“You still lurking around in white folks’ inboxes?” he asked. “You gotta be careful, B. That principal of yours doesn’t play.”

  “You gonna tell Mama and Daddy? Don’t. Please.” I made the word please an octave higher and a hint whinier than my normal voice. Salim would be less likely to rat on me if I played the baby sister card.

  “Nah. I won’t. But make sure Sean doesn’t find out. You and I both know he’s the family snitch.” Sean is our parents’ golden boy: a Howard junior, an Omega man, an intern on Capitol Hill. He’s following in Daddy’s footsteps. And I’m supposed to be using the same blueprint. First, become valedictorian at Archwell. Next, on to Spelman and rush AKA like Mama. After that . . . To be honest, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do after that. Be perfect, I guess.

  But I am not perfect.

  And Salim’s warning was right: if Sean found out about my antics, he would rat on me. Just like Rory would if she ever found out I was sifting through half the inboxes on campus.

  It’s not hard to hack a phone remotely. I started dabbling with it in middle school as a means to revenge. To be fair, Dashawn Hall deserved the hack. He broke up with me in front of everyone in cotillion class, right there on the dance floor. Later, he told all the boys I was so greasy that he could feel the sweat on my hands all the way through my white gloves. He was lying, of course. He didn’t know who he was messing with.

  Dashawn’s phone history made it obvious he was using his mama’s credit card without her permission. He was paying for content that big-bro Sean would’ve called “salacious in nature.” Salim would’ve called it “that X-rated shit.” To me, it was the perfect leverage. I sent his mama anonymous screenshots of Dashawn’s receipts. Then I erased all traces of the hack. I still get a little thrill, goose bumps up and down my arms, when I think about how I got away with it.

  Here at Archwell, I’m not out for revenge—just inside information. It’s easy to hack Rory’s phone because I know her security code: 1952. The year her great-grandfather Edgar Archwell founded Archwell Academy. It’s easy to remember, and it’s not like she’d ever let anyone forget it anyway. I scroll through her messages. It doesn’t seem like she told anyone else about the thing that happened on Friday after the Founder’s Night party—the thing that I haven’t dared to bring up since. The thing I’m trying not to worry about . . . even though it’s driven me to snoop through Rory’s messages.

  The texts from over the weekend are all pretty standard. One particularly spicy message from Caitlin Callahan proves that she and Rory are hooking up again. I know you’re supposed to be jealous when your ex gets together with someone new, but I don’t feel that way toward Rory anymore. I’m sure I’ll meet someone eventually, I don’t care what gender. Still, I can’t escape the fact that Rory Archwell will forever hold the title of First Girl I Ever Dated. There’s no changing that.

  One thing on Rory’s phone seems a little sus. She made an outgoing call at 12:10 a.m. on Saturday. To make things even weirder, Rory called her mom. She never calls her mom. The call lasted thirty-five seconds, no texts between them after that. I know this might be nothing, but it’s making my brain run all the possibilities. Why would Rory make that call so late at night? Did she mention what happened after the Founder’s Night party? What we did? What I did? If the chancellor already knew about what happened, she wouldn’t be waiting around to call my parents. I would’ve been packing my bags over the weekend, headed home to Mama and Daddy to explain why I failed them, how I couldn’t stay a step ahead, how I’m not going to be Archwell’s first Black valedictorian, how I let down our entire family.

  But, as far as I can tell, the chancellor doesn’t know what happened. It’s a new week and there’s still hope.

  In the hallway outside the biology lab, I close out of my Co-Spy app and slip my phone into my oversized Fendi. I pull out my tablet and one of the packs of gum I’ve been saving for today. Spearmint is good luck for my AP Bio exam. My jaw always aches during midterms because I try to chew gum instead of chewing my nails. But, inevitably, I run out of gum. That’s when I end up ripping off my gel manicure and biting my nails down to the nub. Then I have to go get a manicure before I visit home on the weekends because Salim and Sean will rib me if I don’t. That won’t happen today though. I brought five packs of gum. I know I’ll probably need every last stick.

  “Good morning, Blythe.” Mrs. Masters is standing beneath the Gothic arch of her classroom door, keys in hand. As usual, she looks a little rumpled in her tweed blazer and khaki skirt. It’s the same outfit she wears every Monday. “First period doesn’t start for another twenty minutes.”

  “I know, Mrs. Masters,” I say. “I’m just doing some last-minute review.”

  “You know I can’t let you into the classroom before the exam officially starts. It’s one of those tests,” she says.

  “Yes, ma’am. I know,” I say, turning up the brightness in my voice. “I’m cozy out here.” I lean back in my seat on the mahogany bench, open my tablet to my ClassFace app, and pull up my virtual biology flashcards.

  “The early bird always catches the worm,” Mrs. Masters croons. “I suppose that’s why you are on the cover of every Archwell Academy brochure, Blythe Harris.”

  I feign a giggle and nod at Mrs. Masters as she shuffles into the classroom with her travel mug and Science Rocks canvas tote. She meant what she said as a compliment, but there’s a specific reason my picture has been all over the school’s brochures since I was in first grade. It’s not because I’m an early bird. It’s because I’m one of the only Black girls in a sea of whiteness.

  Last year, the school wanted to do a feature of me and my grandmother for the fall alumni magazine. The article they pitched was cringe worthy: Rose Harris’s Mother Was a Maid at Archwell. Now Her Granddaughter Is Top of the Class. Thankfully, Grandma Rose wasn’t having it.

  “Those folks at that school of yours are damn fools if they think they’re gonna get one more millisecond of my time,” she said. “Blythe, don’t let them put you on display just to make themselves look good.”

  Grandma Rose had part of it right. But there’s another part that she and I never had a chance to talk about before she passed. At Archwell, it feels like the students and teachers look at me but they don’t . . . see me. I’m an invisible girl and I always have been. But I suppose there is an upside. If they’re smart about it, invisible girls can get away with a hell of a lot of shit.

  I open my GradeSnooper app and sync it to Mrs. Masters’s computer. Her desktop is booting up in the classroom, just on the other side of the ornately paneled wall. Soon she’ll download today’s exam into the secure testing app. I’m not looking for answers to the test questions. I would never do that. I just want a preview—a sense of what I’m up against. At the very least, it’ll help me lay off the gum.

  As the first question loads on my tablet, my news app sends me a notification. US Senate Anticipated to Pass a Federal Ban on Trans Athletes in Public Schools. A groan erupts from my throat. Those motherfuckers. As I read the article, my teeth start to hurt. Anger is guiding the muscles in my jaw, grinding my molars together. My body is trying to find some way, any way, to reject the news.

  Another notification materializes and the tension in my face spreads to my throat, knotting up my windpipe. Two Dead After Sunday’s Women’s March. DC Incel Shooter Still at Large. Two sentences into the article and I’ve already lost the gel polish from my pinky finger. My little cuticle is bleeding. My breath is fast and hot. I swipe away the news. I shouldn’t keep my notifications turned on in the first place. It always messes with my head, knowing that this world isn’t safe . . .

  I need to get my mind right—now is not the time to get trapped in fear and bad memories. I think about the way my feet feel in my loafers. I feel the pleats of my collar caress my neck. I sense the cool smoothness of my Lilies ring on my right hand. Class of 2024. Yellow diamonds in the loops of the infinity symbol. I’ll wear it when I eventually cross the stage to make my valedictorian speech. Just a few more months to go, I promise myself. Just a few more tests and projects and presentations and events. “It’s not a big deal,” I breathe aloud. I just need to take the next step and conquer AP Bio. I can survive. I can.

  My tablet buzzes in my lap. It’s another notification. This one is a text. It’s from Rory. Lord. I can’t believe that girl really had the nerve to text me now after a weekend of silence. Still, I have to see what she sent. My future depends on it. I take a deep breath and open the text.

  Morning B. Hope you’re not feeling too guilty about what happened . . . I know if it were me I’d be feeling pretty shitty right now. Hope you were able to get some sleep this weekend. I bet it was hard. Just wanted to say good luck on bio today. 😉

  And in another message on the heels of the first: Never forget, you’re a Lily always. Ut sacram memoriam.

  My whole body turns cold. My scalp starts to crawl. Ut sacram memoriam. Translation: keep sacred memory. It’s the Lilies vow, or at least the first line of it. It’s our pledge to keep our secrets. Even when the secrets play on a loop in your mind again and again. Even when the secrets torture you, haunting your memory all the way to the grave. Rory knows I’m thinking about what happened to Charlotte: my little, the newest Lily. She knows that the memory of what I did to her has been welling up in me like a sickness. She’s trying to get in my head by not letting me forget what happened. And, in her own way, she’s threatening me . . . She’s reminding me that she hasn’t forgotten what happened either. And as long as Rory knows what I did, there’s always the possibility that someone else could find out. And that would mean . . .

  Suddenly, I’m burning up. I take off my blazer and unfasten the top two buttons of my blouse, but it’s no use. The Lilies vow is echoing in my head. I already feel my sweat pooling underneath my silk shirt. A thousand whispers loop around each other. Ut sacram memoriam—sacram memoriam—sacram—

  The hallway starts to curl around itself. I can’t breathe. I undo another button and try to stand, steadying myself against the cherry woodwork. My lungs are burning. My face is wet. Tears and perspiration run together. I lug myself down the hall to the bathroom and steady myself against the porcelain sink.

  “You’re okay,” I tremble. I run the water and watch it twist into the bottom of the basin. It disappears down the drain. “You’re okay, Blythe. You’re okay.” My voice is thin. I barely have enough breath for the words. It’s not my first panic attack. The hardest part is remembering that you are not actually dying. I splash water on my face then bend down over the sink so I can do the same against the back of my neck. “You’re okay,” I whisper. I keep my eyes fixed to a point on the emerald-tiled walls.

  My mind tries to slip back into the memory. All the Lilies are in a dark room. They hold their candles away from their hooded faces as they form a circle around the—

  “Don’t go there, Blythe,” I tell myself. “You are in this room. You’re safe. You’re in your body. You are not dying.”

  It’s not unheard of to have a panic attack during midterms. To be honest, I think I’ve struggled every exam week since sixth grade. Knowing I have to be better than the best makes me feel like I’m lugging around extra weight all the time. It feels like Mama and Daddy, and all my uncles and aunties, and even Sean and Salim, are looking over my shoulder, telling me not to mess up. Well, I messed up. And Rory knows it. And now she’s using it to her advantage. I know because, if I were her, I’d do the same thing.

  “You’re okay,” I whisper to myself. “You’re okay.” I whisper the words over and over until Grandma Rose’s voice floats into my mind.

  “You’ll be okay, baby,” she always said to me. “Those girls at that school will make you feel like you lost your mind. But that’s just their game. You’re gonna be all right. Just watch yourself around them.” Rose knew all about Archwell. She didn’t go to school here, of course. Back in the early ’50s, she wasn’t allowed. But her mama was a laundress and a cleaning lady for the school and she had to clean up more than one mess made by an Archwell girl. If Rose had not watched her mother go through all of that, she might not have been as adamant about preparing me for Archwell. “You’re gonna be all right,” she would say. “Just remember to keep your wits about you.”

  I steady my breath. “I’m gonna be all right.”

  I keep my eyes on the tiles, following their geometry all the way around the perimeter of the bathroom. Eventually I turn the tap off and dry my neck and armpits with a paper towel. I don’t know how long it’s been, but the bell for first period probably rang already. I grab my bag and check the mirror before I go. I look a little wide-eyed but my hair isn’t mussed too much. I smooth down my edges, button up my blouse again, and give myself a fake smile. Good enough.

  The hallway is empty but the classrooms hum behind closed doors. First period has definitely started. I’m now late for my exam. I rush back to Mrs. Masters’s classroom, but the door is closed and Ms. Sherman is sitting at my spot on the hallway bench. She’s eating an English muffin and staring at her tablet. The screen is a grid of video feeds: Archwell’s hallways, the courtyard, the front gate. Hall monitor duty here is on a whole other level.

  “Blythe, you’re late for your midterm.” Ms. Sherman speaks with her mouth full. “The chancellor wants to see you in her office.”

  My heartbeat surges again. I ball my right hand into a fist. My pulse pushes against the Lilies ring. “I’m sorry I’m late. I was just in the bathroom,” I say, my voice smaller than I mean it to be. “Why do I have to go to see the chancellor?”

  “You’re late for an AP exam,” Ms. Sherman says, taking the last bite of her breakfast sandwich and wiping her mouth on a paper napkin. “It’s the policy.”

  “Sorry, Ms. Sherman, but it’s not. I was in AP Calc last semester and I remember Emily Crowler came in almost fifteen minutes late to the midterm. She didn’t have a pass or any—”

  “Just go, Blythe.” Ms. Sherman hands me a hall pass to the chancellor’s office. “I keep telling all you girls, your actions have consequences.”

  Bitch.

  I take the pass and leave Ms. Sherman without saying goodbye. This isn’t about being late. Something else is going on. Something that Rory might already know about.

  I exit onto the quad. Before I can catch myself, I’ve picked the gel polish off my ring finger. Damn. My Lilies diamonds sparkle in the fall sunshine. The inscription catches the light. Ut sacram memoriam.

  4

  Veró

  Malcriada is everything I’m not. Outspoken. Daring. Controversial. When I make installations under her pseudonym, I don’t have to play by the rules. I mark each piece with my signature M and go about my business without any regret. After all, Malcriada has nothing to lose. No family. No history. When I install a new piece as Malcriada, it’s art. But when I do it as Verónica Martín, it’s vandalism. That’s certainly how my parents see it anyway. It’s how they saw it at Easton Academy too.

  The dean at Easton explained the situation to Papi over the phone. “Veronica was found defacing a portrait that’s been in the school’s collection for over forty years.” In addition to mispronouncing my name, the dean failed to mention that the “portrait” was just an old poster, the kind they used to hang in classrooms back in the day. Still, I don’t think that added detail would’ve changed the way Papi felt about the whole thing. My design adapted the old poster of Ronald Reagan into an image of el diablo. Over the words Ronald Reagan—40th President of the United States of America, I superimposed the words Ronald Reagan—Imperialist, Capitalist, White Supremacist Patriarch. Papi really didn’t like that.

  “What you did was un-American, Verónica,” he screamed into the phone.

  I scoffed.

  Papi is very concerned about appearing “American.” The story he tells on the campaign trail is an “all-American” tale of “rags to riches,” a man born in East LA to parents who immigrated from Campeche for a better life in California. He lets people believe that his parents were campesinos, but it’s just not true.

  The year before my father was born his parents sold their vast waterfront property to American developers and made for the States. The story goes that my grandmother went into labor while they were stuck in traffic on the 710 so they wound up at a hospital in East LA, even though they were Downey residents. Papi never dives into the fact that he basically grew up in what is now one of LA’s fanciest suburbs. Some of his biggest donors are other Latinos from Downey and they eat Papi’s rags-to-riches story right up. People will believe anything if you say it with enough conviction.

  “Positively un-American, Veró,” Papi shouted again. In the background of our phone call, I could hear the roar of the crowd from his campaign event in God-Knew-Where. “This kind of thing does not reflect well on the Martín family, mija. Not during the midterms. We raised you to be respectful. I don’t know where this behavior comes from.” He didn’t show up to move me out of the Easton dorms. Neither did Mami. They sent Troy, Mami’s assistant, instead.

  “For what it’s worth,” Troy said as he loaded the last of my bags into the rental car. “The illustration you did over President Reagan’s face was very good. You’ve got talent, Veró. You’ve just got to be strategic with where and how you use it.”

  There’s nothing that makes my skin crawl more than a patronizing adult offering unsolicited advice to the Impressionable Youth of America. As Malcriada, my approach is all about strategy. A big part of that strategy is not getting caught . . . Well, at least not again.

  At Archwell, I’ve been smarter about when and where I make my Malcriada installations. People know the work by now, of course. It stands out on the school’s otherwise pristine campus—a lime-green stencil on weathered sandstone, a fake flyer calling all “miscreants” to report to “Miss Understood’s” classroom for a meeting of “the Ouija Club.” People know that each piece is by the same artist because I sign all the work with Malcriada’s anonymous M. Nobody but me knows her name. I make it my business to keep it that way.