One of Us is Lying(2)

“Somebody punked us!” Simon leans forward with his elbows on the desk, looking spring-loaded and ready to pounce on fresh gossip. His gaze darts over all four of us, clustered in the middle of the otherwise empty classroom, before settling on Nate. “Why would anybody want to trap a bunch of students with mostly spotless records in detention? Seems like the sort of thing that, oh, I don’t know, a guy who’s here all the time might do for fun.”

I look at Nate, but can’t picture it. Rigging detention sounds like work, and everything about Nate—from his messy dark hair to his ratty leather jacket—screams Can’t be bothered. Or yawns it, maybe. He meets my eyes but doesn’t say a word, just tips his chair back even farther. Another millimeter and he’ll fall right over.

Cooper sits up straighter, a frown crossing his Captain America face. “Hang on. I thought this was just a mix-up, but if the same thing happened to all of us, it’s somebody’s stupid idea of a prank. And I’m missing baseball practice because of it.” He says it like he’s a heart surgeon being detained from a lifesaving operation.

Mr. Avery rolls his eyes. “Save the conspiracy theories for another teacher. I’m not buying it. You all know the rules against bringing phones to class, and you broke them.” He gives Simon an especially sour glance. Teachers know About That exists, but there’s not much they can do to stop it. Simon only uses initials to identify people and never talks openly about school. “Now listen up. You’re here until four. I want each of you to write a five-hundred-word essay on how technology is ruining American high schools. Anyone who can’t follow the rules gets another detention tomorrow.”

“What do we write with?” Addy asks. “There aren’t any computers here.” Most classrooms have Chromebooks, but Mr. Avery, who looks like he should have retired a decade ago, is a holdout.

Mr. Avery crosses to Addy’s desk and taps the corner of a lined yellow notepad. We all have one. “Explore the magic of longhand writing. It’s a lost art.”

Addy’s pretty, heart-shaped face is a mask of confusion. “But how do we know when we’ve reached five hundred words?”

“Count,” Mr. Avery replies. His eyes drop to the phone I’m still holding. “And hand that over, Miss Rojas.”

“Doesn’t the fact that you’re confiscating my phone twice give you pause? Who has two phones?” I ask. Nate grins, so quick I almost miss it. “Seriously, Mr. Avery, somebody was playing a joke on us.”

Mr. Avery’s snowy mustache twitches in annoyance, and he extends his hand with a beckoning motion. “Phone, Miss Rojas. Unless you want a return visit.” I give it over with a sigh as he looks disapprovingly at the others. “The phones I took from the rest of you earlier are in my desk. You’ll get them back after detention.” Addy and Cooper exchange amused glances, probably because their actual phones are safe in their backpacks.

Mr. Avery tosses my phone into a drawer and sits behind the teacher’s desk, opening a book as he prepares to ignore us for the next hour. I pull out a pen, tap it against my yellow notepad, and contemplate the assignment. Does Mr. Avery really believe technology is ruining schools? That’s a pretty sweeping statement to make over a few contraband phones. Maybe it’s a trap and he’s looking for us to contradict him instead of agree.

I glance at Nate, who’s bent over his notepad writing computers suck over and over in block letters.

It’s possible I’m overthinking this.





Cooper


Monday, September 24, 3:05 p.m.


My hand hurts within minutes. It’s pathetic, I guess, but I can’t remember the last time I wrote anything longhand. Plus I’m using my right hand, which never feels natural no matter how many years I’ve done it. My father insisted I learn to write right-handed in second grade after he first saw me pitch. Your left arm’s gold, he told me. Don’t waste it on crap that don’t matter. Which is anything but pitching as far as he’s concerned.

That was when he started calling me Cooperstown, like the baseball hall of fame. Nothing like putting a little pressure on an eight-year-old.

Simon reaches for his backpack and roots around, unzipping every section. He hoists it onto his lap and peers inside. “Where the hell’s my water bottle?”

“No talking, Mr. Kelleher,” Mr. Avery says without looking up.

“I know, but—my water bottle’s missing. And I’m thirsty.”

Mr. Avery points toward the sink at the back of the room, its counter crowded with beakers and petri dishes. “Get yourself a drink. Quietly.”

Simon gets up and grabs a cup from a stack on the counter, filling it with water from the tap. He heads back to his seat and puts the cup on his desk, but seems distracted by Nate’s methodical writing. “Dude,” he says, kicking his sneaker against the leg of Nate’s desk. “Seriously. Did you put those phones in our backpacks to mess with us?”

Now Mr. Avery looks up, frowning. “I said quietly, Mr. Kelleher.”

Nate leans back and crosses his arms. “Why would I do that?”

Simon shrugs. “Why do you do anything? So you’ll have company for whatever your screw-up of the day was?”

“One more word out of either of you and it’s detention tomorrow,” Mr. Avery warns.