“We have to move,” Chloe said, checking her watch. The digital numbers read 1:45 PM. “The procession lines up in exactly fifteen minutes. I have the technical route mapped out. We can bypass the main courtyard, cut through the botanical gardens, and slip you into the middle of the liberal arts line right as they start marching. Security is concentrated at the front gates.”
I stood up, the heavy polyester of my maroon gown clinging to my damp skin. I smoothed it down, trying to find some semblance of dignity in the uniform of my supposed triumph. From the hidden pocket sewn into the lining of my gown, I pulled out a small, metallic object.
A silver USB drive.
It held everything. The forged signatures. The IP addresses of the loan applications originating from my father’s home office. The bank routing numbers. And the terrifying, explicit text messages Ethan had sent me over the last forty-eight hours, detailing exactly what the loan sharks would do to me if I didn’t keep my mouth shut.
I handed the drive to Chloe. Her fingers trembled slightly as she took it.
“You plug this into the main console in the tech booth,” I instructed, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “The moment I touch that microphone, you override the camera feed. You project the ‘Exhibit A’ folder directly onto the main LED screen behind the stage.”
Chloe swallowed hard, slipping the drive into her pocket. “Mia, once I hit enter, there is no kill switch. The whole school, the faculty, the police… everyone will see it. There’s no taking it back. Your family will go to prison.”
I looked at the girl who had held me while I cried over eviction notices I never earned. I thought about the text from Ethan, threatening to send violent men to my new apartment.
“They aren’t my family,” I said, my voice finally steadying into something cold and sharp. “They are my wardens. And today is a jailbreak.”
We slipped out of the server room, stepping into the blinding afternoon sun. We stuck to the shadows of the old brick buildings, navigating the winding dirt paths of the botanical gardens. I kept my head down, pulling the mortarboard cap low over my eyes. Every rustle of the leaves, every distant crackle of a walkie-talkie made my heart slam against my ribs.
As we approached the edge of the gardens, the massive amphitheater came into view. Thousands of folding chairs were arranged on the pristine grass, rapidly filling with chattering families holding bouquets and cameras. At the far end stood the massive wooden stage, flanked by towering speakers and dominated by a staggering forty-foot LED screen.
“Okay,” Chloe breathed, crouching behind a thick hedge of hydrangeas. “The line is moving. Do you see the gap between the history majors and the English department? That’s your window. Go.”
She squeezed my hand once, a desperate, silent wish of luck, before turning and sprinting toward the metal scaffolding of the tech booth at the back of the quad.
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the scent of trampled grass and expensive perfume. I timed the rhythm of the marching students, waiting for the exact right moment. As the band struck up the grand, sweeping chords of the processional march, I stepped out from the bushes and seamlessly merged into the sea of maroon gowns.
