I’m uneasy the entire time I’m giving the speech.
Something’s off.
Wrong.
I can feel it in the pit of my stomach.
A bunch of mikes are shoved in front of me, balanced on the podium. Cameras from the news reporters, from the very networks that rejected my story six years ago, hover around me.
Here to pick apart my story.
Vultures on a carcass.
Rats on a dead body.
There’s a foreboding feeling gnawing, growing, preparing to explode.
I’m fine.
This is the truth.
Harris is one name I can cross off my list for revenge, but why does it feel like I’m trading the bass on the hook for a tiny tadpole?
“Miss Jamieson?” One of the reporters squints at me. “Was Principal Harris the only one involved in the Redwood corruption?”
I grip the edges of the podium so tight, my knuckles go from brown to white. The security guards stand at attention. Black sunglasses. Black shirts. Army pants. They’re all intimidating and silent, forming a fence around me.
Even with their protection, the lump in my throat grows, and with each word I say, the feeling that I’m making the wrong choice gets worse.
Jarod Cross made this happen.
I should be grateful.
And yet, it feels like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
As the silence lengthens, I remember our conversation last night.
“You said you want me to believe in you.” I approach Jarod while mom is in the shower getting ready for bed. “Prove it.”
“I’ll help you in any way I can.”
The Kings are cutting me loose. It was all over their faces when they came back from their little meeting in the kitchen. I’ve faced rejection during my six years of investigating Sloane’s case enough to know when I’m being dismissed.
Jarod Cross takes my silence for hesitation.
“I’ve already set up an interview at the prison. With or without me, you can meet the inmate—”
“Those are just words. You can put me off for ages if I wait for that.”
“Go on then.” He folds his arms over his chest.
“I want Harris gone.”
He arches an eyebrow.
“I want him out of Redwood. I want all his power stripped. I want all the billionaires and governors and rich folks he was relying on to treat him like a pariah.”
“I can make that happen.”
“All I want is for you to clear the way for me.”
“If it’s Harris you want, you can have him.” Jarod Cross frowns. Hard. “But I wouldn’t advise you to mention anything that you can’t back up with evidence. If you do that, then we have a deal.”
When my step-father agreed to help me blow the whistle on Harris, I accepted his offer thinking I was getting the upper hand. It felt like poetic justice to use Jarod Cross to advance my own crusade.
Last night, I was blinded by my thirst for vengeance.
It was that same feeling that gripped me when I was in that treehouse with The Kings. And yet, when I was taking the help of a gang of teenagers, it felt less insidious than it does now.
A car drives up to my impromptu press conference, tires squealing and spitting rocks.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a voice shrieks.
I glance to the side. Harris is jogging toward the security guards. I doubt he’ll get far. The scary guys kept the Redwood Prep security guards from kicking me off the sidewalk earlier. And now they’ll prevent Harris from getting to me.
The reporters, who all turned out to see a piece of Redwood crumble, smile gleefully as the principal makes a fuss.
I watch it all with a sinking premonition.
Jarod called those reporters.
Everything, the livestream, the security—they were orchestrated by his hand.
It was easy.
Almost… too easy.
The sun glints against the sweat on Harris’s bald head and his eyes are two angry slits in his chubby face. It’s early in the morning, but already, a few kids are walking to school. Harris shoves them aside, launching toward the sidewalk.
I stiffen, my fingers digging into the wood of the podium.
The moment Harris gets close, the guards step in his way.
Cameras start flashing.
“Mr. Harris, what do you have to say about the allegations of financial fraud?”
“Were you aware that funds were being siphoned into your ex-wife’s bank account?”
“How long have you been stealing from Redwood?”
Harris doesn’t answer. His eyes, filled with volatile rage, remain on me.
Fear trips down my back. I dig my nails even deeper into the podium, feeling chipped wood come apart. It takes all my effort to seem unfazed.
“You think you won?” Harris laughs bawdily. “You think this is a victory?” As if someone flipped a switch, his smile collapses into a dangerous leer. “You have no idea how powerful they are. They have eyes everywhere, your home, your family, your school—everywhere. You’re just a pawn in the game.”
A pawn.
It finally clicks.
Too easy.
My eyes widen and I glance down at the papers I’d used to deliver my speech. Harris’s bank statements are printed out and stacked neatly underneath it.
Too easy.
For six years, I struggled to get even a shred of evidence against Harris but in one night, it fell into my lap thanks to conveniently hidden boxes locked in the Redwood basement. I was so deliriously happy about gaining some ground, I never stopped to think about an important Lit lesson.
It’s a staple of every English class.
What, why and who.
Why would evidence on Harris’s misdeeds be stored in the basement?
Who put them there?
What did they have to gain by that?
My eyebrows hike and the truth slams into me, almost knocking me over. If not for my grip on the podium, I’d probably sink to my knees.
I’ve been played.
Dazed, I watch as police cars arrive, lights flashing red and blue in the bright sunshine. Cops grab Harris, their faces grim and their handcuffs jangling.
I never called them.
I wanted to talk to Harris first before anyone took him away.
But that was my plan.
Not Jarod Cross’s.
Cross is the ultimate chess player and I fell right into place like a blind idiot.
The cops start hauling a sweaty, red-faced Harris away. He refuses to cooperate, thrashing and fighting like a cat in water.
“This isn’t fair! I didn’t do anything wrong!”
They don’t listen.
Principal Harris’s legs drag in the grass as the police overpower him and pull him toward a police car.
Our eyes meet.
In his, I see a marked hatred. He opens his mouth and yells for the entire crowd to hear. “You’re not teaching today, Jamieson. You’re fired! Do you hear me? My last act as principal is firing you!”
The cops shove Harris’s head into a car and he’s off.
As one, the reporters swing back to me.
“Miss Jamieson, do you feel that justice has been served today?”
Eyes blinking. Lips pursed.
They stare at me.
Pawns.
Just like I am.
I lean over the mike.
The sound of my harsh, uneven breaths fill the air.
More students are gathering. They all have their cell phones out. Watching. Waiting. Listening.
Expecting the adults to know better.
Do better.
Be better.
So they can be better too.
What would have happened if one… just one teacher at Redwood didn’t care about losing their jobs, reputations or lives and stood up for Sloane? What would have happened if they weren’t so scared of the powerful and took a stand against the system that broke and then killed her?
Would I still have her with me?
I blink rapidly and adjust the mike. The feedback screams through the crowd and people flinch.
Speaking clearly and intently, I stare at the cameras, “Principal Harris was just a cog in the machine that took my best friend’s life. But there are others. Guilty perpetrators who were involved in The Grateful Project.” I lift my chin and stare at the Redwood Prep sign. “Whoever you are, and whatever you’ve done, I will drag your sins to the light.”
