Chapter 237 Chapter Two Hundred And Thirty Seven

Chapter 237 Chapter Two Hundred And Thirty Seven

"Sure," I said, forcing my voice to sound steady. "Ask me anything."

Mr. Reeves folded his hands on his desk, and I noticed how carefully he was avoiding direct eye contact with me. "Well, I'm sure you remember that a few days ago, Coach Ellis and I spoke to you about stopping by so we could discuss the prospects for our most promising students."

I laughed awkwardly, the sound too high and too nervous. "That's me, right?" Maybe everyone just looked so tense because this was a serious meeting. Important. Life-changing, even.

But then what would Allison be doing here? She wasn't on scholarship. She didn't need recommendations—her family could buy her way into any school she wanted.

"We went through the list of enrolled students," Mr. Reeves continued, "and you were the obvious choice, Lena. Your standout results and exemplary conduct made you the prime candidate for our official school board recommendation."

My heart lifted despite the weird tension in the room. This was it. This was what I'd been working toward for four years.

"We were going to give you a letter that would be sure to put you at the top of any admissions consideration list," he said, "as well as some personalized advice on where to apply and what courses we believed were best suited to your abilities. Yale's pre-law program, perhaps. Or Princeton's political science track."

I managed a smile, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to keep them from shaking. "Of course. I understand."

And I did. Mr. Reeves was absolutely correct. A letter from the school board—especially from a prestigious institution like Westbrook Academy—would give me the push I desperately needed. With so many other decorated students from all over the country vying for the same limited admission slots at Ivy League schools, I needed every advantage I could get. This letter could be the difference between acceptance and rejection, between a full scholarship and crippling debt.

"And I'm beyond grateful that I would even be considered to receive such an—"

"Unfortunately, that won't be possible."

The words hit me like ice water. "I'm sorry, what do you mean?"

Mrs. Sinclair leaned forward, her expression cold and professional. Bad cop. "Your scholarship here at Westbrook, Miss Hartwell, is just as dependent on your character as it is on your academic performance. We simply cannot select you as the student to throw our institutional support behind."

Panic started to claw its way up my throat. I shot a desperate look at Coach Ellis—my biggest supporter, the only teacher who'd been consistently nice to me during my hellish freshman through junior years. The man who'd encouraged me to try out for cheerleading, who'd told me I had potential when no one else saw it.

He looked away, guilt written across his features.

"But what did I do?" My voice came out smaller than I intended. "I don't understand. I apologized about the whole mess with the cafeteria food fight, and I made sure to complete every single hour of my detention. I showed up early, I cleaned—"

"That's not what we're discussing, Lena." Mrs. Sinclair's voice was clipped, final.

I racked my brain for what the problem could possibly be. Had I missed an assignment? Failed to turn something in? But no, I'd been meticulous about my work. I triple-checked everything. I—

"We have it on good authority," Mrs. Sinclair said, each word carefully enunciated, "that you cheated on your history test. The very class that Mr. Reeves is currently substituting for."

The room tilted. I gripped the edges of my chair to keep from falling.

"And as you well know, Westbrook Academy has a zero-tolerance policy for academic malpractice." She paused, letting that sink in. "Therefore, you will not be allowed to sit for your final examinations with the rest of your classmates. Neither will you be receiving any kind of recommendation letter from this board."

I stared at them, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. This had to be a joke. Some kind of test, maybe? But no—the looks on their faces told me that it was all definitely, devastatingly real.

"And let me guess," I said, my voice shaking now as I turned to look at Allison's smug face. "Allison is your 'good authority'?"

Mrs. Sinclair cleared her throat delicately. "Well, yes. Miss Cooper was able to provide substantial proof of your dishonesty—specifically, a cheat sheet you apparently forgot under your desk containing full answers to the test. In your handwriting, I might add."

"That makes no sense." I was trying to keep my voice level, rational, but hysteria was creeping in at the edges. "It was a pop quiz, if I remember correctly. We were never actually told what material to study for the test, so how would I have possibly known what answers to write down in advance? The whole point of a pop quiz is that it's a surprise."

Mrs. Sinclair's expression didn't change. "It wouldn't be the first time a student has found ways to cheat when desperate enough. We know you young people have your methods—taking photos of answer keys, sharing information through group chats, bribing other students who've already taken the test."

"But I didn't—" My hands were shaking now. "I would never—"

Allison said nothing, just sat there grinning like the Cheshire cat, clearly beyond enjoying my distress. She'd crossed her legs, relaxed and comfortable, like she was watching her favorite TV show.

"I can't believe this," I whispered.

"You can't believe it?" Mrs. Sinclair's eyebrows rose. "Imagine our surprise when we discovered that our very best student—the young woman we thought had earned all her academic achievements through merit and hard work—wasn't at all who we thought her to be."

"What?" The word came out as barely more than a breath.

Mrs. Sinclair reached down and brought out a thick three-ring binder from beside her chair. She opened it with deliberate slowness and began pulling out papers. Different types—lined notebook paper, printer paper, index cards—in different sizes, all of them covered in writing.

My writing.

"It's not the only cheat sheet of yours that Miss Cooper was kind enough to present to us," Mrs. Sinclair said, spreading them across Mr. Reeves' desk like a hand of cards. "Some of these tests date as far back as freshman year. AP Biology. Honors English. Pre-Calculus. Chemistry. World History. Quite the extensive collection, wouldn't you say?"

I was dumbfounded. Speechless. My brain couldn't process what I was seeing.

I leaned forward, my hands hovering over the papers but not quite touching them, like they might burn me. I squinted at the handwriting—the loops on the 'g's, the way I crossed my 't's, the distinctive slant to my letters.

It was my handwriting. Unmistakably mine.

I felt the urge to take out my contacts and clean them so I could see better, convinced I was going crazy. That this was some kind of stress-induced hallucination brought on by too little sleep and too much drama.

But I wasn't crazy. They were real. The papers were real. The handwriting was real.

"I..." My throat was so tight I could barely speak. "I didn't write these. I swear to God, I didn't write these. Someone forged them, someone—"

"Miss Hartwell." Mrs. Sinclair's voice cut through my protests like a knife. "Since you clearly don't have anything substantial to say in your defense, I suggest you collect your belongings from your locker. You are expelled from Westbrook Academy, effective immediately."

The room spun. I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles going white.

"Your mother has already been informed of our decision," she continued, standing up and smoothing down her pencil skirt. "I suggest you go home and have a conversation with her about your future. Perhaps community college would be a more suitable environment for someone with your... flexible approach to academic integrity."

"No." The word came out strangled. "No, please, you have to listen to me. I didn't cheat. I've never cheated. Not once. Please, just—"

"Good luck with your future endeavors, Miss Hartwell." Mrs. Sinclair's tone was final, dismissive. She turned to the other teachers. "Gentleman, I believe we're done here."

Coach Ellis finally looked at me, and the pity in his eyes was almost worse than Mrs. Sinclair's cold indifference. "I'm sorry, Lena," he said quietly. "I really am. But the evidence is..."

He trailed off, shaking his head.

Mr. Reeves wouldn't even look at me anymore. He was gathering up the papers, sliding them back into the binder like they were toxic waste.

And Allison—Allison was practically glowing with triumph. She stood up, shouldering her designer bag, and walked toward the door. As she passed me, she leaned in just close enough that only I could hear.

"Told you I'd get you back," she whispered. "Should've stayed in your lane, fat girl."

Then she was gone, her heels clicking down the hallway.

I sat there, frozen, my entire world crumbling around me. Four years of work. Four years of perfect grades and extra credit and studying until my eyes burned. Four years of clawing my way up from nothing, from being the fat girl everyone laughed at to someone who mattered.

Gone. All of it, gone.

"Miss Hartwell." Mrs. Sinclair was holding the door open, waiting for me to leave. "Now, please."

I stood on shaking legs, my vision blurring with tears I refused to let fall. Not here. N
ot in front of them.

I walked out of that office with my head held high, even though inside, I was screaming.