“Why?” I ask, which is not what I really want to know. What I really want to know is what will happen to me? Am I going to jail? A juvenile detention center?

I wouldn’t last five seconds in either place. In my whole life, I’ve never once thrown a punch. I get queasy at the sight of other people’s cracked heels. I can’t poo in public restrooms.

“Can’t say for sure, but I think it’s because people are pissed as hell about this, even angrier than anyone anticipated. They don’t like being reminded that the system is rigged,” Kenny says in a neutral, way-too-casual tone. I no longer appreciate his sweater and khakis. This is serious business. He should be wearing a tie.

“What about the kids whose parents buy buildings to get them in? Doesn’t that happen all the time? Why aren’t they getting target letters?”

“That’s not illegal,” he says.

“If what my parents did was illegal, then that should be too,” I say, and then realize I’m not helping myself. The whole thing feels unfair. Like I’m being held to account for how this complicated world works. For its arcane laws and unclear lines.

How should this have played out? I remember that list Mrs. Oh had handed me after our first meeting in the fall, all the places she said would be a “more natural fit” for a student like me.

What was so wrong with those schools?

I think about Levi and me on the picnic blanket: We should all be so lucky, Chlo.

Shame finger-crawls up my spine.

We were so greedy.

I consider the word unfair, how it has never once applied to me. Not even now. Maybe especially not now.

“What’s the slightly less bad news?” I ask.

“My friend at the US attorney’s office seems to think that they aren’t really that interested in hauling a bunch of kids into court. Won’t look good. They have the public’s support. They want to keep it.”

“Okay.”

“He says this—you, specifically—is all part of their scare tactics. They want to pressure your mom into a plea bargain,” he says. “They think she’ll be more likely to accept a plea with prison time if it means keeping you from being charged.”

“How is this slightly less bad news? This feels like worse news. Like it’s either me or my mom, or maybe both of us going to jail.”

He doesn’t answer, cocks his head to the side, in a way that reminds me of Fluffernutter. I feel like walking out of this room, begging one of the million more serious lawyers in the living room to represent me.

“The cops think I was in on it?” I ask.