Chapter 4

I pounded on the door. "Jake! Brittany! Let me out!"

Only the echo of my own voice answered.

I sank onto a pile of wrestling mats, the rough canvas scratching my skin. My carefully laid plans for a quiet evening of review, for acing the SATs, for protecting myself – all gone.

Tears of frustration and anger pricked my eyes. How could Jake do this? The boy who'd once promised to help me, to be there for me.

Hours passed. The air in the storeroom grew stale and cold. My stomach rumbled.

I thought of my dad. He'd be worried. I was always home by five.

He'd call my phone. It would go unanswered.

He'd probably call Jake's parents. Jake lived next door.

Maybe... maybe Dad would figure it out. He was smart. Resourceful.

A sliver of hope.

I must have dozed off, because a loud banging on the door startled me awake.

"Emily! Emily, are you in there?"

Dad's voice.

"Dad! Yes! I'm here!" I scrambled to the door, relief flooding through me.

More banging, then the sound of the bolt being forced. The door creaked open, and Dad stood there, his face grim, a crowbar in his hand. Light from the gym hallway spilled in.

"Oh, Emily." He pulled me into a hug, tight and fierce. "Are you okay? What happened?"

I clung to him, words tumbling out – Jake, Brittany, the party, my stolen bag, being locked in.

He listened, his expression hardening with every word.

"I called Jake's house," he said, his voice tight with anger. "His mom said he was at Brittany's. I got the coach's number, called Jake. He sounded... shifty. Said you'd gone home early. But your bike was still in the rack."

He'd come to the school, found my bike, and started searching.

He led me out of the gym, his arm around my shoulders.

In the car, I finally broke down, the stress and fear pouring out.

"They have my SAT ticket, Dad. And my ID."

He was quiet for a moment. "We'll report this, Emily. First thing."

But I knew. Even if we got the ticket back, I was a wreck. My focus was shattered. And Brittany and Jake would spin some new lie.

When we got home, Mom was frantic. She hugged me, her eyes scanning me for injuries.

Later, after I'd showered and eaten, the three of us sat in the living room.

"I don't want to take the SATs tomorrow," I said, the words tasting like defeat. "Even if we get my stuff back, I can't. Not like this."

Mom looked at Dad, then at me. "You know," she said softly, "Professor Albright at McGill University in Canada? The one I met at the conference? She was very impressed with your transcripts. They have an early admission program that relies more on overall grades and an essay than just one standardized test."

It was her Plan B for me, something she'd researched just in case.

Canada. A fresh start. Away from Brittany, away from Jake, away from Northwood High.

"Maybe," I said, a tiny seed of a new plan forming. "Maybe that's what I should do."

My phone, which Dad had somehow gotten back from Jake's parents after a very stern conversation with them and a threat of police involvement, buzzed on the coffee table.

A new message. From Jake.

It was a picture. My SAT admission ticket, ripped into tiny pieces.

Underneath, a single line: "Looks like you're not taking the test after all. Have a good night."

The cruelty of it stole my breath.

Dad saw my face. He picked up the phone. His jaw clenched.

"That boy..." he began, his voice dangerously low.

But I just felt a strange, cold calm. He'd made my decision for me.

No SATs tomorrow.

Canada.