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I can’t sleep until I tear a page of homework into pieces, crumple up a strip, and jam it into the latch, like Felicity did to Mrs. Brewster’s office door.

On the TV mounted above my dresser, the little girl that’s supposed to be me holds a knife.

By the time I leave for school—later than usual, because my alarm didn’t go off—Mom’s smeared wood filler into the dent I put in the butcher block counter. It’s not the right color.

It takes exactly five minutes after the tardy bell for things to start going downhill.

I’m in homeroom, rushing through statistics questions I neglected to do over the weekend, as the intercom prattles through its usual morning announcements: the Pledge of Allegiance I never stand for, reminders about the school play, and—

“Will Morgan Slaughter please report to the principal’s office? I repeat, will Morgan Slaughter please report to the principal’s office. Thank you.”

It’s not that I was fully convinced we’d get away with what happened Saturday, but I’d allowed myself to hope.

Every eye in the room turns to me. The girl at the desk to my right tucks her arm close to her side, like I’m going to open up her vein. Daddys girl.MOV playing in repeat in her head, apparently. I look to my homeroom teacher for a scrap of context, but she gives me nothing except a sharp nod at the door.

Fine. I jam my homework into my bag hard enough that the thump makes someone startle, and I storm out into the hall.

Breathe, I tell myself as I walk. It’ll be fine. Vincent likes me too much for his own good. All I have to do is say the right things and—I can use this, maybe. I can throw Felicity under the bus. Even tell Vincent what’s really been happening; tell the truth for once. Felicity Keating is fucking blackmailing me. I do that, and he’ll come to my defense like he always does.

But when I get to the administrative offices, they’re cold. Ms. Penny sits at her desk, wordlessly pointing Vincent’s way. And when I open his door, it feels heavier than it should.

“Hey,” I say cautiously.

Vincent takes off his thick-rimmed glasses.

He looks like shit. There are bags under his eyes, and he’s fiddling with one of his twists. He does that when he has a report he doesn’t want to work on, or expenses to review, or whatever else principals do that sucks.

He says, “Sit down.”

Usually, when I’m in his office, I’m wandering around. Pacing back and forth like Leah did during dinner, or using a pair of tweezers to clean up the dead leaves of his beloved succulent plants. The last time I sat, it was the day he gave me the code to the employee entrance.

It doesn’t feel like that kind of day. I sink into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“What did you do to the office?” Vincent says.

I didn’t expect him to get right down to it.

I say, “What?” The word comes out in the flat monotone Vincent is used to as my brain snatches for scaffolding to build my escape: the most efficient way to slip free from the accusation and let it land on Felicity instead. “Since when do you accuse me of stuff?”

Vincent doesn’t take the bait. “I got a notification that you used your code on Saturday,” he says, nodding to his phone. That’s no surprise. He has the school security system configured so he gets alerted whenever I show up after hours. “Which is fine. I gave you the code for a reason, and usually, I’m glad to see it in use. It means you needed a place to go and you had one.”

I nod, though I’m not paying attention. I just have to put up a fight for a little bit, wait for the perfect moment, then make a show of crumbling. That’s when I can drop the truth, right when it hits the hardest.

I barely hear Vincent as he continues.

“But when I show up today,” he says, “Ms. Penny out there? She tells me that her desk’s been messed with. And Mrs. Brewster informs me that not only were her belongings rearranged, but her file cabinets are damaged, and …”

For a moment, I make eye contact to pretend that I’m listening.

Vincent’s face as he talks:

Sad eyes. Pitying eyebrows. Downturned lips.

Disappointed in me.

My skin crawls. No. Even when I really do something I shouldn’t, even when he thinks I seriously fucked up, Vincent is supposed to be the adult who understands. He’s supposed to be the grown-up who gives me leeway, brushes things under the rug, lets me go.

He’s not supposed to look at me like that.