Did you know there is virtually not a single thing you can do in this world without leaving behind a trace that you’ve been there?
—PRINCIPAL BLANKENSHIP
“You’ll want to check out the six o’clock news tonight,” Spam says as she drops into the seat across from me and begins unwrapping a sandwich.
Lysa is only a few steps behind her. “Why? Are you going to be on it?”
“No. But the skateboarder’s video is. I sent it to the tip line,” she says.
“What?” Lysa says. “We said we didn’t have any videos. What if they ask us about it?”
“They won’t. I sent it anonymously from the computer lab.” Spam plays with her napkin. “The important thing is he will know and I’m hoping he’ll find a way to come back to thank me for clearing his name.”
“What about the other videos and statements I’ve been compiling?” Lysa asks.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Spam says. “I don’t think they’ll do the police much good. None of the photos were clear enough to identify him.”
“His video was pretty definitive evidence that the driver was distracted by her cell phone,” I say. “They probably don’t even need the other statements.” I peel my orange—a food decision I made because I was feeling Miss P–ish today.
* * *
There’s a vibration against my wrist and a flash of red. The three of us turn toward the door, expecting Blankface to walk through at any second.
“What are we looking at, ladies?”
Instead, it’s as if she just popped up out of the floor on the other side of our table.
“Whoa.” I’m surprised but try to conceal it. “I was just looking for the time,” I say.
“The door,” Spam says.
“I don’t know.” Lysa’s comment comes a moment behind mine and Spam’s.
Blankenship shakes her head at Lysa. “Young lady, if your grades weren’t so good I would have real concern about this befuddlement issue you seem to struggle with.”
Lysa opens her mouth to say something, then thinks better of it.
“Anyway,” Blankenship says. “I need to see all of you in my office.”
“When?” I ask.
“Now’s fine.” She abruptly turns and click clicks toward the door.
We gather up our lunch stuff. “This can’t be good,” I say.
Lysa shakes her head. “Not good at all.”
* * *
We file into Blankenship’s office. The only change from Principal Roberts’s office is that all the sports décor and photos are gone. Now, it’s just a big, bare office with old wooden furniture. She has a laptop open on her desk, but other than that, there isn’t a single personal item on display. Not a photo, personal coffee cup. Nothing.
She motions for us to sit. As we take seats in a line in front of her, she studies each of us in her odd, almost clinical way.
There’s a strong “bug under a microscope” vibe.
“Was I unclear when I asked you to provide me with the identity of the skateboarder who caused that accident?” She’s not smiling, but her voice is syrup sweet. I’m pretty sure she has something on us. I’m just not sure what.
I pause to process what she might or might not know about our activities. It’s my strategy to try to let the story unspool before commenting. I would rather not get caught in a straight-up lie.
Lysa slides down a little lower in her seat and nervously chews on a ragged nail. Wise, considering how easily Blankface unravels her.
“I wish we knew who he was,” Spam says, sitting forward in her seat. “But we don’t.”
“And yet…” The principal spins a paper from her side of the desk to in front of us. “I’m guessing it was one of you who sent a video of the accident to a TV news reporter.”
Spam’s eyes widen and she sucks in a breath.
Lysa stares at her shoes.
I’m scrambling for any diversion to take some of the heat off them. Like wouldn’t it be amazing if my hair could magically catch fire and then, when this was over, be normal again?
When none of us speaks, she continues. “The email was sent through an anonymous link. But you girls know the drill probably better than most. Did you know there is almost nothing you can do without leaving behind a trace?”
I wish she would just say it and get it over with. This toying with us is excruciating.
As if she can read my mind, she sits up and reads off the piece of paper in her hand. “This is from an email I received about thirty minutes ago stating that a reporter, who incidentally recently interviewed the three of you, received a video of the accident a short while ago. The ISP it came from is here, at the school.”
The three of us swallow hard.
“My guess is it was sent from the computer lab, wouldn’t you agree, Samantha?”
“That’s logical.” Spam nods and clears her throat. “But FYI, lots of people have access to that lab.”
Blankenship calmly laces her fingers in front of her on the desk and it has the effect of a spider spinning a web completely around its prey. “They do. And it’s not like we could dust every keyboard on campus for fingerprints. And, even if we could, that wouldn’t tell us what we need to know. Would it, Erin?”
I shrivel as she directs her gaze at me. I shake my head.
“Are you familiar with forensic linguistics? It’s the study of how certain authors use words that stand out. Like here: FYI, on the first line.” She taps her finger on the page. “FYI isn’t really a high-school acronym. Not like LOL or TBH or FWIW. Or even YOLO. But one of you likes to say FYI a lot. When something stands out as different it can be tracked.”
My cheeks burn with shame and a bit of shock. She has nailed us completely.
“Are you wondering how I know about forensic linguistics?” she asks.
Lysa and Spam sit completely still. But I can’t help it. I nod.
“It’s those murder podcasts.” She leans in again, as if we’re best girlfriends or something. “I’m completely addicted to them and they have the best ideas for catching someone in a lie. Anyway, as I was saying, one of you is very fond of—”
Spam holds up her hand. “I sent the video.”
“Ahhh. Finally.” Blankenship actually smiles, which is maybe more unnerving than her scowl. “Thank you for that, Samantha.” She picks up a pencil. “So now, tell me his name. You might even be entitled to a reward, though I’m not sure that’s really fair, since you were also protecting him.”
Spam gestures, palms up. “I told you. We. Don’t. Know.”
“Then how—” Blankenship asks.
There’s a light tap on the door and Detective Sydney enters. She shakes her head as she recognizes us sitting in the principal’s office. “How am I not surprised?”
My sinking feeling plunges to new depths. Not only will Victor know what I’ve been up to, but Rachel will get a full report as well.
She speaks to Blankenship. “We paid a visit to the driver and showed her the video.” Detective Sydney scowls at us. “You understand that you were in that video and you’re minors and the TV station cannot run images of minors like that without permission.”
Now I sink lower in my seat. What’s wrong with us? We should have thought of that.
“This is how easily this stuff gets out of hand. The driver has changed her story. Now she says she was turning into the school driveway when a girl in the drive-up area used a mirror to temporarily blind her while her two friends laughed and she helplessly veered off course and plowed into the flagpole. She’s claiming the cause of the accident is that she was pranked by teenagers. And even though she appears to be texting and driving, this video could back up her claim of pranking, laughing teenagers.”
“That’s a lie,” Spam blurts out. “We were laughing at the skateboarder, not her.”
“You girls need to understand that this isn’t a game.” Miss Blankenship turns her laptop around, revealing that the chief has been on video conference this whole time.
“Oh boy.” Lysa hides her eyes behind her hand.
“We’re sorry, Chief.” I glance at Lysa and Spam.
“I’m deeply disappointed in all of you, but especially you, Erin. I thought we had an understanding.”
“We did … we still do.” I’m stammering.
“Now I’m not so sure. And, after this stunt, I’m also not sure that it’s appropriate for you three to be camp counselors. This isn’t an example of the kind of role-modeling we expect,” he says.
All three of us sit up.
“No. Wait. Seriously, we are good role models. This is a fluke,” I say. “We honestly, really don’t know the skateboard guy. Not at all.”
“But how—” Detective Sydney comes around to face us.
“He just showed up yesterday, in the middle of a crowd, and gave me a flash drive with his video on it,” Spam says. “And then he disappeared again.”
Detective Sydney rests her hip on the corner of the desk. “But you have been gathering statements from other witnesses. Correct?”
I sink a little further into my seat. This isn’t getting better.
“People just sent them to us,” Spam says. “What were we supposed to do?”
“Turn them over to us!” Sydney and the chief say at the same time.
“All three of you made an agreement with your parents: no more investigations,” Sydney says.
We nod.
“This right here is investigating. And it threatens this whole case,” Detective Sydney says. “You are unskilled at interrogation, which means you could unintentionally manipulate your classmates’ memories of the accident.” Syd holds out her hand. “Which one of you has the videos and statements? Hand them over.”
Lysa holds up her phone. “I do. But you need to talk to my father before you take this.”
Detective Sydney gestures strongly to the mirror back of Lysa’s case. “Well, that explains the driver’s allegation of a mirror.”
Blankenship picks up her phone and presses a button. “Send him in.”
The door opens again and Mr. Martin, Lysa’s father, strides in.
Lysa looks ready to crawl under her chair. “Daddy?”
He scowls. “Alysa Marie. What have I told you about being called to school on your behalf?”
“Make sure it’s for an award,” she whispers.
“And am I here to witness you receiving an award?”
She shakes her head.
Detective Sydney nods at Lysa. “She admitted there’s evidence on her phone.”
He holds out his hand in front of Lysa. She lays her phone across his palm.
He turns to Detective Sydney. “My client is voluntarily handing over her personal property, without admission of guilt, to further the efforts of the department in this case. The password is foreverVans21.” He looks at Lysa for verification. “Correct?”
She nods.
The principal takes an envelope out of her drawer and holds it open. Mr. Martin drops her phone into it.
Lysa sighs.
He hands the envelope to Detective Sydney. Turning to Lysa, he says, “I’ll see you at home.”
Blankenship scribbles out passes. “You three can go back to class now.”
“Wait,” Detective Sydney says. “I just want to make something perfectly and completely clear. You three are minors. Students. You are not detectives. You do not investigate cases … for any reason. Is that clear?”
Lysa, Spam, and I nod.
“Now, is there anything else that you know about that skateboarder that you have not shared with us?” she asks.
“No.” I share a look with both Lysa and Spam.
“I don’t want the three of you to even think about that boy again,” Detective Sydney says. “Now. Go to class.”
We grab our passes and flee Blankface’s office.
“So much for anonymous tips,” Spam grumbles as we hurry down the hall.
“And FYI, no more FYI,” I say.
“Roger that,” Spam agrees. Then she slaps a nondescript phone into Lysa’s hand. “Here, you can use my backup phone until you get yours back. I can program your calls and messages to forward to it.”
“Thanks,” Lysa says. “Now if only you could program the lecture I’m going to get from my mother to go somewhere else too.”
“How much trouble are you in?” I ask.
“Well, generally lying to them is a much bigger deal. In situations like this they usually take the position that I have to suffer my own consequences as they are, but they won’t add to them,” she says.
“So, if we get kicked off the camp counselor job?” I say.
“I’ll be asking someone if they want fries with that,” Lysa says. “And I’ll just have to live with it.”
“Oh my god!” I pat my bag. “You guys, I completely forgot. I still have the skateboarder’s fingerprint. What should I do with it?”
“Destroy it,” Spam says. “They’ll use it to track him down like an escaped convict.”
“Admitting I lifted the print is going to look pretty bad in light of the lecture we just got from Detective Sydney,” I say. “But they’re making such a big deal out of this, what if it’s really important for them to find him? Shouldn’t we help them?”
“It’s up to the police to do their own investigative work,” Lysa says. “It’s their job, not ours. My dad says that a lot. They had an opportunity to take that print before they towed the car.”
“But what should I do with it now?”
I look from Lysa to Spam. Blank looks from both.
The bell rings, signaling the transition to our last class of the day. We split off and head in different directions.
* * *
As I walk out to the front of the school from last period I can’t miss Journey’s van pulled up at the drive-up area, engine running.
The door squeals open as I hurry toward it. He reaches out a hand to help me up.
“Hi.” I pause to give him a peck on the cheek. “Nice surprise after the day I had.”
He puts the van in gear and starts to drive out of the lot.
“Are we going somewhere?” I’m hoping for someplace quiet, where we can be alone and just hang out—my nerves are pretty jangled after the meeting with Blankface.
“I can’t,” Journey says. “I have to go in early to work but I wanted to give you a ride home and tell you some exciting news.”
“What?”
“Victor met with my mom and my dad’s attorney today.”
“That’s great. Is your mom on board with reopening the investigation?”
“Not yet.” Journey slightly rolls his eyes. “I mean, maybe. She’s worried that reexamining any of the evidence will seal his fate forever. She wants to believe there’s a better chance to get my father off on a legal procedural error, you know, like if Lysa’s dad did something wrong while defending him. But everyone—including Victor—says there’s no guarantee of that because the facts are so weird.”
“I know Lysa’s dad. If you think she’s an obsessive rule-follower, you should see him.”
“That’s pretty much what Victor said too.”
“Is she going to let Victor try?” If Journey’s mom was really opposed to going forward with the investigation, Victor might stop—unless some actual new evidence appeared.
“She didn’t say yes—but she didn’t say no, either,” Journey explains. “She wants my dad to give his opinion. So we’re going to the prison to talk to him tomorrow.”
My mouth drops open, but for a long moment no sound comes out.
“You’re going to meet your father?”
“Yes. Can you believe it? My family is getting this chance because of you. I can’t wait to tell my dad the whole story of how this came to be and that my amazing girlfriend is the one who’s responsible for it.”
“I’m honored. Really. And I’ll be thinking about you the whole time.”
Journey drives toward my house. “So how was your day?”
“Mmmm.” Not sure I want to get into the whole ugly mess about Blankenship, the chief, and Detective Sydney over the skateboarder issue. I suspect Journey’s reaction would be that he tried to warn us. “My day was … just a day. But it’s so much better now. I’m really happy for you and excited.”
“Thank you. How about if I plan a special date for us tomorrow night?” Journey says.
“An actual … real, like going out kind of date?”
“Yes. An actual real going out kind of date.” He chuckles at my inarticulate response. “I’ll come up with something special. Just the two of us … we can celebrate.”
I can’t explain the ambush of a sudden nervous flutter. I’m completely comfortable around Journey, and him asking me on a date is a good thing. But my uncontrollable flares of emotion seem to be telling another story altogether. And I don’t understand it.