“Laptops and notes away, pencils out… begin .”

Amber followed her professor’s instructions. She harbored no reservation whatsoever at being unable to consult her studying materials. This stood in stark contrast to some of her classmates who hurried one last glance, but that hardly mattered; she needed only to focus on herself.

The questions came easily at first, even though they started with material covered at the beginning of the semester. They may not have been as fresh in Amber’s mind, but that just meant you had to find a study strategy that worked for you.

Okay…which of these cannot be the atomic mass of an element numbered 39?

Amber closed her eyes and visualized the periodic table, which provided her the information needed to answer that question. For the most part, of course, the professor was not interested in his students’ ability to memorize numbers and figures; rather, he wanted his students to apply that information to the questions he asked on the exam.

Luckily, she’d spent hours a day studying over the last week for her midterm. As such, the exam was harder on Amber’s wrist than her brain as she scribbled down answers. Occasionally she had to stop to shake out said wrist, but it wasn’t long before she’d cobbled something together for every question.

All right. I’ve answered all the questions - now I have to review to make sure I’m not missing something that I could have answered given more time. After all, I have a LOT more time.

For the final Chemistry exam, the students had been allotted two hours, and Amber still had about two-thirds of that time to spare. She had plenty of time to ensure her answers at least made sense.

So she carefully read over the exam once, then did so once more. When Amber grew convinced that she’d written as much as she’d be able to with the information she’d been given (and that which she’d stored in her mind), she slowly stood up from her desk and strode up to the front of the room.

The professor, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you want to submit your exam? You still have a little over an hour.”

Amber nodded, handing over her exam packet.

“Very well,” the professor whispered. “Thank you for studying under me this semester and remaining engaged in class. Have a great summer.”

As Amber left the exam room, rubbing her blonde bangs out of her eyes, her doubts started creeping in like vultures searching for a corpse.

To the extent she ever struggled with exams at Harvard, it wasn’t for lack of time. Getting down solid yet concise answers would either take far less than two hours, or it wouldn’t matter if she had ten hours. It was all in how much she’d studied, straight-up repeating her answers as though taking the exam fifteen times before the real thing.

I could have written more about the properties of halogens. Or about the reactive properties of alkalis, how to build a francium bomb…that sort of thing.

Still, Amber felt confident she’d at least earned a B+. Considering the final was 40 percent of her grade, that would likely hurt her GPA by a hundredth or two, but she’d still graduate at least magna cum laude. And that was nothing to sneeze at!

On the way back to her residence hall, Amber’s backpack vibrated.

Oh, great. Someone’s calling me.

Amber took out her iPhone and scanned the caller ID to make sure it was someone she recognized. After all, any self-respecting 21-year-old would rather pick up a hand grenade than a call from an unknown number, wouldn’t they?

The number was unknown - judging by the first three digits, it wasn’t even in a Greater Boston area code. Probably a telemarketer.

Amber used her Harvard ID to enter the residence hall, then took the stairs up to the room she shared with Rachel Petty. After turning her lanyard key into the door, Amber was greeted by a messy sight.

Rachel, a red-haired young woman, was hastily packing her items to return home. Something about her demeanor appeared frantic, as though she couldn’t wait to be out of there at all costs.

“You look nervous” Amber noted.

Rachel winked at her roommate. “You think?” she replied, stuffing more, well, stuff into her Pokémon backpack.

“Hey, I’m just telling it like I see it” Amber replied. “And you’ll forgive me for being worried - we’ve been best friends since ninth grade!”

“I get it” Rachel muttered. “It’s just…the exam today was so nerve-wracking. I had to remember all the battles from the Civil War in order, for crying out loud!”

“Sounds difficult.”

“Oh, it was! Now I have to head out - we’ll see each other over the summer, okay?”

“Sounds great” Amber echoed, but her roommate’s demeanor still gave her pause. Why was she so nervous after she’d already taken the exam? Once you’d turned in the exam papers, you had to let the chips fall where they might - the time to change your fate was before you did that.

Well, if it was something Rachel struggled with privately, it was none of Amber’s business. As such, Amber decided to put this conversation behind her and go for a post-exam celebratory jog. That was always a good way to relieve stress, after all; during a run, nothing mattered except putting one leg in front of the other until you reached your goal.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

A mile into her run, Amber was already soaked in sweat and breathing heavily. In early May, the days were still somewhat crisp, but the heat of a New England summer was going to come before long. At that point, she’d be relegated to using the fitness center in her apartment complex.

The lanyard around her neck, her iPhone in her right hand, Amber listened to some David Bowie as she hit her stride through the most innovative city on the planet. The line about a top gun pilot flying through a hole until he grew very old had just sounded when her phone rang again.

This time Amber recognized the number. It was the same one that had called her right after she’d finished her exam.

“Fuck off” she wheezed, kicking her jog into high gear as Bowie sang apocalyptic lines about black streams with white fish, as well as blind men drowning in said streams.

Nobody interrupted her jogs - nobody had the right to. Except, of course, for the lack of a walk signal at the next intersection.

A black car sat at the light, parallel to the path Amber meant to take, honking the horn every so often. However, Amber didn’t think much about this car until the walk signal showed up, followed soon after by a green light.

The phone rang yet again as the song shifted to “Legendary” by Bon Jovi. And predictably, it was the same damn number!

Amber declined the call for the third time, huffing and puffing as though ready to blow a house down. Despite this heavy breathing, she forged onward, nearing Cleveland Circle before she was stopped by another street.

As she jogged in place to maintain her momentum, Amber glanced to the right and saw that a black car was parked right next to the sidewalk. The windows were too dark to make out the occupant, but Amber could still tell that it was the same vehicle from a few minutes ago.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “Or, as Rachel would say, Arceus.”

But now was no time to be clever. For the fourth time in less than half an hour, her phone vibrated. I wonder who this is…

The light was taking forever to produce the walk signal, and Amber swore under her breath. She checked the caller ID in the vain hope it would be a different number; the keyword is vain, because it was the same number as the previous three calls.

Someone wants to talk to me so badly, they call me four times in quick succession. Wow, I’m suddenly popular.

Popularity, of course, was situational. You wanted it when you were going for a scholarship at one of the world’s top universities, but not when you just wanted to live your life. Still, against her own better judgment, Amber accepted the call.

“Who is this?” she snarled into the phone.

“Your name is Amber Hawkeye?” the voice on the other end asked. He sounded like an older man with a Southern accent, though it was hard to say for sure.

“Uh…yes” Amber replied, thoroughly weirded out. “Who are you?”

“Don’t be cute with me, Amber. Don’t be funny with me. I know that you’ve got something to hide.”

Amber felt like she’d just been slammed in the chest by a steam engine. Nonetheless, she took care to ensure she was out of earshot of the other pedestrians when she responded.

“I don’t understand” she muttered. “What do you think I’m hiding?”

“You’ve got a friend at Harvard, don’t you? Your roommate, Rachel Petty?”

“How do you - how do you even know that?” Amber exclaimed frantically.

“I have my ways” the person on the other end said. “And by ways, I mean social media. Y’all need to be careful what you’re posting there - it’s a literal minefield.”

“Right”.

“Don’t say it like you youngsters always do - this isn’t a dialogue box in one of your video games. The point is, we know your little friend Rachel has a secret. A secret that you don’t want the world to know, so you’re keeping it for her.”

Time seemed to stop along with Amber’s heart. She did not reply verbally to the other person, instead ruminating about how best to reply for a good ten seconds.

“My name is Chris Courtland,” the man said, “and my people know for a fact that Rachel Petty has violated the principles of academic integrity. She cheated on her Critical Race Theory exam last year, did she not?”

“Rachel did not - she wouldn’t,” Amber snapped. Perhaps she shouldn’t have denied it so forcefully, however, because she knew it wasn’t true. And how did Amber know Rachel had cheated on the exam?

Because she told me herself!

It had happened during their last winter break. Amber and Rachel had met up in the North End, then walked the slick streets to the New England Aquarium and stood beside the tank of seals for a while, as that attraction didn’t require the payment of an admission fee.

As the snowflakes fell, as the excitable children and tourists from various parts of the country (and a few other countries) waited in line to enter the aquarium, Rachel had gently nudged Amber and said there was something she needed to tell her, and that it needed to remain a secret to everyone else. When Amber had inquired about it, Rachel had spilled the beans.

Since that day, Amber hadn’t told a soul about her roommate’s deed. Rachel had merely needed to get something off her chest, and Amber was determined never to violate a friend’s trust, even if it was on something like this.

Somehow, this man knew anyway.

“I can tell you’re lying,” he stated coolly. “But that’s okay, because I’ll tell you the truth. My name is Chris Courtland, and I’m a private investigator. When Rachel’s CRT professor spotted an irregularity, he alerted me. And I’m going to tell the world the truth they deserve to know…”.

“Unless?” Amber whispered, hoping there was some exception she could seize like a life ring at sea. Some way to escape from this situation.

“Simply put,” Chris stated, “I do not tolerate criminals, you pretty little liar.” Amber recoiled at being called a pretty little liar, but Chris wasn’t done yet.

“But if you’re willing to help me, I will keep your friend’s secret. Your secret.”

I’m being blackmailed. Isn’t this illegal?

As though reading Amber’s mind, Chris continued. “Academic dishonesty is a serious crime, even in the age of ChatGPT. So I don’t take this lightly. But if you are able to find Danny Sham for me and bring him in unharmed, I will keep the secret.”

“Who’s Danny Sham?” Amber wondered aloud.

“Someone who’s done some horrible things” Chris stated simply. “That’s all you need to know.”

Suddenly, Amber imagined herself as that statue in front of the Supreme Court building, the one with the blind woman holding the scales. She had to weigh both options; unlike in Chemistry, you didn’t know which answer was greater. Or rather, which would cause the lesser amount of harm.

Really, she had three options. One, she could be the whistleblower herself and reveal that Rachel had cheated on the exam. That would get Rachel in trouble, and probably Amber as well, but it was the honest thing to do.

Two, she could go along with Chris’ command. She could locate this Danny Sham person and turn him in to the authorities, a group to which Chris presumably belonged. And she’d protect Rachel in so doing, ensuring that their friendship strengthened.

Three, she could refuse to go along with Chris and throw Rachel under the bus, protecting this Danny Sham person. Functionally, it was the same as option one, except possibly worse because she wasn’t the one to come clean. Additionally, for all she knew, Danny might have done something truly heinous. But if that’s the case, why are they involving ME? I’m majoring in Chemistry, not Criminology!

Still, Option 2 sounded the best. Okay, it wasn’t really the “best”, more like the “least worst”, but sometimes you didn’t like any of your options. That was part of life.

“I’ll help you” Amber asserted. “How much time do I have to turn him in?”

“One month.”