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Felicity, after a moment, retrieves a wadded-up sticky note from the door latch.

“You planned this,” I say coldly. I keep organizing papers, though. It’s giving my hands something to do and my head something to focus on that isn’t the clusterfuck of whatever today has been.

“No,” Felicity snaps, then follows that up with “Kind of.”

I grind my teeth. I harbor nothing but apathy toward Ms. Penny and dislike Mrs. Brewster on principle. I’m not upset because Felicity messed with their shit—I’m pissed because Felicity managed to barge their way into one of the few unspoiled places I have left. “The fuck were you doing, then?”

Felicity visibly hesitates, then says, “You’re not recording, right?”

“No.”

“Um.” They flit through a few half-aborted actions: scrubbing their face, throwing away the sticky note before deciding it’s probably better off in their pocket. “I wanted to see my record. See what’s on it. Figure out how—specific? Identifying? It is. If there’s anything I should be worried about? I don’t know.” They put the gold cross of their necklace against their bottom lip. “I’ve been, uh, planning on getting in here for a while. Thought I’d figure out the counselor’s schedule, convince the receptionist I’m running an errand for her, but I freaked out yesterday and took Ms. Perkins’s key card and—”

Our biology teacher? “You stole her card?”

Mrs. Brewster’s office is quiet. Too quiet for me. The janitorial team turns off the central air outside of school hours, and the lack of sound makes me itch.

Felicity says, “I’m adopted.”

I say, “Okay?” because that literally isn’t relevant at all.

“No,” they say, “my bio parents—” My speech-language pathologist would be proud to know I can recognize how uncomfortable they are. “You know what it’s like for people to fuck you up. Right? To be scared of what they’d do if they found you.”

I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t afraid.

But I did think about it.

During the trial, the first time Dad and I saw each other since he was arrested, I considered the chances of him screaming at me, lunging across the courtroom, finding a way to punish me for my betrayal. I memorized the faces of the victims’ families and scanned for them in crowds, waiting for one to approach in a fury.

It’s not the same, but it’s close enough.

“If my bio parents find out I’m alive,” Felicity whispers, “can they tell FERPA to fuck off and pull my record? Get my address, get everything? Does that even apply to public schools? Or maybe they can FOIA it. Can you FOIA school records?”

Literally only a teenager raised in DC would reference the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act and the Freedom of Information Act less than five minutes after a breakdown.

I close the file cabinet. “Winthrop gets federal funding,” I say. Felicity whimpers, a sort of how do you know that and why does it matter sound, but I shrug. I spent a solid month last year doing research to see if I could cut Mom off from my grades, with no luck. “Not a lot, but enough that FERPA kicks in. And also, you can’t FOIA student records, Jesus Christ. So no. Anyone who isn’t your legal guardian is shit out of luck.”

“But that’s not the point,” Felicity protests. “The point is—”

Right. The point is that people are fallible, and tricky, and gullible, and evil, and Felicity Keating is scared. I almost ask why they don’t bring this up to their adoptive parents, loop them and the school in on some kind of, I don’t know, protection plan. But considering that I haven’t heard a peep from a single adult since I tore up their face, I’m assuming that’s not a great relationship, either.

And …

What was it they said? The exact wording? If my bio parents find out I’m alive.

There’s something awful happening under the surface here. Something bigger than I have a grasp on.

A feeling horrifyingly similar to pity, or god forbid, understanding, tugs at my stomach.

I don’t have time for that.

“I got scared,” they say. “I didn’t really think it through.”

“Obviously. Give me that screwdriver.” I pluck it out of their hand. At least it’s not their switchblade. “We’ll drop Ms. Perkins’s card under her desk before we leave.”

Felicity nods. “Okay.”

“And you weren’t going to find anything. All student records are digital. No idea what you’ve been tearing through.”