I’ve made plans to hang out with Cesar this afternoon, to keep me from wallowing. I work at the RRC thirty-five hours a week. I spend the mornings helping Rita with the administrative stuff, all of which counts toward college credit at Santa Monica Community College. This internship I got no doubt because of my parents’ large donation last year. This is something I try not to think too much about and instead simply appreciate and earn with hard work. In the afternoons, I stick to my old schedule, reading with Cesar.

I’m taking three classes per semester, all of which I’m currently acing. Who knew how much it helps to do all the reading? And next month, whether I’m ready or not, I’ll start the college admissions process all over again. This time, Mrs. Oh is helping me draw up a whole new list, one that does not include SCC. I no longer care about the US News & World Report rankings or name recognition. I simply want a school with a strong social work program.

I haven’t seen or heard from Levi or Shola since they left for Harvard, though I regularly stalk Shola on Instagram. She often posts pictures or videos, and Levi occasionally makes an appearance—the two them studying in the library or watching the Head of the Charles Regatta. From her feed, her friends seem less Wood Valley and more hipster cool, a crowd that is infinitely more diverse than the one we had in high school.

I tell myself my lurking in her life isn’t creepy, because I am cheering her on. I liked knowing that last summer she found a paid internship with Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, that she got an A in that Intro to Philosophy class she was so excited about, that she has a new cold-brew addiction. I like knowing about her life, even if I don’t deserve to be a part of it.

After my mom pled guilty and I was free to talk about had happened, I sent her long apology letters, by email, detailing what I knew and when, as if the technicalities mattered.

And then I realized they didn’t, not really.

There’s no version of my story in which I am not a villain.

This is something we talk about often in our Signal group, which has been whittled down to only a few of us, those who are willing to wrestle out loud with our guilt.

In happy news, Isla told me that the Littles got into Wood Valley after all. The school doubled their financial aid offerings last year as part of an image rehabilitation effort in the wake of the scandal, and they found their way off the waiting list.