Shockingly, I made it through my Monday classes without developing the slightest inclination to sign up for the debate team.
“Hypothetically speaking,” Asher said as he took the seat beside mine in our last class of the day, “if I told Carmen Seville that you could take care of a little problem involving a vengeful ex–best friend on the yearbook staff and some aggressively unflattering photo angles . . . would that be a bad thing or a good thing?”
Asher smiled when he said the words good thing. It was implied that I should find that smile persuasive.
Sliding into the seat behind him, Vivvie took one look at my face. “Bad thing,” she told Asher, correctly interpreting my facial expression. “That would be a very bad thing.”
“Allow me to rephrase,” Asher said. “If I had, by chance, volunteered your most excellent services—”
I stopped him there. “I don’t have services.” Seeing the skepticism clear on their faces, I clarified, “Yesterday, with Jeremy’s father? That was a onetime thing.”
Asher raised one eyebrow to ridiculous heights. “So when one of the seniors on the lacrosse team was hazing the freshmen and you surreptitiously recorded said hazing and uploaded it as an attachment to his college applications, that was . . . what, exactly?”
I shrugged. No one had been able to prove that was me.
“What about that rumor you squelched about Meredith Sutton going to rehab?” Vivvie asked.
That hadn’t been a rumor. It had been the truth—and no one’s business but Meredith’s.
“And that time that Lindsay Li’s boyfriend was threatening to tell her parents exactly how far they’d gone if she broke up with him?” Asher raised his other eyebrow. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t he end up in military school?”
“Your point?” I asked.
“Their point is that you are a meddler.” Henry helped himself to the seat behind me. “An incurable, insatiable meddler. You simply cannot help yourself, Kendrick.”
And who was right there beside me yesterday? I refrained from pointing that out and turned around to face him. “I don’t meddle,” I said.
Unfortunately, all that did was set Vivvie and Asher up to chorus, “You fix!”
During my first week at Hardwicke, I’d inadvertently come to the rescue of the vice president’s daughter. At the time, I’d had no idea who she was—all I’d known was that she’d been humiliated by an older boy who’d talked her into taking some very intimate photos. When I’d heard the jerk was flaunting those photos, I’d lost my temper, stolen his phone, and issued a couple of pointed threats.
Anna Hayden had been very grateful. She’d deemed me a miracle worker, and just like that, the Hardwicke student body had collectively decided that I was to them what my sister was to their parents.
A professional problem solver. Someone who excelled at crisis management. A fixer.
I’m not a fixer. I’d given up making that particular objection out loud. And, a persistent voice continued in the back of my head, Ivy isn’t my sister.
As I’d recently found out, she was my mother.
The sound of the bell broke through my thoughts, saving me from going down the rabbit hole of trying to figure out what Ivy really was to me now that I knew the truth.
“I know how much you all love Mondays,” Dr. Clark said from the front of the room. “And the only thing that makes Mondays better is pop quizzes, am I right?”
That elicited audible groans.
“Paper and pencils,” Dr. Clark decreed, ignoring the groans. On the whiteboard, she wrote a single question in all capital letters: WHAT ISSUE DO YOU THINK WILL MOST AFFECT THE RESULTS OF MIDTERM ELECTIONS?
Instead of history, Hardwicke juniors took Contemporary World Issues. Theoretically, this class was supposed to turn us into global citizens, informed about a wide variety of issues playing out on the international stage. In reality, there were enough of us in this class with political connections that “world issues” all too often struck close to home.
“Your answers to this question will form the basis for today’s discussion.” Dr. Clark leaned back against her desk. “Since I’m not actually cruel enough to give you a Monday quiz, feel free to leave your names off your papers.”
As my classmates started scribbling down their answers, I turned the question over in my head. I was enough of a Kendrick—and enough of a Keyes—to know that the midterm elections were shaping up to be brutal. If the president lost control of Congress, his chances of getting a second term in the White House were next to nothing. Ivy was currently working for no fewer than three congressmen up for reelection at midterms. I had no idea what exactly she was doing for them, but a person didn’t come to Ivy Kendrick unless there was a problem—or a secret that needed to stay buried.
Slowly, I put my pen to the page and jotted down my answer, letter by letter. What factor did I expect to play a role in the midterm elections?
C – O – R – R – U – P – T – I – O – N.
As my pen formed the letters, I thought less about what Ivy was doing now than about the secrets I carried, in part, because of her. My first few weeks at Hardwicke had been very eventful—the kind of eventful that involved assassinations, cover-ups, and being kidnapped by a rogue Secret Service agent.
“Answers in,” Dr. Clark called.
I folded my paper in half, then turned and met Henry’s eyes as he passed his to me. He held my gaze, and I wondered what he’d written down.
I wondered if Henry was thinking about the political conspiracy we’d uncovered together.
As Dr. Clark collected our answers, she started lecturing. “Right now, the Nolan administration has the benefit of a majority in both the House and the Senate. But—as I’m sure many of you are aware—that could change in a heartbeat with what is shaping up to be one of the closest midterm elections in recent memory.”
Beside me, Asher withdrew a roll of duct tape from his bag. Henry made a slight choking sound, which I translated to mean, Dear God, who gave Asher that duct tape and what is he planning on doing with it?
At the front of the room, Dr. Clark resumed her perch on the edge of her desk. “So,” she continued, “let’s see what factors you foresee affecting the very balance of power in this country.” She unfolded the answers, one by one. “Jobs. Health care. Immigration.” She sorted the answers as she read them, pulling out and saving a few for later. “Jobs again. Terrorism. The economy. Terrorism. Defense.
“And now things get interesting.” Dr. Clark went on to the slips she’d pulled out of sequence. “Ideology. Religion. Voter turnout.” She paused. “Not exactly what I meant by issue, but undoubtedly true, Ms. Rhodes.”
Near the front of the room, Asher’s twin sister tossed her strawberry-blond ponytail over one shoulder. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised she’d written her name on her answer. Emilia Rhodes believed in giving credit where credit was due—particularly if it was due to her.
“Last three,” Dr. Clark announced. “Presidential approval rating.” Her gaze flickered briefly toward my side of the room—to Henry. “Transparency.” She moved on to the next-to-last sheet, then ended with mine. “And corruption.” She paused. “Mr. Rhodes, while I’m sure you do a passable Houdini impression, I would prefer you not duct-tape your hands together during class.”
Asher gave her his most charming smile. “Your wish is my command.” He did a good job of pretending his hands weren’t half taped together already.
Only Asher, I thought. But there was another part of my brain—the part where instinct and emotion blended together, where fight and flight lived in wait—that couldn’t help remembering a time when I’d been bound hand and foot.
I felt a light touch on my shoulder. Henry. I didn’t turn to look at him, but my gut said that he knew exactly where I’d been a moment before. I was held hostage by a rogue Secret Service agent. Thinking the words sapped the memory of some of its power. That rogue agent helped murder the chief justice of the Supreme Court. And the American public will never know.
Transparency wasn’t President Nolan’s strong suit.
The rest of the class period passed in a blur. When the final bell rang, I stood.
“About that grudge-holding yearbook editor—” Asher started to say, but before he could recommence wheedling, he was summarily cut off.
“You owe me a favor.” Emilia Rhodes wasn’t a person who bothered with words as mundane as hello. She was as intense as Asher was laid-back—and she was, unfortunately, correct.
I did owe her a favor.
“What do you want?” I asked Emilia.
She hooked an arm through mine. “Walk with me.” She didn’t speak again until we’d made it to the hallway. “Tomorrow during chapel, they’ll be taking student council nominations.”
“Student council elections take place on Election Day.” Emilia executed a delicate little shrug. “Hardwicke tradition.”
Hardwicke wasn’t a normal school. Most days, it didn’t even pretend to be.
“The next student council term begins in January,” Emilia continued. “I intend to be president. You have a certain amount of . . . influence”—it pained Emilia to say that word—“at this school, particularly among freshmen and miscellaneous social misfit types. When the headmaster calls for nominations tomorrow morning, I want you to nominate me. Maya will second your nomination.”
I waited for the catch. “That’s it?” I said, when none was forthcoming. “Nominate you for student council president, and we’re even?”
Emilia gave a roll of her blue-green eyes. “No. You’ll nominate me, and then you’ll make sure I win, and then we’ll be even.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “And how am I supposed to make sure you win?”
“How do you do anything?” Emilia shot back. “I’m not asking for a miracle here, Tess. I’m qualified for the job. I’m in good social standing. I have the right connections. And you know I’ll do a better job than John Thomas Wilcox.”
John Thomas was the horrible excuse for a human being who’d coerced the vice president’s daughter into taking those pictures. After I’d stopped him from sharing them, he’d zeroed in on me as a target.
He was a predator and a coward, and even the sound of his name set my teeth on edge.
“John Thomas is your opponent?” I couldn’t keep my features from working their way into a scowl.
“One of them,” Emilia confirmed, thrusting out her chin. “In the past decade, Hardwicke has had only one female student council president. My parents are dentists. His father is the minority whip.” Emilia stopped walking and turned to face me head-on. “I intend to win this, Tess.”
The last time Emilia had attempted to hire me, it was to keep Asher out of trouble. Putting her in office over John Thomas Wilcox seemed like a less Herculean task—not to mention more enjoyable.
“Fine,” I said. “I help you win this election, and then we’re even.”
Emilia’s lips parted in a small smile. “Welcome to the campaign.”