“Right.” I decide later I’ll offer her my frequent flyer miles or to float her the cost of the ticket, but not in front of everyone. Knowing Shola, she’ll refuse. But I can’t imagine saying goodbye to her until next summer. We’ve hung out every day for the last six years. We can’t be expected to go cold turkey.

“Harvard’s winter break is—” Levi says, but he doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Simon walks over, picks him up, and throws him in the pool. Everyone else spontaneously applauds.

I guess I’m not the only one who’s had enough of Levi’s Harvard talk.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Now

“GossipPolice says Mom and Dad are on the verge of divorce,” Isla says while we eat pizza on the floor of the screening room, like we used to when we were little. This is how we’d spend every Friday night before I started at Wood Valley—Dad would pop popcorn in the old-fashioned machine and Isla and I would watch Disney movies down here.

“You know better than to listen to GossipPolice,” I say, distracted. I keep hearing the soft click of Shola walking out the door. Click, click, click. “Who’s their source?”

“Someone ‘in the family’s inner circle.’ Probably Hudson,” she says glumly, and while I wish I could tell her that’s an unfair leap, I too suspect Hudson has long ago replaced the phone we stole and has been planting stories all over town for cash. Two weeks ago, in a piece also sourced to our “inner circle,” GossipPolice claimed that my mother’s hair was falling out because of stress over the scandal; that one, which took such clear aim at her biggest insecurity, had to be him.

Isla and I are watching cable news again. We’ve stopped expecting updates from our parents, who, when anything breaks—additional people charged, additional people pleading out—need to immediately consult with their lawyers and don’t have time to give us a full download.

CNN tends to be quicker, less sugarcoated.

“Mom and Dad are fine,” I say. “I mean, not fine-fine. None of this is fine. But solid. They’re solid.”

“Stop saying fine and solid. You’re freaking me out more.”

“They’re not getting divorced,” I say, and reach across her for a napkin.

“Holy shitballs!” Isla screams, and my heart plummets into my stomach. This is how things are: We live on high alert. There’s always farther to fall. “Look!”

Isla points to the screen. The headline along the bottom reads: COLLEGE ADMISSIONS SCANDAL: POLICE WERE TIPPED OFF BY BILLIONAIRE IN LEGAL TROUBLE. A tall man walks into a courthouse holding up a leather briefcase to shield his face. Rookie move, as I’m sure they already have hundreds of other images of him all teed up to use next.