A sex tape. A pregnancy scare. Two cheating scandals. And that's just thisweek's update. If all you knew of Bayview High was Simon Kelleher'sgossip app, you'd wonder how anyone found time to go to class.

"Old news, Bronwyn," says a voice over my shoulder. "Wait till you seetomorrow's post."

Damn. I hate getting caught reading About That, especially by its creator.I lower my phone and slam my locker shut. "Whose lives are you ruiningnext, Simon?"

Simon falls into step beside me as I move against the flow of studentsheading for the exit. "It's a public service," he says with a dismisI don't bother answering. Me getting anywhere near the bedroom ofsive wave.

"You tutor Reggie Crawley, don't you? Wouldn't you rather know he has acamera in his bedroom?"

perpetual stoner Reggie Crawley is about as likely as Simon growing aconscience.

"Anyway, they bring it on themselves. If people didn't lie and cheat, I'dbe out of business." Simon's cold blue eyes take in my lengthening strides."Where are you rushing off to? Covering yourself in extracurricular glory?"I wish. As if to taunt me, an alert crosses my phone: Mathlete practice, 3p.m., Epoch Coffee. Followed by a text from one of my teammates: Evan'shere.

Of course he is. The cute Mathlete--less of an oxymoron than you mightthink--seems to only ever show up when I can't.

"Not exactly," I say. As a general rule, and especially lately, I try to giveSimon as little information as possible. We push through green metal doorsto the back stairwell, a dividing line between the dinginess of the originalBayview High and its bright, airy new wing. Every year more wealthyfamilies get priced out of San Diego and come fifteen miles east toBayview, expecting that their tax dollars will buy them a nicer schoolexperience than popcorn ceilings and scarred linoleum.

Simon's still on my heels when I reach Mr. Avery's lab on the third floor,and I half turn with my arms crossed. "Don't you have someplace to be?""Yeah. Detention," Simon says, and waits for me to keep walking. WhenI grasp the knob instead, he bursts out laughing. "You're kidding me. Youtoo? What's your crime?"

"I'm wrongfully accused," I mutter, and yank the door open. Three otherstudents are already seated, and I pause to take them in. Not the group Iwould have predicted. Except one.

Nate Macauley tips his chair back and smirks at me. "You make a wrongturn? This is detention, not student council."He should know. Nate's been in trouble since fifth grade, which is rightaround the time we last spoke. The gossip mill tells me he's on probationwith Bayview's finest for ... something. It might be a DUI; it might be drugdealing. He's a notorious supplier, but my knowledge is purely theoretical."Save the commentary." Mr. Avery checks something off on a clipboardand closes the door behind Simon. High arched windows lining the backwall send triangles of afternoon sun splashing across the floor, and faintsounds of football practice float from the field behind the parking lot below.I take a seat as Cooper Clay, who's palming a crumpled piece of paperlike a baseball, whispers "Heads up, Addy" and tosses it toward the girlacross from him. Addy Prentiss blinks, smiles uncertainly, and lets the balldrop to the floor.

The classroom clock inches toward three, and I follow its progress with ahelpless feeling of injustice. I shouldn't even be here. I should be at EpochCoffee, flirting awkwardly with Evan Neiman over differential equations.Mr. Avery is a give-detention-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy, butmaybe there's still time to change his mind. I clear my throat and start toraise my hand until I notice Nate's smirk broadening. "Mr. Avery, thatwasn't my phone you found. I don't know how it got into my bag. This ismine," I say, brandishing my iPhone in its melon-striped case.

Honestly, you'd have to be clueless to bring a phone to Mr. Avery's lab.He has a strict no-phone policy and spends the first ten minutes of everyclass rooting through backpacks like he's head of airline security and we'reall on the watch list. My phone was in my locker, like always.

"You too?" Addy turns to me so quickly, her blond shampoo-ad hairswirls around her shoulders. She must have been surgically removed fromher boyfriend in order to show up alone. "That wasn't my phone either.""Me three," Cooper chimes in. His Southern accent makes it sound likethray. He and Addy exchange surprised looks, and I wonder how this isnews to them when they're part of the same clique. Maybe uberpopularpeople have better things to talk about than unfair detentions.

"Somebody punked us!" Simon leans forward with his elbows on thedesk, looking spring-loaded and ready to pounce on fresh gossip. His gazedarts over all four of us, clustered in the middle of the otherwise emptyclassroom, before settling on Nate. "Why would anybody want to trap abunch of students with mostly spotless records in detention? Seems like thesort of thing that, oh, I don't know, a guy who's here all the time might dofor fun."

I look at Nate, but can't picture it. Rigging detention sounds like work,and everything about Nate--from his messy dark hair to his ratty leatherjacket--screams Can't be bothered. Or yawns it, maybe. He meets my eyesbut doesn't say a word, just tips his chair back even farther. Anothermillimeter and he'll fall right over.

Cooper sits up straighter, a frown crossing his Captain America face."Hang on. I thought this was just a mix-up, but if the same thing happenedto all of us, it's somebody's stupid idea of a prank. And I'm missingbaseball practice because of it." He says it like he's a heart surgeon beingdetained from a lifesaving operation.

Mr. Avery rolls his eyes. "Save the conspiracy theories for anotherteacher. I'm not buying it. You all know the rules against bringing phones toclass, and you broke them." He gives Simon an especially sour glance.Teachers know About That exists, but there's not much they can do to stopit. Simon only uses initials to identify people and never talks openly aboutschool. "Now listen up. You're here until four. I want each of you to write afive-hundred-word essay on how technology is ruining American highschools. Anyone who can't follow the rules gets another detentiontomorrow."

"What do we write with?" Addy asks. "There aren't any computershere." Most classrooms have Chromebooks, but Mr. Avery, who looks likehe should have retired a decade ago, is a holdout.

Mr. Avery crosses to Addy's desk and taps the corner of a lined yellownotepad. We all have one. "Explore the magic of longhand writing. It's alost art."

Addy's pretty, heart-shaped face is a mask of confusion. "But how do weknow when we've reached five hundred words?"

"Count," Mr. Avery replies. His eyes drop to the phone I'm still holding."And hand that over, Miss Rojas."

"Doesn't the fact that you're confiscating my phone twice give youpause? Who has two phones?" I ask. Nate grins, so quick I almost miss it."Seriously, Mr. Avery, somebody was playing a joke on us."Mr. Avery's snowy mustache twitches in annoyance, and he extends hishand with a beckoning motion. "Phone, Miss Rojas. Unless you want areturn visit." I give it over with a sigh as he looks disapprovingly at theothers. "The phones I took from the rest of you earlier are in my desk.You'll get them back after detention." Addy and Cooper exchange amusedglances, probably because their actual phones are safe in their backpacks.Mr. Avery tosses my phone into a drawer and sits behind the teacher'sdesk, opening a book as he prepares to ignore us for the next hour. I pull outa pen, tap it against my yellow notepad, and contemplate the assignment.Does Mr. Avery really believe technology is ruining schools? That's a prettysweeping statement to make over a few contraband phones. Maybe it's atrap and he's looking for us to contradict him instead of agree.

I glance at Nate, who's bent over his notepad writing computers suckover and over in block letters.

It's possible I'm overthinking this.

Cooper

Monday, September 24, 3:05 p.m.

My hand hurts within minutes. It's pathetic, I guess, but I can't rememberthe last time I wrote anything longhand. Plus I'm using my right hand,which never feels natural no matter how many years I've done it. My fatherinsisted I learn to write right-handed in second grade after he first saw mepitch. Your left arm's gold, he told me. Don't waste it on crap that don'tmatter. Which is anything but pitching as far as he's concerned.

That was when he started calling me Cooperstown, like the baseball hallof fame. Nothing like putting a little pressure on an eight-year-old.Simon reaches for his backpack and roots around, unzipping everysection. He hoists it onto his lap and peers inside. "Where the hell's mywater bottle?"

"No talking, Mr. Kelleher," Mr. Avery says without looking up.

"I know, but--my water bottle's missing. And I'm thirsty."Mr. Avery points toward the sink at the back of the room, its countercrowded with beakers and petri dishes. "Get yourself a drink. Quietly."Simon gets up and grabs a cup from a stack on the counter, filling it withwater from the tap. He heads back to his seat and puts the cup on his desk,but seems distracted by Nate's methodical writing. "Dude," he says, kickinghis sneaker against the leg of Nate's desk. "Seriously. Did you put thosephones in our backpacks to mess with us?"

Now Mr. Avery looks up, frowning. "I said quietly, Mr. Kelleher."Nate leans back and crosses his arms. "Why would I do that?"Simon shrugs. "Why do you do anything? So you'll have company forwhatever your screw-up of the day was?"

"One more word out of either of you and it's detention tomorrow," Mr.Avery warns.

Simon opens his mouth anyway, but before he can speak there's thesound of tires squealing and then the crash of two cars hitting each other.Addy gasps and I brace myself against my desk like somebody just rear-ended me. Nate, who looks glad for the interruption, is the first on his feettoward the window. "Who gets into a fender bender in the school parkinglot?" he asks.

Bronwyn looks at Mr. Avery like she's asking for permission, and whenhe gets up from his desk she heads for the window as well. Addy followsher, and I finally unfold myself from my seat. Might as well see what'sgoing on. I lean against the ledge to look outside, and Simon comes upbeside me with a disparaging laugh as he surveys the scene below.Two cars, an old red one and a nondescript gray one, are smashed intoeach other at a right angle. We all stare at them in silence until Mr. Averylets out an exasperated sigh. "I'd better make sure no one was hurt." Heruns his eyes over all of us and zeroes in on Bronwyn as the mostresponsible of the bunch. "Miss Rojas, keep this room contained until I getback."

"Okay," Bronwyn says, casting a nervous glance toward Nate. We stay atthe window, watching the scene below, but before Mr. Avery or anotherteacher appears outside, both cars start their engines and drive out of theparking lot.

"Well, that was anticlimactic," Simon says. He heads back to his deskand picks up his cup, but instead of sitting he wanders to the front of theroom and scans the periodic table of elements poster. He leans out into thehallway like he's about to leave, but then he turns and raises his cup likehe's toasting us. "Anyone else want some water?""I do," Addy says, slipping into her chair.

"Get it yourself, princess." Simon smirks. Addy rolls her eyes and staysput while Simon leans against Mr. Avery's desk. "Literally, huh? What'llyou do with yourself now that homecoming's over? Big gap between nowand senior prom."

Addy looks at me without answering. I don't blame her. Simon's train ofthought almost never goes anywhere good when it comes to our friends. Heacts like he's above caring whether he's popular, but he was pretty smugwhen he wound up on the junior prom court last spring. I'm still not surehow he pulled that off, unless he traded keeping secrets for votes.Simon was nowhere to be found on homecoming court last week, though.I was voted king, so maybe I'm next on his list to harass, or whatever thehell he's doing.

"What's your point, Simon?" I ask, taking a seat next to Addy. Addy andI aren't close, exactly, but I kind of feel protective of her. She's been datingmy best friend since freshman year, and she's a sweet girl. Also not the kindof person who knows how to stand up to a guy like Simon who just won'tquit.

"She's a princess and you're a jock," he says. He thrusts his chin towardBronwyn, then at Nate. "And you're a brain. And you're a criminal. You'reall walking teen-movie stereotypes."

"What about you?" Bronwyn asks. She's been hovering near the window,but now goes to her desk and perches on top of it. She crosses her legs andpulls her dark ponytail over one shoulder. Something about her is cuter thisyear. New glasses, maybe? Longer hair? All of a sudden, she's kind ofworking this sexy-nerd thing.

"I'm the omniscient narrator," Simon says.

Bronwyn's brows rise above her black frames. "There's no such thing inteen movies."

"Ah, but Bronwyn." Simon winks and chugs his water in one long gulp."There is such a thing in life."

He says it like a threat, and I wonder if he's got something on Bronwynfor that stupid app of his. I hate that thing. Almost all my friends have beenon it at one point or another, and sometimes it causes real problems. Mybuddy Luis and his girlfriend broke up because of something Simon wrote.Though it was a true story about Luis hooking up with his girlfriend'scousin. But still. That stuff doesn't have to be published. Hallway gossip isbad enough.

And if I'm being honest, I'm pretty freaked at what Simon could writeabout me if he put his mind to it.

Simon holds his cup up, grimacing. "This tastes like crap." He drops thecup, and I roll my eyes at his attempt at drama. Even when he falls to thefloor, I still think he's messing around. But then the wheezing starts.Bronwyn's on her feet first, then kneeling beside him. "Simon," she says,shaking his shoulder. "Are you okay? What happened? Can you talk?" Hervoice goes from concerned to panicky, and that's enough to get me moving.But Nate's faster, shoving past me and crouching next to Bronwyn."A pen," he says, his eyes scanning Simon's brick-red face. "You have apen?" Simon nods wildly, his hand clawing at his throat. I grab the pen offmy desk and try to hand it to Nate, thinking he's about to do an emergencytracheotomy or something. Nate just stares at me like I have two heads. "Anepinephrine pen," he says, searching for Simon's backpack. "He's havingan allergic reaction."

Addy stands and wraps her arms around her body, not saying a word.Bronwyn turns to me, face flushed. "I'm going to find a teacher and callnine-one-one. Stay with him, okay?" She grabs her phone out of Mr.Avery's drawer and runs into the hallway.

I kneel next to Simon. His eyes are bugging out of his head, his lips areblue, and he's making horrible choking noises. Nate dumps the entirecontents of Simon's backpack on the floor and scrabbles through the messof books, papers, and clothes. "Simon, where do you keep it?" he asks,tearing open the small front compartment and yanking out two regular pensand a set of keys.

Simon's way past talking, though. I put one sweaty palm on his shoulder,like that'll do any good. "You're okay, you're gonna be okay. We're gettin'help." I can hear my voice slowing, thickening like molasses. My accentalways comes out hard when I'm stressed. I turn to Nate and ask, "You surehe's not chokin' on somethin'?" Maybe he needs the Heimlich maneuver,not a freaking medical pen.

Nate ignores me, tossing Simon's empty backpack aside. "Fuck!" heyells, slamming a fist on the floor. "Do you keep it on you, Simon? Simon!"Simon's eyes roll back in his head as Nate digs around in Simon's pockets.But he doesn't find anything except a wrinkled Kleenex.

Sirens blare in the distance as Mr. Avery and two other teachers race inwith Bronwyn trailing behind them on her phone. "We can't find hisEpiPen," Nate says tersely, gesturing to the pile of Simon's things.Mr. Avery stares at Simon in slack-jawed horror for a second, then turnsto me. "Cooper, the nurse's office has EpiPens. They should be labeled inplain sight. Hurry!"

I run into the hallway, hearing footsteps behind me that fade as I quicklyreach the back stairwell and yank the door open. I take the stairs three at atime until I'm on the first floor, and weave through a few stragglingstudents until I get to the nurse's office. The door's ajar, but nobody's there.It's a cramped little space with the exam table up against the windowsand a big gray storage cabinet looming to my left. I scan the room, my eyeslanding on two wall-mounted white boxes with red block lettering. Onereads emergency defibrillator, the other EMERGENCY EPINEPHRINE. I fumbleat the latch on the second one and pull it open.

There's nothing inside.

I open the other box, which has a plastic device with a picture of a heart.I'm pretty sure that's not it, so I start rummaging through the gray storagecabinet, pulling out boxes of bandages and aspirin. I don't see anything thatlooks like a pen.

"Cooper, did you find them?" Ms. Grayson, one of the teachers who'dentered the lab with Mr. Avery and Bronwyn, barrels into the room. She'spanting hard and clutching her side.

I gesture toward the empty wall-mounted box. "They should be there,right? But they're not."

"Check the supply cabinet," Ms. Grayson says, ignoring the Band-Aidboxes scattered across the floor that prove I've already tried. Anotherteacher joins us, and we tear the office apart as the sound of sirens getscloser. When we've opened the last cabinet, Ms. Grayson wipes a trickle ofsweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Cooper, let Mr. Averyknow we haven't found anything yet. Mr. Contos and I will keep looking."I get to Mr. Avery's lab the same time the paramedics do. There are threeof them in navy uniforms, two pushing a long white stretcher, one racingahead to clear the small crowd that's gathered around the door. I wait untilthey're all inside and slip in behind them. Mr. Avery's slumped next to thechalkboard, his yellow dress shirt untucked. "We couldn't find the pens," Itell him.

He runs a shaking hand through his thin white hair as one of theparamedics stabs Simon with a syringe and the other two lift him onto thestretcher. "God help that boy," he whispers. More to himself than to me, Ithink.

Addy's standing off to the side by herself, tears rolling down her cheeks.I cross over to her and put an arm around her shoulders as the paramedicsmaneuver Simon's stretcher into the hallway. "Can you come along?" oneasks Mr. Avery. He nods and follows, leaving the room empty except for afew shell-shocked teachers and the four of us who started detention withSimon.

Barely fifteen minutes ago, by my guess, but it feels like hours."Is he okay now?" Addy asks in a strangled voice. Bronwyn clasps herphone between her palms like she's using it to pray. Nate stands with hishands on his hips, staring at the door as more teachers and students starttrickling inside.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb and say no," he says.