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"Yeah. It wasn't my idea, either."
    He eventually finds the right key, unlocks the door, and pulls it wide. There's little difference between the temperature outside and the temperature inside. They must shut off the heat for the weekend. I breathe warm air against my already frozen fingers.
    Better make this fast.
    Principal Howell turns on the hallway lights. "I'll be in my office if you need anything."
    "I don't think this will take very long," I assure him. The last locker search was a complete waste of time, and there aren't many students here. Bedford High is actually one of the smallest high schools I've seen. Hell, my graduating class in Hamilton had more students than this place.
    I head down the senior hallway first, flipping on lights as I go. There's something weird about a school after hours. The shadows. The stillness. A place should never feel so quiet and empty.
    I could kick myself for not staying late on Friday. I should be at home. Relaxing. I should've never gone to Hamilton.
    Next week . Next week I'll stay in town.
    I lift the latch of the first locker and shift the books, moving them aside, feeling behind them, searching for anything unusual. Out of the ordinary.
    Nothing.
    I slam the locker door shut and move on to the next.
    The lockers at this school don't even have combination locks—that's how small and safe this place is. Everyone knows everyone else. Everyone knows everyone's business. When I showed up, it only took a week and a half before I was getting strange looks from teachers, before freshmen mothers were steering their kids away from me, like rebellion is a disease, and they might catch it if they get too close.
    Someone should warn them: the kids are already rebelling, and I had nothing to do with it.
    The principal is the only person at this school who knows the truth. There was trouble on campus last year, and the year before. He's the one who slipped my "story" to a few unassuming teachers during in-service. After this, news spread like fire—first to the remaining teachers and then to parents. Then it trickled down to the students, and soon there wasn't a soul in this town who didn't know about Parker Whalen.
    The idea was that whoever was bringing the drugs into school would gravitate toward me. That's how it worked before, anyway. Unfortunately, that didn't happen. Now I'm trapped with this persona. And it's too late in the year to make friends—to do anything without seeming suspicious.
    I continue down the line, searching lockers one by one. Halfway through I spot a very familiar face staring back at me. Two familiar faces, actually. Jaden McEntyre and Blake Hanson at prom. They're smiling. Jaden is wearing too much make-up, and Blake looks stiff and awkward in his tuxedo, like he has a stick up his ass.
    I get the allure of the whole "star basketball player" thing, but something about Blake rubs me the wrong way. I can't decide if it's because he seems like a nice guy, or if he's too nice: if he's "I want you to think I'm this great guy when I'm really a prick" nice.
    Looking at him in his tuxedo, standing by Jaden, I decide to go the prick route.
    There are a few other shots of them taped to the door, and a picture of Jaden and her best friend, Savannah. Her class schedule is typed and posted, and there's a crimson Harvard crest—something cut out of a magazine or pamphlet.
    I heard she applied. Overheard, actually—the conversations of well-intentioned teachers and admiring underclassmen. She's aiming for med school. Everyone seems to think she has a chance to make it.
    I could see her as a doctor. A Doctor Without Borders.
    I've definitely witnessed the sense of entitlement.
    VE RI TAS. That's what the crest says.
    I wonder what it means.
    I pull the door wider and my reflection appears in her mirror—out of place next to the toothy grins and prom hair.
    I could use a good shave.
    I run my hand across my chin, then reach for the stack of books, ready to pull them out, to