I felt awful, like there was this bright spot in my life that’d just been snuffed. There wouldn’t be any more heart-to-heart talks with Greg online. And there probably wouldn’t be any more in real life, either. It was like that whole part of my life was just gone. Not that it wasn’t entirely my fault, because it was.
I didn’t know how I could make things right with Bethany, either, and it didn’t help that some part of me kept saying that I’d only done what she’d asked. I’d helped her get Greg. I’d made her sound clever and charming. That kiss in the hall? I’d given her that.
I wasn’t stupid enough to point that out, though.
Two days later, during our advisory block, was the underclass end-of-year awards ceremony.
They used to have one big ceremony for everyone, but there got to be so many awards that it started to run over two hours. So starting last year, they’d decided to do the seniors (who got most of the awards) during graduation and have a separate assembly for the rest of us, who have to suffer through ninety minutes of the distribution of varsity letters, awards for the kids who got into District Band and whatnot, and the announcement of the winners of the student government elections. It was super boring, always, and I would have skipped it and gone out for a McFlurry except that by the time I remembered we were having it, there was an entire army of teachers manning the back doors to keep us from escaping the building. Thwarted, I filed into the gym and found Bethany sitting in the front of the bleachers, her eyes fixed on a crack in the linoleum.
“Hey,” I said. I would have picked somewhere farther back so I could play on my phone undetected, but Bethany doesn’t like to sit where she can’t get out, so I went with it. When she didn’t respond, I said, “Hey, B.”
“Hey,” she said flatly.
I’m sure I deserved that. “So I wanted to tell you,” I said, but then Greg sat down on Bethany’s other side and slung an arm around her shoulders. She went a little stiff, and then, noticing that I was watching, shot me a look. I glanced at the podium, where Ms. Turner was asking people to hurry up and sit down so we could get started.
Greg was murmuring something in Bethany’s ear to cover the fact that he was kissing the space below her earlobe, and I was pretending like hell not to notice. Finally, he came up for air and said, to me, “Hey, did you pick your classes for NOVA yet?”
“Uh,” I said.
“If you want, we should see if we can get sections at the same time so we can carpool or whatever.”
Bethany glared darkly at me. “Uh,” I said. “I…didn’t do that yet, sorry.”
By then Ms. Turner was going rather purple up at the podium, and the rest of the teachers were begging us to quiet down before she had a stroke. She gave us a lecture about the three r’s—readiness, respect, and responsibility—announced the winners of the student government election, and read the list of kids with perfect attendance, despite the fact that they still had two weeks of school left to screw that up. I pulled out my phone and texted Bethany, I’m still sorry.
NOT NOW, she replied. She glanced at me and then typed, WE HAVE TO TELL HIM THE TRUTH.
No, Bethany, we can’t.
I don’t want to lie!
It’s not lying if you just never bring something up!
That’s ridiculous!
I started to type technically, but then out loud, she shouted, “Would you not?” with enough volume that Ms. Turner paused in handing out varsity letters to a bunch of sophomore basketball players and scowled in our direction. Bethany turned very red and slouched into herself. I put my phone away. Greg, looking confused, whispered, “What’s up?” to Bethany, who replied, “Nothing.”
The last of the athletes sat down, and Ms. Turner said, “It’s my great pleasure to announce a new series of awards devoted to honoring the excellence of our junior class. Each academic department has met over the last two weeks and nominated several students who they feel have pushed the boundaries of excellence in their respective disciplines. I would like to start by asking the following students to come up on the stage,” she said. “Sophie Bell, Aphra Brown, Greg D’Agostino, Neil Froderman, Bethany Newman, Sam Nguyen, and Annette Park.”
We all made our way awkwardly up to the stage and sat in the row of chairs designated for us. I wished I’d worn something else, like a T-shirt that didn’t say Rowers Stroke It Better. I glanced over at Bethany, who was sliding her hand out of Greg’s and looking a little pained. She pulled her shirt away from her body a little, like she wanted to use it to create some insulation between her and the stares of the rest of the student body. I heard Greg whisper, “It’s okay. They all know you’re awesome.”
Ms. Turner was replaced at the podium by Dr. Rishi, the head of the math department, who said, “We’d like to start by honoring a math student who has really hit the mark of excellence this year.”
I wondered how many times they would use the word excellence. I’d counted three so far, and they’d only just started. This was going to take forever, and I was sure the only reason they’d decided to hand out awards to the juniors was so we could list them on college applications. I was so ready to be done with this place.
He went on: “One of only three juniors in BC Calculus, this student maintained a 98% average this year, and every day brings a terrific energy to her classroom, where she asks thoughtful questions, patiently helps her peers, and has been a real bright spot for our entire class. On a personal note, I can’t wait to have this student in my Linear Algebra class next year.” He turned and smiled at Bethany. “Congratulations, Bethany Newman.”
We all applauded. Bethany stood up, Dr. Rishi put a medal around her neck, and she came back and sat down between me and Greg. I whispered, “Congratulations, smart-ass.” She fiddled with her medal and smiled.
The World Languages award went to Greg, of course, and then I was a little surprised when the English award went to Sam Nguyen, since I’d assumed that was why I was there. Well, I guess I must have been there for History. Ms. Young said my paper on Wounded Knee was the best one she’d read that year.
Then Mr. Positano took the podium for the tech department award.
“This year,” he said, “the technology department was blessed with a student whose work in computer science was so remarkably creative that we felt an award was mandatory.” I glanced at Bethany, but she was looking at Greg’s profile. This whole thing was so boring; I wished Mr. P would give his award to whatever kid aced the AP CS class so we could get out of there. I wanted to text Bethany again, but you can’t really do that kind of thing when you’re sitting on a stage in front of 2,000 people.
“I’ll admit,” Mr. P went on, “that when she submitted her project proposal to me, I thought it was so ambitious it was impossible to pull off. She ended up proving me wrong, and created an AI so sophisticated that it pushes the boundaries of what we can do with a smartphone app.”
Bethany stopped looking at Greg and turned to me, her eyebrows shooting up.
He went on: “On top of that, she made a point of using her work to help other students in distress by creating an app designed to give anonymous advice on everything from STIs to family troubles, all using an interface based on everyone’s favorite counselor from Star Trek.”
Greg smiled at Bethany and mouthed, You’re getting two!
Bethany looked sick.
I felt the stage slide a little sideways, like someone had tilted it up on one end and I was about to tumble off, and everything inside my head was suddenly very loud.
I tried to make eye contact with Mr. Positano and shook my head furiously. Next to me, I could hear Bethany’s breath coming in short little bursts.
“Aphra, come on up.”
When I failed to move, he said, “Aphra Brown.” He chuckled a little. “As opposed to the five other Aphras we don’t have at this school.”
I failed to move.
Next to me, I heard Greg murmur to Bethany, “Wait, he mixed it up. That was your app. You should tell him they mixed it up.”
Bethany looked nothing short of terrified. “Bethany,” he said. “Go tell him, don’t let him give your credit away.” To me, he said, “Aphra, come on.”
She sat frozen, like she was wishing the world would somehow fold in on her and she would disappear into the depths of a black hole. I know this because it was exactly how I felt.
“Come on!” Greg urged her. “Go be the girl I know you are!”
Bethany said, “I’m not.” Her face crumpled. “I’m not.”
From the other side of Sam Nguyen, Sophie whispered, “The Counselor Troi app was Aphra’s. Bethany’s was about the weather.”
Greg said, “What?” He didn’t understand, I realized. His brain was still fixed on the idea that Bethany was this…this perfect angel, and he couldn’t accept that the person whispering in his ear had been me.
“Greg,” Bethany begged.
At the podium, Mr. Positano was watching this exchange, too far away to hear what was being said. Greg grabbed Bethany’s shoulders and said, “Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно. What does it mean?”
Sophie hissed, “You need to chill the hell out.”
Greg ignored her and repeated, “What does it mean, Bethany?”
Bethany said, “I don’t know.”
Mr. Positano coughed, like he was just realizing that giving me this award was probably a mistake, and said, “Aphra, let’s move this along.”
Figuring the only way out was through, I got up and grabbed the medal from him.
“Congratulations?” he said, like he wasn’t sure that was the right word.
I did not put the medal around my neck. I hovered halfway between the podium and the rest of the junior award winners, because I was supposed to go back and sit down, but that meant sitting down next to Bethany, who was still crying.
I heard one of the teachers mutter the word brittle, like they thought Bethany was crying because she hadn’t won the tech award in addition to math.
Greg took out his phone and opened the app. He’d been talking softly before, but his voice was growing progressively louder, to the point where he was getting picked up by the microphone at the podium. “You told me to delete this, remember? But I didn’t. I didn’t delete it. Because I didn’t want to lose all those chats. I go back and read them sometimes. Did you know that? Did you? I told you stuff I never told anyone. Not my friends.” His voice cracked. “Not my parents. Are you saying the whole time…?”
“I didn’t know,” Bethany said. “I didn’t know she was doing it.”
“Who?” he roared.
Everything went silent.
Except for one person who shouted, “What the fuck is going on?” and someone else who shouted, “Bethany Newman’s getting her sweet ass dumped!”
I couldn’t understand how he wasn’t getting it. Mr. Positano had called my name, Sophie had confirmed it, and he still didn’t see the truth.
I walked the rest of the way across the stage and said, “Me. You were talking to me.”
Mr. Positano muttered, into the microphone, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
“Is this some kind of sick joke?” Greg shouted. “Was I some kind of…like a toy for you guys to pass back and forth?”
“No,” I said, because Bethany was way beyond the power of speech. “No, of course not—”
“Why are you the one talking?” he said, rounding on me. “She’s the one I’m with! She’s the one I…”
The one he actually wanted.
I said, “None of this is her fault. It was always me. She didn’t know.”
“Aphra,” Bethany choked out. “Stop.”
“Just answer me this,” he said to Bethany. He was shaking. He was actually shaking, and I realized that he wasn’t just mad. He was hurt. “Did you ever ask her to talk to me? To get me to…to get me? For you?”
Bethany turned away, and because she, unlike me, is not a liar, said, “Yes. I did.”
Several people in the audience went, “Oooooooo.” I glanced over and saw that a bunch of people were recording this on their phones, smiling with unmitigated glee over the humiliation of the prettiest girl in the school.
I thought, I hate everyone.
Greg swore under his breath with one hand over his mouth. After a second, he said, “I never want to talk to you again.” Looking at me, he added, “Either of you.” He flung his World Languages medal down on the stage and stormed out of the gym.
The gym erupted into shouting and loud exclamations while Bethany doubled over into Sophie’s arms.
“It’s okay,” Sophie whispered. “It’s gonna be okay.” At me, she mouthed, What the fuck, Aphra?
Ms. Turner muttered, “I do not get paid enough for this shit,” unaware that she was still close enough to the microphone to be picked up.
I felt a hand on my shoulder; it was Mr. Positano, who said, “Just to clear something up, was Mr. D’Agostino chatting with your AI or with you?”
I winced and said, “Yeah, it was me.”
His mouth was very, very flat. He said, “We need to have a conversation.”
Five minutes later, after admitting I’d faked my data, I had a zero on my app for academic dishonesty, and as Mr. Positano reminded me, I was damn lucky not to be suspended or worse.
The zero was bad enough. That project was 35% of my grade, so I was staring down the barrel of a flat-out F in the class.
Needless to say, I was not given the tech award. I rather suspected the Junior Class Academic Awards would be quickly consigned to Middleridge’s list of failed experiments best never repeated, like the unfortunate year the student government had two presidents because of an electoral tie, and they ended up having a fistfight over the homecoming theme. I imagined that Ms. Turner was getting drunk in her office right now, crying into a potted plant and slurring, “Let’s never do this again.”
I texted Bethany after school, Are you okay? Which seemed like the stupidest thing ever to say to someone who was just dumped by the boy of her dreams in front of 2,000 people.
I don’t want to talk to you, she replied. Ever.