<b>Chapter </b><b>23 </b>
Mr. Peterson’s face hardened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He adjusted his sses and looked down at me with what he probably thought was intimidating authority.
“This isn’t a stage for your performance<b>, </b>Ms. Morgan,” he said coldly. “This matter has <b>already </b>been referred to the Academic Integrity Committee. Your hearing <b>is </b>scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.
A ripple of whispers swept through the ssroom. <b>I </b>could feel twenty–six pairs of eyes locked <b>on </b>me<b>, </b>watching for any sign of panic or guilt. They wouldn’t find any. A high school math teacher <b>with </b><b>an </b>inferiorityplex hardly registered as a threat.
I calmly closed my notebook and slipped it into my backpack, the zipper’s sound cutting through the tense silence. “Then I’ll see you at the hearing.”
“This will affect your college applications, Ms. Morgan,” Mr. Peterson warned, his voice carrying a hint of satisfaction. “I hope you understand the gravity of the situation.”
I met his gaze, allowing myself a small smile. “We’ll see about that.”
The ssroom fell silent as I walked out, head high. The hallway felt cooler than the stuffy ssroom, and I took a deep breath, mentally calcting my next moves.
“Look at her,” Emily’s voice carried from her circle of friends as I passed through the hallway after lunch. She was leaning against her locker, surrounded by her usual entourage of mean girls. “Suddenly wants to be a top student and resorts to cheating. How pathetic.”
One of her friends, a blonde with too much makeup, snickered. “Right? A fat girl loses some weight and suddenly thinks she can do anything?”
“She can kiss her college applications goodbye,” Emily said with obvious pleasure, her voice rising to ensure I could hear. “Serves her right.”
Another girl with a pink phone case chimed in, “Tries to prove she’s smart but only <b>proves </b>she’s a fraud.”
“I always knew she couldn’t actually improve,” Emily concluded smugly, flipping <b>her </b><b><i>hair </i></b><b>over </b><i>her </i>shoulder. “It was all just an act<b>.</b>”
<b>1/4 </b>
80
I walked past without acknowledging them, their words bouncing off me like raindrops on a window.
I found sanctuary in the library, flipping through aputer textbook when Max appeared, his face etched with concern. The quiet space smelled of old books and furniture polish, aforting constant in this new life.
“Are you okay?” he asked, sliding into the chair across from me. “I heard about what happened in Mr. Peterson’s ss.” His fingers tapped nervously on the wooden table, his concern genuine.
“Small stuff,” I replied, turning a page with deliberate casualness. “Don’t worry about it.”
Max leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But the hearing tomorrow… everyone’s talking about it. They’re saying you could get expelled.”
I closed the book and met his anxious gaze. “If they want to y, I’m game.”
“But what if—”
“Max,” I cut him off gently, “there are people who’ve tried to kill me and failed. A high school academicmittee doesn’t exactly make me shake in my boots.”
His eyes widened slightly at my casual reference to danger, but he didn’t press. That was one of the things I appreciated about Max–he knew when to let things go. He sat back in his chair, studying me with a mixture of confusion and awe.
The Academic Integrity Committee convened in a small conference room the following afternoon. Three teachers and two student representatives sat at a long table, with Mr. Peterson standing confidently to one side, a folder of “evidence” clutched in his hands. Dr. Thompson, the principal, was present as an observer, his expression carefully neutral as he stood by the window.
I sat alone at a small table facing them, the room’s air conditioning raising goosebumps on my arms. Ms. Wilson, my homeroom teacher, had pulled me aside earlier and urged me to “<i>just </i>admit the mistake” to receive a lighter punishment. I’d politely declined.
“We’re here to review allegations of academic dishonesty against Jade Morgan,” announced Mrs. Kelley, themittee chair, a stern woman with reading sses hanging from a chain around her neck. “Mr. Peterson, please present your evidence.”
Mr. Peterson stepped forward eagerly. “Ms. Morgan <b>has </b>a history of poor academic performance.” He disyed my past grade reports on the projector screen, the red marks highlighted for dramatic effect. “On Monday, shepleted the AP Calculus exam in twenty–five minutes–less than a third of the allotted time–and submitted a paper with perfect answers but no calctions or work shown.”
He ced my exam on the table with the flourish of a prosecutor presenting damning evidence. It is mathematically impossible for someone toplete theseplex calctions mentally in such a short time. The only exnation is cheating.”
Themittee members exchanged nces. One of the student representatives, a senior named Tyler with wire–rimmed sses, raised his hand.
“Could we maybe have her solve a simr problem now? To see if-”
“Absolutely not,” Mr. Peterson interrupted, his tone sharp. “That would set a dangerous precedent. Any student used of cheating could demand a do–over.”
The other teachers nodded in agreement, the path of least resistance clearly appealing to them. Dr. Thompson remained silent, watching the proceedings with interest, his fingers steeple
chin.
After thirty minutes of discussion that went nowhere, Mrs. Kelley sighed, removing her sses. “We’ll need more time to deliberate. Themittee will reconvene tomorrow to make a final
decision.”
“The evidence is clear,” Mr. Peterson insisted, his cheeks flushing slightly. “She couldn’t possibly havepleted these calctions so quickly without cheating.”
I hadn’t spoken a word during the entire hearing, simply observing eachmittee member’s reactions and bodynguage. I could already tell who would vote which way. Their tells were as obvious to me as amateur poker yers at a high–stakes table.
The meeting adjourned with no resolution. As I left the room, I felt no anxiety, only a growing determination that solidified with each step.
Outside the school building, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I’d memorized years ago, my fingers moving with practiced precision.
“Jensen Law Firm, how may I help you?” a professional voice answered.
“I need to speak with Chris Jensen,” I said, my voice cool andposed. “Tell him it’s Jade Morgan.
6:58 Tue, Sep 16
Night rmended him.”
C
There was a brief pause, followed by a subtle shift in the receptionist’s tone. “Of course, Ms. Morgan. Mr. Jensen has an opening this afternoon. I’ll schedule you immediately.”
I hung up and allowed myself a small smile. If the school wanted to y hardball, they had no idea who they were dealing with
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