Chapter 5: The Trap Tightens

In the dorm, my three roommates tried to persuade me to just return the drone.

The student council righteously pointed out that since the item was worth over $500 and I was over 18, the consequences would be serious if I got caught.

But the class president made a $525 profit and he’s over 18 too. Shouldn’t the consequences for him be serious as well? I wondered if anyone ever got in trouble for being too slick for their own good.

I had to fight to keep from smirking.

Since we’re classmates, I messaged the class president again:

[Class president, I didn’t steal the drone.]

He replied almost instantly:

[Just hand it over. Everyone’s waiting. If you apologize, no one will blame you.]

[It’s normal to make a mistake. Don’t waste my time.]

[If the drone can’t be found, you’ll have to buy a new one to compensate everyone.]

I sneered. The class president wanted me to take the blame.

He’d made $525 by buying a $75 secondhand drone and now wanted me to buy a new one to cover for him. The audacity would be almost admirable, if it wasn’t so infuriating.

I replied to Derek Mason:

[If you say I stole and hid the drone, then call the cops and have me arrested.]

Then I turned off my phone. The silence was sweeter than I’d expected. I tossed my phone on my desk and picked at my takeout fries, savoring the quiet.

But unexpectedly, on my way back to the dorm with my takeout, the instructor pulled me into her office with a dark face.

The cloying scent of cheap air freshener battled with the stale coffee smell. A dusty pennant from the college football team drooped behind her desk. The office was dead silent. The American flag in the corner drooped in the stale air, and a weirdly floral air freshener tickled my nose.

"Everyone makes mistakes. If you hand it over, no one will blame you."

I immediately opened the voice memo app and held my phone up, thumb hovering over the big red button. "Ms. Parker, could you repeat that? I want to record it."

Half a year ago, someone had used a recording to report the instructor for forcing students to drive her home. She’d had $300 docked from her pay. Clearly, she still remembered.

Seeing the recording app, the instructor’s face turned green and she stared at my hand.

After making sure I’d exited the app, she switched to a polite tone:

"Your class president said the drone is missing. Do you have any idea where it is?"

So she did know how to talk properly.

She also knew how to ask nicely. I could practically see the wheels turning in her head, weighing her own risk.

I shook my head.

The instructor tried to coax me:

"If it’s inconvenient, just quietly put it in my office later. I’ll just say the class president made a mistake, that it was already here."

I replied, "Okay," and left the office. My heart was pounding, but I kept my face calm as I shut the door behind me.

I sent the class president a final warning:

[Class president, will you tell everyone the truth yourself, or should I do it for you?]