If looks could kill, the one I leveled at John Thomas Wilcox in that moment would have put him six feet under.

“I’d love to,” I told Henry, turning my back on the minority whip’s son.

Unfortunately, there was an odd number of students in the class, leaving John Thomas free to tack himself onto our group. Clearly, he hadn’t taken even one of Henry’s words to heart.

He’d taken them as an invitation to spar.

“Shame about Asher,” John Thomas said offhandedly. “Guy’s always been a little unhinged.”

For an instant, I wondered if taking a swing at John Thomas myself might be worth a two-week suspension.

“In a couple of weeks, Asher’s suspension will be over.” Henry’s voice was mild, perfectly controlled. “But you,” he continued, looking at John Thomas like he could see into and through him and there was nothing to see, “will continue to be an utter disappointment to anyone who has ever given you the benefit of the doubt.”

Disappointment was a word that hit John Thomas where it hurt.

“What about you, Tess?” John Thomas asked, once he’d recovered. “Are you disappointed?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t give the benefit of the doubt to people like you.”

There was another brief, tense moment of silence.

“Did you know Hardwicke keeps records?” John Thomas asked, breaking it. “About medications, diagnoses, mental health risks . . .” he trailed off. “You’d be surprised how many girls at this school say they’re going to summer camp but actually check in to eating disorder clinics. And your little friend Vivvie?” John Thomas continued. “She’s an interesting one.”

Vivvie had told me once that her freshman year had been a dark time. She hadn’t gone into specifics, but I knew antidepressants had been involved.

After everything Vivvie had been through this semester, the idea of John Thomas breathing a word about her to anyone was enough to make me wish that Asher had hit him harder.

Henry laid a hand lightly on my shoulder—a reminder that John Thomas was trying to do to me exactly what he’d done to Asher: bait me into a fight, push me to the edge.

Two can play that game. My better self fought briefly against the urge and lost.

“It’s funny,” I said, meeting John Thomas’s gaze. “I saw your father Friday night. He was looking pretty cozy with a woman who wasn’t your mother.”

“Tess.” Henry could fit a world of censure into a single word. Don’t sink to his level. Don’t play his game.

“Red hair,” I continued. “Blue dress. Enjoys breathing heavily into your father’s hair while he strokes the back of her neck.”

John Thomas’s face went very still. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice taut.

“Why don’t I ask your father about her?” I leaned forward. “I can tell him you let something slip about their relationship one day in class.”

My words hit their target. The look on John Thomas’s face told me two things: he knew about his father’s relationship with this woman, and Congressman Wilcox knew that he knew.

“He won’t believe you,” John Thomas said.

“I think we both know that he would, especially once I mention the way you’ve been shooting your mouth off about Henry’s family.” I leaned back on the heels of my hands. “The congressman is very good at paying attention.” I repeated the words that John Thomas had said to me at the charity event. “You got your information about Henry’s family from your father, and something tells me he wouldn’t be too happy to find out you’re flapping your lips. Knowledge is power,” I said lightly, “and here you are, just giving the congressman’s away. And for what? Some high school election you’re not even going to win?”

I’d only seen John Thomas and his father interact briefly, but that was enough for me to guess that the congressman wouldn’t choose to expend even an ounce of political capital on his son’s petty high school concerns.

“You’ll keep your mouth shut,” John Thomas gritted.

I smiled. “How hard do you think it would be for me to set up a little chat with the congressman?” I asked rhetorically. John Thomas had struck at Henry and Asher. He’d terrorized Emilia. He’d threatened Vivvie. I wasn’t above issuing a threat of my own in return.

“Because the next time you come after one of my friends,” I said, leaning forward, placing my face within an inch of his, “I will bury you. And your own father will be the one to throw the dirt on top, because Henry was right.” I pitched my voice low, barely more than a whisper and all the more cutting for it. “You are a disappointment.”