Ihad my sketchbook halfway out of my locker, graphite from the page smudging my fingers, when the PA beeped and the vice principal’s voice went tinny over the halls. “Mila Callahan to the office.”
The hallway went quiet in patches, noise skidding around me without touching. I slid the sketchbook back, closed the locker softly so the metal wouldn’t clang, and started walking. Students parted in little eddies, eyes flicking away when I looked up. My heartbeat thudded in my chest, steady at first, then harder with each turn.
Outside, the sun shone bright. Inside, the administrative corridor held an old chill, the kind that had nothing to do with weather.
The receptionist’s expression told me nothing. She pointed me through. The vice principal’s door clicked shut behind me. I was in a small room with three chairs and a table too narrow for comfort. The vice principal sat at the head of the table. To her right was the chair of the disciplinary committee. Both faces wore neutrality that didn’t quite hold.
“We’ve received disturbing information.” The vice principal folded her hands, gaze steady. “Screenshots. Messages appearing to come from you—sent to a media account that covers elite corporate families.”
My stomach dropped. “That’s not possible.” The words came out thin. “I didn’t?—”
The head of the committee slid a packet across the table. Printouts of emails and blocks of text, timestamps highlighted. I scanned quickly—King Enterprises gala donors, notes on sponsor tiers, bullet points that tracked closer to fact than rumor ever should.
The room tipped under me for a second then righted. It smacked of Elise’s handiwork.
“I didn’t do this.” My voice found its weight. “It’s a setup.”
They didn’t blink. “You understand the severity of this, Ms. Callahan?” The vice principal’s tone stayed mild. The words did all the work. “We will need to inform your guardian and begin a formal review. Given the allegations and the harassment this year, expulsion is on the table.”
My palms sweated against my jeans. “I didn’t send those.”
The two of them exchanged a glance that said they had already had this conversation without me. The head of the committee tapped the stack once. “We will be investigating. Until then, you’ll stay off gala duties and out of school media rooms.”
The floor tilted. My ears hummed with a ring that wouldn’t quit. “Am I—” My mouth dried. “Am I suspended?”
“Not at this time.” A pause heavy withyet. “But your scholarship may be at risk. We’ll notify you when we’ve completed our initial review.”
I stood because my body knew the steps. Open door. Close door. Walk. The corridor back to the hall blurred. What Iremembered were faces. Stares swarmed together, as small and relentless as gnats.
Someone’s phone lifted, eyes gleaming over the top of it. The sensation of being filmed crawled over my skin. I dipped into the nearest side corridor and pressed my spine to the cool cinderblock, breath shallow.
“Mila.”
His voice cut through the noise, and my head snapped up. Luke strode toward me, his hair still damp from the midday lift in the weight room, backpack slung over one shoulder. He didn’t slow. His hand caught my wrist and turned me. His body blocked the view from the main hall.
“Come with me.”
I didn’t argue. He steered me into an empty classroom hardly anyone used, tucked at the far end of the wing where the light hit wrong and left it dim. He tugged the blinds until they gave, and the glare broke into stripes across the floor. Outside, footsteps pattered. Somewhere, a laugh trilled too loud and then vanished.
“You’re not going down for this.” He didn’t crowd. He anchored. The room steadied around his voice.
“How did you find out already?” My throat worked. “It’s Elise. She?—”
“I know.” He unzipped his backpack and pulled a blue folder, corners bent as if he’d jammed it in fast. He set it on the desk and flipped it open. “These are the originals. From her phone.”
My brain stalled at that. “What? How did you get those?”
“Look.” He slid the first page to me. Rushed, tilted pictures of Elise’s phone, caught while someone had access to it. Her chat app open. A thread with the media account. Her handle, not mine. Original timestamps, before she doctored them.
The next pages showed more: sender tags she’d edited, a text message she’d sent to herself underCallahan, then deleted, then forwarded. Beneath that, an export log with her own notesscribbled in the margin:Fix date stamps.Change handle field to MC.
Air came back in a rush. My hands shook anyway. “How did you get this?”
He let out a hard breath. “One of hers finally broke ranks.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It was Tori.” He tapped a page where her name showed in a printed text thread. A single message, sent to Theo late at night:I’m done helping her.No context. No explanation.
