The Stolen Notebook Trap

My counselor spent three years burying my name.

Three hours before the decisions dropped, she posted a photo of her own daughter.

Tara, grinning at the camera like she'd already won. Under it, Ms. Brandt had typed: So proud of my girl. Mom's already waiting on the good news.

A row of likes. Every one of them a parent.

I saw it too.

In three hours the portal would open, and every senior's decision would be sitting there. Acceptance or rejection. No take-backs.

I didn't tap like.

I set the phone face-down on the table and waited.

I'd kept count for three years. Three more hours wouldn't kill me.

Chapter 1

Three years earlier.

First day of freshman year, the day they sorted us. I found a seat in Ms. Brandt's room and sat down. She stood at the front with a stack of files.

"New year. Let's get to know each other." She smiled, eyes sweeping front row to back. "Placement this year went off your eighth-grade records." She flipped a page. "I want to highlight our top ten."

She started reading names.

"Tara. Thirty-second in the grade."

A girl with a ponytail stood and gave a small smile. Front row, dead center.

"Tara's got a strong foundation. You could all learn a thing or two from her."

Brandt held her eyes a beat too long. Something in it I couldn't name yet.

I found out later. Tara was her daughter.

She kept reading. On the eleventh name she stopped.

"Sloane Carver."

I stood.

"Your record." She glanced at the file, and her brows pulled together. "Which middle school did you come up from?"

"Lincoln."

"Lincoln." She nodded. The public one. She didn't say it out loud. She didn't have to. "Sit down."

I sat.

That was the day I learned Ms. Brandt sorted us into two piles. Worth her time. Not worth her time.

I was in the second pile.

First round of exams came back. I placed eighth in the class.

I checked it three times. Fifty-third in the grade. Tara: twelfth in the class, eighty-first in the grade.

I was ahead of her.

When Brandt read the scores out loud, she skipped me.

"Biggest jump this round. That's Tara, up from the nineties to eighty-first. Let's hear it for her."

The clapping started.

I sat three rows from the back and watched her smile. She never said my name. Like eighth in the class didn't exist.

After class I went to her office.

"Ms. Brandt, I placed eighth this round."

She looked up at me once. "Mm. Not bad."

Not bad. Two words, and I was done.

I stood in the doorway and watched her drop her head back to her grading. No good job. No keep it up. She didn't look at me again.

I went back to my seat and opened my book.

My deskmate, Joan, glanced over.

"You got eighth?"

"Yeah."

"Then why didn't she say your name?"

I didn't answer.

Joan was quiet, middle of the pack, barely talked. She looked at me for a second, then said it low.

"I'll keep count for you."

I didn't get what she meant.

That night I copied the whole exam. Score, date, the rank she'd skipped. I started a file nobody knew about but me.

If she was going to act like my numbers weren't real, I'd keep my own set of the real ones.

Joan kept count too. A little notebook. Every time Brandt passed over my name, she wrote it down.

Second round of exams. I placed fifth.

She skipped me again.

What she read out was, "Tara dipped a little this time, but her foundation's solid. Nothing to worry about."

Tara placed fifteenth.

Me fifth. Her fifteenth. She got the praise. I got air.

Joan wrote a line in her notebook. Second exam. Carver, fifth in the class. Brandt didn't mention her. She turned it so I could read it.

I told her there was no point writing it down.

She didn't say anything. She closed the notebook.

She didn't stop.

Chapter 2

Spring semester, Brandt redid the seating chart.

"Off last semester's finals," she said.

I'd placed fourth on those. By her own rule, I belonged near the front.

The new chart went up. Back corner, second-to-last row.

Tara sat second row, dead center.

I went to her.

"Ms. Brandt, I placed fourth on finals. Why am I all the way back?"

She glanced at me. "Seating isn't only about grades. There's height, eyesight, behavior."

"I'm five-three. My eyes are fine. I've never had a single mark on me."

Something flickered across her face.

"Sloane, I handle the seating. You handle your studying."

"But"

"Enough."

She dropped her head.

I stood there.

Tara was five-five. Taller than me. Her grades were worse than mine. She sat second row, center.

I sat in the corner.

So that was the holistic part.

I went back to my corner and sat down.

From that angle, the words on the right edge of the board, I had to tilt my head to read them.

I didn't go to her again.

The seat was only the start.

Junior year, we picked our course load. I went heavy STEM. So did Tara. Brandt was still our counselor.

First round of exams that year, the school handed out a new set of prep books. Twenty per class, no more.

Brandt told the room, "These are good ones. There aren't many, so I'll hand them out by grade."

I'd placed third that round.

They came around the room. I didn't get one.

Cole Fairchild got one. He'd placed eighteenth.

Hailey Ashford got one. Twentieth.

I didn't.

I went to her again.

"Ms. Brandt, I'm third in the class. Why don't I have a prep book?"

She didn't lift her head. "All gone."

"But"

"I said they're all gone." She looked up then, and for the first time there was an edge in it. "If you're doing this well on your own, Sloane, you don't need them."

I stood there.

Cole's dad sat on the school board.

Hailey's mom had paid for the new projectors last fall.

My mom sold produce at the market.

I didn't say anything. I turned and left.

Back at my seat, Joan slid one onto my desk.

"Mine. Take it."

"What about you?"

"I'll just use your notes. They're better than this thing anyway."

I looked at her. She smiled.

I took it and opened the cover.

There was a name label inside. Tara Brandt.

Joan leaned in. "She took two. One for school, one for home. I borrowed this one. She doesn't know I handed it to you."

Two sets.

Twenty in the whole class, and she took two.

The kid who placed third got none.

I turned to the first page and started working.

Enough.

Work.

* * *

One noon that spring, my mom came by to bring me lunch.

She'd closed the stall early to make it. Rib soup, still hot in the thermos.

I waited for her at the gate.

She jogged up in that blue jacket washed pale as water, the thermos swinging from her hand, beaming at me like nothing in the world could touch us.

Chapter 3

"Sloanie. Drink it while it's hot."

She popped the thermos open and the smell of rib soup curled up between us.

"Mom, you don't have to keep coming. The cafeteria has food."

"Cafeteria food isn't home food."

She smiled and crouched down to pour me a cup.

That was when Ms. Brandt came out of the main building.

A few parents trailed behind her. Some kind of small parent conference, by the look of it.

She spotted my mom, and her step hitched.

Then she steered the whole group over.

"Well. You're Sloane's mother?"

My mom stood up, a little nervous.

"Hello, Ms. Brandt."

"Bringing her lunch?"

"Yes. Just some rib soup."

Brandt nodded and turned to the parents beside her.

"Sloane's a middle-of-the-road student."

I went still.

My class rank that semester had never once dropped below the top five.

Middle of the road?

"Her family's pretty ordinary too." Brandt kept going, easy about it, like she was talking about the weather. "I've told her more than once. With her foundation, a community college, maybe a trade, that's a perfectly good fit. Not every kid is built for a four-year school."

A couple of the parents glanced at my mom.

My mom's hand stopped in midair. Soup dripped off the spoon.

"Ms. Brandt." Her voice had a shake in it. "Sloane's grades are good, though. Aren't they?"

Brandt smiled.

Warm, patient, like she was doing us a favor.

"Every parent thinks their kid is the special one. But I've been doing this twenty years. The ones with real potential, I can spot in a second."

She looked at me.

"Your girl's a hard worker. I'll give her that. But this is about as far as she goes. Not every garden grows an Ivy."

One of the parents nodded along. "Ms. Brandt knows her stuff. If she says it, it's true."

I looked at my mom.

Her eyes had gone red around the rims.

Her lips moved. Nothing came out.

She lowered her head and set the spoon back in the thermos.

Her hand was shaking.

I walked over and took the thermos from her.

"Mom. Go on home."

"Sloane"

"It's fine."

I couldn't get anything else out.

Because if I opened my mouth again, I was going to go off on Brandt right there in the courtyard.

My mom left.

She looked back twice on her way out.

Her eyes were red.

I stood where I was and watched her shrink toward the gate and disappear.

The rib soup went cold in the thermos.

That night I made a decision.

No trade school.

No community college.

I was getting into a top school.

And I was going to make Ms. Brandt watch me do it.

* * *

Senior year, the school opened a college-prep intensive.

Each teacher could nominate fifteen students. An outside instructor ran it, aimed straight at top-school admissions, two extra sessions a week.

The spots were limited.

Brandt read the list to the class.

I listened to her go down it, name by name.

She hit fifteen. Done.

I wasn't on it.

My stomach dropped.

My rank that month was second in the class. Forty-seventh in the grade.

Forty-seventh.

More than enough for the intensive.

But I wasn't on the list.

I took a breath and raised my hand.

"Ms. Brandt, I make the cutoff. Why am I not on the list?"

She looked at me.

"Spots are limited. It's a holistic call."

Holistic again.

"Holistic based on what?"

Chapter 4

The room went quiet.

Every face turned to me.

Brandt's expression changed.

"Sloane, I've already said it. The nominations are my call. If you have a problem, see me after class."

"I'd like to know now."

I stood up.

"I'm second in the class. Forty-seventh in the grade. There are kids on that list ranked past a hundred. I'm not on it. I want to know what the holistic standard is."

The room got quieter.

Tara sat in the front row and dropped her head.

Her rank that month was nineteenth in the class. A hundred thirty-second in the grade.

But she was on the list.

Brandt's face went flat.

"Sloane, what is this attitude?"

"I'm just asking a question."

"I've answered your question. Sit down."

"You didn't answer it."

The air set like concrete.

Brandt stared at me for five seconds.

"My office. After class."

She turned and went back to the lesson.

I sat down.

But I didn't go to her office.

Because I knew it wouldn't change anything.

She wasn't going to give me a spot.

From the start, those fifteen spots were never for the students with the best numbers.

They were for the ones she thought were worth growing.

That night during study hall, Joan slid a note onto my desk.

"I looked up all fifteen of their ranks."

Fifteen names. Fifteen ranks.

The highest was twenty-third in the grade.

The lowest was a hundred forty-seventh.

Tara: a hundred thirty-second.

Me: forty-seventh.

Cut.

At the bottom of the note, Joan had written one line.

"Her daughter didn't make the cutoff."

I read it for a long time.

Then I folded it and put it in my pocket.

Fine. No intensive.

I'd run my own.

From that day I was up at five-thirty and in bed at eleven-thirty. Every minute in between, outside of class and meals, went to problem sets.

I didn't have the intensive's materials. I used the old set Joan had lent me and went through it three times.

I didn't need Brandt to recommend me.

I'd recommend myself.

* * *

After first-semester finals senior year, the school posted the grade rankings.

I looked three times.

My name wasn't there.

Not because I'd done badly.

My name was just gone from the list.

I went down to the registrar's office to check.

The woman pulled it up in the system. "Carver? Your grades are all here. But the class rank, your counselor's office never submitted you." She frowned. "When they sent up your section's list, your name wasn't on it. Probably got missed."

Missed.

My grades had never once dropped below the top fifty in the grade.

Missed?

I stood in the doorway and looked down the hall at Brandt's office.

The door was shut.

Missed.

I didn't go to her.

I went to Joan.

"I need you to pull something for me."

Joan was the class office aide. She had access to the raw records in the system.

During study hall, she sent me the result on the quiet.

I opened it.

Chapter 5

My rank that semester. Forty-first in the grade.

But on the class-rank report Brandt had turned in to the registrar, my name sat at twenty-third in the class.

I was third.

I checked Tara's too.

On Brandt's report, Tara was seventh in the class.

Her real rank: seventeenth.

I read it three times.

Brandt had pushed me down twenty spots.

She'd pushed her own daughter up ten.

Grade rank is built off class rank. Mine got buried. Tara's got lifted.

So on the grade sheet, Tara looked like she was climbing, and I looked like I was sliding. Or gone.

Joan watched my face.

"I already took screenshots."

She turned the phone toward me.

The registrar's system, clear as day.

My real grades.

Brandt's doctored ranks.

All of it.

"Joan."

"Yeah?"

"You've been logging this since freshman year?"

She nodded.

"Why?"

She was quiet a moment.

"Because she skipped me too. Freshman fall, I placed ninth in the class. She didn't even read my name. Then my grades slipped, and she stopped seeing me at all."

She looked at me.

"But you didn't slip. You stayed up front. The harder she pushed you down, the higher you scored."

She dropped her eyes.

"I can't help you with much. But I can help you keep count."

I looked at the screenshots on her phone.

Two dozen of them.

From the first exam freshman year to now.

Every time Brandt skipped my name.

Every doctored rank.

All of it, saved.

I handed the phone back.

"Sit on it."

"What do you mean?"

"I said sit on it. Wait for the SAT."

I looked at her.

"My SAT score is the one thing she can't touch."

* * *

Spring of senior year, I started noticing something.

Tara's scores were climbing.

Not a little at a time. All at once. A big jump.

Her practice-test math went from the high 600s to a 780.

Her science section, from the low 500s into the 700s.

It wasn't normal.

I let it go at first.

Until one day I opened my prep notebook.

I have a habit. Every problem I miss, I write out the method, step by step.

That notebook goes everywhere with me.

But one day at lunch, it wasn't in my bag.

When I got back to the room that afternoon, it was there again.

I flipped through it.

A few page corners had been folded over.

I didn't say anything.

The next day I slipped in a sheet with a problem I'd made up myself.

I wrote the method wrong on purpose.

Three days later, a problem like it turned up on Tara's quiz.

Her steps matched my fake method exactly.

Down to the same mistake.

I sat at my desk and looked at the back of Tara's head.

Her scores were climbing because she was copying my notebook.

Not because she'd learned a thing.

Brandt was having someone lift my notebook when I wasn't looking, photograph it, and hand it to Tara.

That was why Brandt stuck me in the back corner. Easy reach.

That was why Brandt never gave me a single resource. She didn't need me doing better. She needed my notes doing better.

I was Tara's free answer key.

Chapter 6

I closed my eyes.

Three years.

The corner seat.

The skipped scores.

The doctored ranks.

Cut from the intensive.

Not one resource.

My mom, humiliated to her face.

And my notes, handed off for her daughter to copy.

It all made sense now.

She was never ignoring me.

She was using me.

I opened my eyes.

Joan was watching me.

I said two words.

"Keep logging."

Then I switched to a new notebook and left the old one in my desk.

The new one came home with me every night.

In the old one, I started writing fresh material.

All of it wrong.

Every method, every step, wrong.

I wanted to see how long Tara could keep "improving."

* * *

Two months before the SAT, Brandt called me into her office.

"Sloane, I want to talk to you about something."

She sat with a mug of tea in her hands.

"You haven't been in a good place lately."

"I placed second in the class last round."

"Grades aren't everything." She set the mug down. "I've watched you a while now. You don't get along with your classmates. The overall feel of it."

"Which classmate?"

"The general atmosphere." She sighed and put on a face like she had my best interests at heart. "I'm saying this for your sake. Right before the test, if you're in a bad place socially, it'll hurt your scores."

"So?"

"I think you should move over to Ms. Carter's section."

"Switch sections?"

"Yes. Ms. Carter is very dedicated. You'd do better over there."

I looked at her.

Two months before the SAT, she wanted me to switch sections.

Leave the room I knew. Leave my seat. Leave my deskmate.

Start over somewhere strange.

Switch now, and my scores would tank. Guaranteed.

"Ms. Brandt, do you really think switching sections two months out helps my SAT?"

She blinked.

"In the long run"

"I'm only asking about the SAT."

"Sloane, I'm your counselor. I make these calls for the good of the whole section"

"For the good of the section? Or for someone else?"

The office went quiet for a second.

Her face changed.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." I stood up. "I'm not switching."

"That isn't your call to make."

"Then I'll go to the principal."

"You"

I turned and walked out.

The next day, an assistant principal pulled me aside.

"Sloane, Ms. Brandt says you've been stirring things up in class"

"Sir, I'd like you to check my grades."

"Your grades?"

"The raw grades in the system, and the class rank Ms. Brandt turned in."

He looked at me a moment.

He didn't say yes right away.

But he didn't say no, either.

"Understood. Head back for now."

Three days later, Brandt dropped the transfer.

He'd quietly held the line for me.

But the way she looked at me had changed.

There was something careful in it now.

She'd thought I was a kid who would never fight back.

She was wrong.

I was just waiting.

For the one score she couldn't touch.

Test day. The SAT.

Chapter 7

I sat the SAT with steady hands.

Three years of problem sets behind me. Every five-thirty alarm. Every day Brandt looked straight through me, turned into a problem I'd already worked.

I wasn't nervous.

There was a strange calm in it.

Because from that morning on, Brandt couldn't touch my score.

The people scoring the SAT didn't know my name.

The system that graded it wasn't hers.

My score was the one thing she couldn't change.

I walked out when it was done.

The score came back two weeks later. Fifteen-eighty.

I read it once and set the phone down.

After that it was just the waiting.

* * *

Decision day.

My mom put on a new dress that morning. Red. For luck, she said.

We sat in the apartment and waited.

My phone on the table, the portal already pulled up.

Midnight.

Three years. Down to one click.

I hit refresh.

The page loaded.

One second.

Two seconds.

It opened