, and an eraser, all in a matching purple desk set.

My school supplies, on the other hand, consisted of a beat-up spiral-bound notebook and a number two pencil with bite marks on the end.

While Sam is my best friend, her bedroom could not look more different from mine. My walls were a blank eggshell, the same color that had been there when Mom and I had moved in, and were covered in posters and photos ripped from fashion magazines. I had a corkboard tacked to the wall, where pictures of Sam and me were attached with different-colored tacks, and a full-length mirror on the other side of the room. I had a desk, somewhere, but it had been a while since I’d actually used it as a desk-more often it just doubled as a place to put clothes from the overflow of my closet. My bed was rarely made, school papers kind of lived where there was a surface to put them down, and the overall appearance was lived-in.

Sam’s room, in contrast, looked like an ad from Pottery Barn. The walls were pale violet, to go with the bedspread on her perfectly made bed, and all her furniture matched: a white clapboard look dominating the headboard, dresser, and desk. Above the desk in the corner was a board covered in quilted fabric with ribbons running diagonally across it to keep photos in place (a couple of them copies of the ones on my board at home), and every drawer, cubbyhole, and cupboard was perfectly ordered inside and out with organizers of every size.

And, for as much as Sam was into fashion, I didn’t see a stray piece of clothing anywhere.

Sam was like my tidy evil twin.

I shifted on her bed, almost afraid to make a wrinkle as I flipped my binder open to my American Government notes.

“So how did the stakeout go?” Sam asked.

“Terrible.” I shoved my book bag onto the floor then filled Sam in on the Chris fiasco.

“And by the time we got back to the rock,” I finished, “the cash was gone. We’d totally missed him.”

“Wow,” Sam said, shaking her head. “Chris Fret. I never would have figured him for a cheater. He always seemed so… normal.”

“Yeah, well, apparently ‘normal’ also means too busy to study for a quiz.”

“You know,” Sam said, scrunching up her face, “it’s totally unfair to those of us who are struggling to get those good grades. I mean, take this American Government midterm we have coming up. How many people do you think already have the answers to that? Mr. Bleaker grades on a curve, you know. Those cheaters are ruining the curve for the rest of us.”

I had to agree-it sucked big elephant balls.

“Not only that,” Sam went on, “but we have to compete against these cheaters to get into good colleges. Chris is my Stanford competition. How can I compete with someone who’s buying all the fudging answers?”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “‘Fudging’?”

“What? You liked ‘fluffin’’ better?”

I shrugged. “Either way, I don’t think Chris is much competition for you, stolen answers or no,” I said, recalling our encounter.

“So, what do we do now?” Sam asked.

“Well…” I hedged. “Chase had an idea last night.”

“What?” Sam asked.

“He thought we should set up a sting. Try to catch the guy in action again.”

Sam nodded. “Sounds like a reasonable plan.”

“Only, we’re going to need someone to contact him about getting test answers.”

“Right.”

“And it can’t be me or Chase because everyone already knows we’re working on the story for the paper.”

“True.”

“So we’re going to need a third person to make the contact with the guy selling cheats.”

“Good point. But it could be hard to find someone willing to do that.”

I stared pointedly at Sam.

She blinked back at me. “What?”

I bit my lip and stared some more.

Realization slowly dawned behind her brown eyes. “Oh no. Oh, no way, Hartley. I am not going to be your bait!”

“Please, Sam,” I pleaded. “You’re perfect. Everyone knows how grade-driven you are, and you said yourself that we’re in trouble with the midterm coming up in American Government.”