I always have an alibi. It helps that I also have first block as my free period. In the early morning light, Archwell girls are either in class or sleeping in. The teachers are slower and less vigilant. Some buildings are completely silent and empty. I never run into anyone who would suspect me as the artist known only as Malcriada.

  Today, I make sure that Ms. Katz sees me come into the library at seven forty-five a.m. “Can you look up a call number for me? I lost my copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls and I need it for Mrs. Holloway’s class.”

  “Let me see,” Ms. Katz taps on her keyboard for a moment. Her eyes dance across the desktop screen. “Second floor. Under PS351 . . . I’ll just print the number for you.” She fires up the little printer on her desk and gets a funny look on her face. “Hemingway, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I answer. I want to say, Yeah, Hemingway, that misogynistic drunk . . . but I don’t.

  “Great writer . . . and a total putz,” Ms. Katz mutters. “A landmark in American literature, sure. But definitely a major putz.”

  “I know, right?” I say. “Mrs. Holloway isn’t having any of that though. She’s got this whole thing about separating the art from the artist.”

  Ms. Katz sighs as she grabs the printout from the tray. “Well, that’s Mrs. Holloway’s opinion. But some of us have different thoughts.” She winks at me as she hands me the little slip of paper with the call number. Sometimes it seems like Ms. Katz is the only adult at Archwell who is normal.

  In many ways, Archwell is like any other prep school. There’s all the typical bs: white ladies pronouncing my name wrong, the “classics” syllabi from last century, and social cliques based on whether you’re a legacy student, a field hockey player, or a foreign exchange student. Before I transferred here from Easton, I mostly hung out with the exchange kids from Ecuador and Venezuela. They liked to tease me with all the usual brown-on-the-outside-white-on-the-inside food metaphors. I pretended like the jokes didn’t hurt. Still, it never feels great to be reminded that I’m too much of a “no sabo” kid for the other Latinas and too “ethnic” for the white girls. At Archwell, I keep to myself. Not just because of the jokes, but because some of the girls here are weird as hell.

  I’ve been to my fair share of prep schools, and I can honestly say that the vibe at Archwell Academy is off. Well, the vibe at all prep schools is always a little off, but at Archwell it’s on another level. Graduating from Archwell anoints you for the Ivy League, so girls here deeply believe they are the Chosen Ones. The superiority complex is turned up to a thousand. Some of them speak in riddles and whispers. And from the perspectives of the legacy students, anyone who has spent fewer than five years at the school is an outsider. The legacies have their own secret club, I’ve noticed. I like to think of them as Chancellor Archwell’s minions. They have matching rings. They dress alike. They mutter in Latin to each other. It’s funny how easily white people fall into culty shit. Sometimes I wish that all the legacies would just get it over with and all make out with each other in one of their secret meetings like I know they want to. That would definitely improve Archwell’s vibe.

  It’s good to be an outsider at Archwell. Good for me at least. Making art as Malcriada has taught me to embrace the benefits of being on the margins. It’s where I do my best work. But today’s installation doesn’t just require anonymity. I need stealth. What I’m working on this morning is big: a piece that will tear the mask off Archwell Academy and its so-called legacy.

  Upstairs in the stacks, I run into the new kid, Drew. Seeing them spooks me—the library is usually empty at this time of day. And, yes, they catch me with my 404 pages. The 404 project is a side hustle. It’s not really what I’m here to do. My encounter with Drew solidifies my alibi, though. At eight a.m. Monday, October 9, Veró Martín is on the second floor of McClure Library, with her copy of Hemingway, up to some low-level mischief with the old encyclopedias. Once I leave Drew behind, no one sees me take off my Archwell blazer and pull Malcriada’s black hoodie over my collared shirt and top tie. No one sees me climb one of the library’s many spiral staircases.

  On the third floor, I steal through the reading room, my footsteps dampened by the sprawling oriental rug. I reach into my bag and remove my extra-long extension cord before plugging it into the outlet nearest to the little door. I don’t think most people know about the little door: the one that leads to the tower’s top level, where the old school bell used to be. The belfry, I think it’s called. The space is rarely used now, despite its sweeping views of the campus. Autumn chill rushes through the cased openings. Leaves wave to me from below, all turmeric and ruby. It’s a painter’s dream landscape. But I’m not here for the views.

  I drop my bag and lay down the extension cord. It trails neatly behind me, linking me to the power source back inside the reading room. My bag has two sets of old school speakers. They’re not ideal—rechargeable and cordless would’ve been better—but they work just fine and I got them for free. I don’t buy supplies. And if I do, I buy them in cash. Malcriada can’t leave a paper trail.

  I plug in the speakers, set the volume extra low, and sync them to my phone. I place them around the edge of the belfry. When I hit play, the tower will act like an old gramophone, sound booming up into the conical turret and across the campus. The noise will be the loudest in the room directly below the belfry: the chancellor’s office. She won’t be able to miss it . . . will no longer be able to deny her truth.

  I pause for a second, shivering. I pull my hoodie closer to me. I tell myself it’s because of the cold. It’s not because I’m afraid. It’s also not because of what will happen if I get caught. And it’s definitely not because something is haunting me: the memory of what happened last time I did a major installation. Sure, someone got hurt. And, yes, it was my fault. But I’m trying to not get too caught up in it right now. This installation is going to fix all of that. Maybe then I’ll be forgiven.

  I return to my bag, pull out my banner, and start to unroll it. A bright green letter T appears against the black fabric. The painted letters are dry but are still off-gassing. I unfurl the next letter: E. The chemical smell makes me gag before the breeze carries it away. Then excitement bubbles in my throat. With the second-to-last letter revealed, an R, I can see now that the banner’s green-and-gold border will really pop against the stone facade of the tower. Once I hang it from the belfry, everyone on campus will see the truth. Archwell’s biggest secret will be out. I just need to get the thing rigged up and I’ll be—

  “Excuse me.” A voice cuts through me, sharper than the morning chill. “What are you doing out here? Students aren’t allowed up here unsupervised.” I’m frozen, still kneeling over the unfurled banner. “What do you have there? What does that say? Oh my.”

  Shit. My banner and I might be caught. But that can’t happen. That would ruin everything. My hoodie is still covering my face. I don’t think the person recognizes me as Malcriada. Or even as Veró Martín. To her, I could be anyone. I could try to make a run for it—but where would I go? When my gaze flits over to the little door, I see that the person is blocking my way out. She’s wearing worn-out flats and white stockings. Damn. It’s Ms. Steiner, one of the librarians. She must’ve been on hall monitor duty or something because it’s not her day to be at the circulation desk. I kick myself for not thinking to check where all the librarians would be during first block on a Monday. It’s a stupid oversight. Not up to Malcriada’s standards.

  “Veronica,” she says, mispronouncing my name. I wince. “Stand up.” I rise to my feet slowly, eyes hot. Everything is about to be ruined.

  “So you’re the one who’s been behind all the recent vandalism, hmm? You’re M?”

  M for Malcriada . . . Shit. She knows. It’s all over now.

  Before she even says it, I know what Ms. Steiner is going to say next. “I think we better go to the chancellor’s office.”

  The words slash across my chest, a fatal blow. My hoodie falls back and Malcriada evaporates. It’s over. I am hollow now. The death of Malcriada might as well be the death of me.

  Papi already told me what would happen if I got into trouble again, and he’s not known for making empty threats. “Not one more time, Veró,” he said, “or you’re going to Fort Hancock until you graduate. Then we’ll talk about which options would be appropriate for college. Your mother and I would hate to see that college fund go to waste.”

  Military schools like Fort Hancock aren’t known for their art programs. And with my college choices left up to Papi, art school is definitely off the table. In a matter of minutes, I’ve managed to obliterate my entire future.

  “Veró,” Ms. Steiner repeats. “Gather your things. Now. I’ll walk you to the office.”

  I pick up the banner. The fabric is heavy in my hands. It’s just a painted sign, I try to convince myself, but the word the banner bears is damning. When I made it, I knew it would destroy someone. I just didn’t think that it would destroy me. I fold the banner up so its acronym is no longer visible. TERF. A trans-exclusionary radical feminist. Ms. Steiner knows the word as well as I do. And the chancellor . . . Well, she definitely knows what it means. Her army of minions do too. Papi probably won’t know it, and even if I explain it to him, I doubt he’ll understand.

  I created Malcriada so I could be free for once. Free from family. Free from history. Free from consequences. But Malcriada was never real. There was only ever Veró, Senator Martín’s daughter. And Veró is not an artist. She’s a vandal at the very least. And at most, she is much, much worse.

  5

  Drew

  The door to the chancellor’s office is the color of blood. It’s the same color as the emergency exit doors at Dundalk High, a shade of red that screams for mercy. It’s the only thing the chancellor’s door has in common with those heavy double doors back at my old school.

  Those old doors lied to us: Alarm Will Sound If Door Is Opened. Nope. The wire that tripped the alarm was frayed beyond function. So the doors became an escape hatch. A portal to the outside world. A world beyond security cameras and bag searches. Beyond the metal detectors that greeted us when we arrived at school. We kept the emergency exit doors propped open when we could. We didn’t want anyone to get locked out, but we didn’t think about who might be able to get in.

  Outside the chancellor’s office, I pause, not sure if I should knock or take a seat on the hall’s glossy wooden bench. If I knock, I’ll have to face the reason why I’m here. If I sit, I’ll prolong the torture.

  My fingers resist as I curl them into a fist. I knock.

  Someone shuffles around inside the office for a few seconds before unbolting the lock and squealing the wooden door open. I recognize the girl, but I don’t remember her name. She’s tall and slender with an ombre-blond dye job. It’s supposed to look natural, but I have a good eye for roots. I’ve been doing Mom’s hair since elementary school.

  “It’s Drew, right?” she says. Her voice is crisp and candied, but her eyes narrow in on my buzzcut. She’s thinking that my hair is not very Archwellian. I have to agree, but that’s one of the things I like about it. It’s cyberpunk meets newborn baby. It’s spring chicken meets Dominic Torretto from the Fast & Furious movies. I love being all these things at the same time . . . but the girl at the door isn’t vibing with it. Unsurprising, I suppose.

  “You’re here to see my mother?” she asks.

  “Your mother?” I say, stepping into the office. The room is lined with built-in bookshelves, all washed in the same bloodred varnish as the door. There’s a heavy mahogany desk, a credenza crowded with black-and-white photos, and half a dozen tufted leather chairs. An iron sculpture of Athena has been converted into a table lamp. I’ve entered some kind of sapphic lair.

  “Chancellor Archwell,” the girl answers. “She just stepped out for a minute. She’s with Mrs. Pendleton.”

  “Your mom is the chancellor?” I ask, taking a handful of peppermints from a crystal bowl perched on the credenza. “Huh, I thought arachnids mostly ate their young.”

  The girl glowers at me for a moment. “Yes, my mother is the chancellor,” she says, unamused. “And you’ve got your science wrong. Spider cannibalism is reproductive. The females eat the males after mating.”

  I’m so thrown off by the specificity of this comeback that I struggle to rebound. After a beat, I manage to ask, “Who’s Mrs. Pendleton?”

  “Mrs. Pendleton is our head of security,” the girl says, watching me closely as I settle into one of the armchairs.

  “Your family has a security team?” I ask. I unwrap two of the peppermints and pop them both into my mouth.

  The girl makes a face again. I can tell she’s annoyed by me—probably for all the same reasons most Archwell girls are annoyed by me—but she keeps her tone cheery. “Mrs. Pendleton is head of security for the school.”

  “Gotcha. When do you think the chancellor will be back? I can get out of your hair if you think it’s gonna be awhile.” I try not to get too attached to the idea of just getting up and walking out of the chancellor’s office. It would be way too easy. And, again, I would just be delaying doom, maybe even making it worse. There’s no place to go, no point in resisting the inevitable.

  Death’s voice whispers in my ear again: I know what you did. And so does the chancellor. I try not to react to the premonition, hardening the muscles in my forehead instead of wincing.

  “She should be back any minute,” the girl says, taking a seat in the chair across from me. Hers is the swivel kind. I watch as she reaches into her backpack and pulls out a tin of breath mints and a water bottle. The backpack is tufted leather—like the armchairs—but the bag’s material is Pepto-Bismol pink. I can tell it’s designer made, but the aesthetic of it sort of reminds me of the kind of bag they have in the Target children’s section. It doesn’t fit this girl at all. My second-grade cubby mate, Tanya, had a backpack like that. Unlike this one though, hers was made of plastic.

  That bag caused a lot of drama. It was the bag where our teacher, Ms. Terry, found the gun. When I think of it, my ears start to feel like they’re full of water somehow. I saw Ms. Terry pull the thing out of the pink backpack at security check and my body got really cold. She gasped and lowered the gun back into the bag. Seeing an adult like that, all flustered and shaky, made me scared. It felt like the world had fallen off its hinges and everything was sideways.

  Later, Ms. Terry came to pull me out of specials. She wanted to talk to me. “Drew,” she said, “did Tanya tell you she was going to bring a weapon to school?” I gulped down my fear and lowered my eyes, trying to memorize the floor’s blue tile pattern. Then I shook my head no.

  “Really? Not a word at all?” she pressed.

  “Well, she just said that some of the older kids were giving her problems in the cafeteria and she was gonna get them.”

  Ms. Terry inhaled slowly through her nose. “I see. Thank you for your honesty, Drew.”

  I’d told the truth, but something made me feel like I was in the wrong no matter what I said to Ms. Terry. I shoved the inexplicable shame into the pit of my stomach.

  After that, all the kids at school had to get clear plastic backpacks. Tanya got suspended. I fed my shame M&Ms and tried not to let the memory play out in my mind on a loop. Some memories have an undertow. They can carry you away no matter how hard you fight against them.

  In the chair, across from the chancellor’s daughter, I try to shake off the thought of Tanya’s gun. I follow the floral pattern of the woven carpet with my eyes. I eat two more of the chancellor’s peppermints and pocket another handful from the bowl. They’re supposed to settle anxious stomachs.

  The door handle turns. The hinges squeal. “That must be her,” the chancellor’s daughter tells me, but then her face falls when she sees that she’s wrong.

  “Rory?” Blythe Harris from my third-period French class is standing in the office doorway. “What the hell?” She’s shouting for some reason. “Are you behind this?”

  “Behind what, B?” The chancellor’s daughter’s voice stays sweet. “Are you in trouble or something?”

  “You tell me.” Blythe’s words are sharp. She troops into the room, flings the office door closed behind her, and shoves her bag into one of the chairs. She doesn’t take a seat. “Hi, Drew,” she gruffs, meeting my eyes for a half second before she starts to pace around the carpet’s edge. “Ms. Sherman sent me up here on some bullshit.” Blythe does not say this to me. She’s speaking directly to Rory. It’s weird to see her like this after half a semester of watching her ace all her conjugation drills. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen Blythe speak anything other than French.

  “That’s odd,” Rory tells her. “She wrote you up?”

  “She said I needed to come here ’cause I was late for the bio midterm. You know that’s not a thing,” Blythe says. Then she stops midstride and turns to face Rory. “Why aren’t you in the bio midterm, Rory? Did you tell the cha—” She cuts herself off, eyes darting to me for a split second. She revises, “Are you in trouble too?”

  “Me? No.” Rory takes her phone out of the pink backpack and starts scrolling. She keeps her eyes to the screen as she speaks. “I was here for the class presidents’ morning meeting. After it was over, the chancellor asked me to hang back. She just stepped out with Mrs. Pendleton for a minute. Something to do with campus security cameras.”

  One thing Dundalk High and Archwell Academy have in common: security cameras. Archwell has a lot more though, and I don’t know where they all are. I suppose it’s to make the Archwell parents feel like their kids are in a safe place. But it’s hard for me to feel safe anywhere at Archwell, particularly here in the chancellor’s office. The color of the walls hurts my eyes. I shut them and try to rub the sting away. I consider again if it’s worth it to slip out of the office with my pocket full of peppermints. But then the crimson door flies open again.