1 Three days before the SATs, the poorest, most universally desired guy in the senior class suddenly bought me an iced matcha latte. My fingers had barely grazed the condensation on the plastic cup when a voice—metallic, disembodied, and chillingly cheerful—echoed inside my skull. [Ding! Score-Swap Item successfully deployed!] Then came Preston Hayes’s voice, vibrating with a smug, suppressed laughter that made my stomach turn. Why does Holden Sinclair get to sleep through AP Calc and score a perfect 1600 every time, while I bleed over my textbooks until 2 A.M. just to scrape by with an 1100? his inner voice snarled. If the universe won’t hand me a fair shot, I’ll carve out a masterpiece of my own. Right at that moment, the rest of the Legacy Cohort was loudly comparing the bribes our parents had promised us for surviving finals week. The highest scorer was getting the deed to a private island in the Bahamas; the lowest was settling for a pair of vintage, limited-edition Jordans. Preston’s inner voice twisted into something venomous. Look at these privileged parasites. They don’t deserve the air they breathe. System, he commanded in his head, I want the scores of this entire class. I’m going to harvest them and sell them to people on the outside who actually want to change their zip codes! The robotic voice chimed back, perfectly calm. [Confirmed. Once the target consumes the Score-Swap beverage, the academic profiles will automatically exchange upon test completion. System-generated items leave no digital or physical trace.] Hearing that, I snatched the matcha latte right out of his hand, tipped my head back, and downed it in three massive gulps. What Preston didn’t know was that I wasn’t an academic prodigy. I was a professional fraud. To keep my globe-trotting, billionaire parents off my back and keep my trust fund flowing, I had been entirely funding a brilliant, low-income student to take all my practice tests. Once my circle of trust-fund-baby friends caught wind of my setup, they copied it immediately. So, the Legacy Cohort—forty-two wealthy “geniuses”—was actually backed by forty-two desperate, brilliant kids taking our exams under the table. But the actual SATs? The College Board required biometric scans, government IDs, and facial recognition at the testing centers. We couldn’t fake it. We had already mapped out our exit strategy: on the morning of the exam, the entire cohort would collectively announce we were taking gap years to tour Europe or deferring to Swiss boarding schools. A graceful, coordinated withdrawal. I never expected someone to volunteer as tribute to take our real scores. The guy was a modern-day Robin Hood! … I hit the bottom of the cup, savoring the icy sweetness, and loudly slurped the remaining green foam. Preston stared at me, blinking rapidly, the fake smile slipping off his face for a split second. “Holden, man… slow down. You’re gonna choke.” [Ding! Binding successful. From this moment until the completion of the state-mandated SATs, the Host and Target’s exam scores are officially linked for exchange.] That’s it? It was that easy? Preston thought, his hand trembling so hard the plastic carrying bag crinkled. His eyes darted past me, scanning the rows of my classmates. Holden’s 1600 is mine. And the other forty-one kids in here are all guaranteed to score at least a 1450! his internal monologue raced. If I can steal their scores and sell them to desperate kids on the outside… twenty grand a pop… I’m going to be a millionaire. He cleared his throat, pitching his voice louder. “Hey guys, I bought extra! I know everyone’s stressed about the boards, so drinks are on me. One for everybody!” To his absolute horror, not a single person looked up. My desk-mate, Sloane Harrington, was slumped in the back row, aggressively tapping her iPad screen, playing some RPG. She didn’t even lift an eyelid. “What brand? If it’s not from that artisanal place on 5th, I’m not touching it. Who’s paying my medical bills if I get food poisoning?” The other heirs in the room didn’t even bother offering excuses. “I only drink the cold-pressed juices my private chef makes, but thanks,” one muttered. “Dairy allergy. Hard pass,” another chimed in. Preston’s face flushed a deep, mottled crimson. Pretentious snobs! A bunch of useless trust-fund trash! he seethed internally. Fine. I’ll use tomorrow’s district mock exam as a trial run. Once I confirm the scores transfer, I’ll find a way to deal with the rest of you. He spun on his heel and stormed out, slamming the heavy oak door so hard the glass panes rattled. The second the latch clicked shut, I slammed my palms flat on my desk. “Alright, listen up! Cohort meeting, right now!” Forty-one heads snapped in my direction. Sloane didn’t even pause her game. “What is it now, Holden? You having a manic episode?” “Good news. Unbelievably good news,” I said, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. I repeated the conversation between Preston and his ‘System,’ word for word. The classroom fell into a stunned silence that lasted exactly three seconds. “So… if we drink his matcha, our scores go to him?” someone asked slowly. “And where do his scores go?” “To us!” I grinned. Sloane finally locked her iPad, holding up her fingers to do the math. “The last time I actually took a practice section myself, I think I got, what, a 420 composite?” “Exactly,” I said. “Trading a 420 for his 1100 isn’t him stealing from us. It’s him running a charity for the academically challenged!” The girl with the dairy allergy shot up from her seat, aggressively massaging her temples in regret. “Are you kidding me?! I just rejected him! Is it too late to run down the hall and grab a cup?” “Sit down!” I ordered, waving her back into her seat. “Nobody chases him. And absolutely nobody breaks character in front of him.” Sloane narrowed her eyes, studying my face. “Holden, are you sure you haven’t just fried your last brain cell? You’re hearing voices?” “Sloane, darling, have you met me? Since when do I have the imagination to make this up?” She paused, recalling my chronic inability to read more than a paragraph without complaining of a migraine. She couldn’t argue with the logic. “But I thought the plan was to announce our European gap years on test day and skip the testing center entirely,” she said. “The plan has evolved.” I picked up the empty plastic cup and tapped it against the mahogany desk. “We aren’t just taking the SATs. We are going to take them with bells on. If someone is begging to carry our academic baggage, it would be rude to say no.” From that moment on, whatever he knew, we knew. And whatever we knew, he wouldn’t suspect a damn thing. By that afternoon, the news that the entire Legacy Cohort was sitting for the SATs had detonated across the school. The Headmaster practically tripped over his own loafers sprinting into our classroom, mopping his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Good lord, children, this cohort was created specifically to keep you comfortable!” he panted. “The rest of the school thinks it’s an honors track, but we all know the truth—it’s a containment zone! Are you seriously telling me you plan to walk into that testing center?” “Dead serious,” I said. The Headmaster’s knees buckled. He had to grip the doorframe just to stay upright. When I got home that evening, my eldest sister, Victoria, was already seated at the dining table, her fork untouched. Our parents were perpetually halfway across the globe, leaving the Sinclair empire—and me—in the hands of my three older sisters. Victoria set her crystal water glass down with a sharp clink. Her gaze was pure ice. “Do you realize that having a proxy take your standardized tests is a federal crime?” “I’m aware.” “We paid for Ethan Wright’s mother’s surgery,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet. “If you do anything to jeopardize that boy’s future, I will personally end you.” “Victoria, relax. I’m taking the test myself. Ethan is going to take his under his own name, to get into Harvard, just like he always planned.” Victoria froze. It took her a full ten seconds to process the sentence. “You? Taking it yourself? What are you going to get, a 400?” “Even if I get a flat zero, it’ll be a zero I earned with my own two hands.” She stared at me for a long time. Surprisingly, the edges of her eyes turned a little pink. She turned her head toward the kitchen. “Maria! Bring out the good caviar! Our useless little brother finally grew a spine!” Caroline and Beatrice—my second and third sisters—came down the grand staircase just in time to hear this, their faces mirroring identical expressions of shock. I kept my head down, shoveling truffle risotto into my mouth, my shoulders shaking as I fought back laughter. I haven’t grown a spine, Victoria. I just found someone standing in line to take our bullets. Preston Hayes, I thought, do not disappoint me during tomorrow’s district mock exam. The next day’s district mock exam went exactly as planned. Ethan sat in my seat to take the test, while I spent two hours sunbathing on the roof of the science building. The grading machines were fast. By the afternoon, the printed rankings were taped to the glass windows of the counseling office. Number One: Preston Hayes. 1580. My name had plummeted into the triple digits. Holden Sinclair: 820. The hallway erupted. “Preston Hayes? The guy from the regular track? Didn’t he get barely a 1000 last time?” “Wait, Holden got an 820? The trust-fund genius choked?” “I always said those legacy kids bought their grades!” Preston stood in the center of the swirling crowd, offering a bashful, aw-shucks smile as he adjusted his collar. “I didn’t expect this either. I guess staying up late studying finally paid off.” 1580! his mind roared. This is the life I was meant to have! A few feet away, the forty-one members of the Legacy Cohort stood huddled around the bulletin board, trying so hard not to laugh that people were turning purple. Sloane caught my eye and mouthed: One. Five. Eight. Zero. He’s. So. Desperate. Ethan pushed his way through the crowd, genuine panic in his eyes. He grabbed the sleeve of my blazer, his voice cracking. “Holden, I swear I filled out every bubble. I double-checked my work. I don’t understand how…” I pulled him into the quiet alcove beneath the stairwell and shoved a bottle of expensive pressed juice into his hands. “The Scantron machine glitched, Ethan. It has nothing to do with you. On the real SAT, you write your own name, and you crush it. Got it?” Sloane strolled over, hands buried in the pockets of her pleated skirt. She stared at the rankings for a long moment before letting out a sharp breath. “Holden Sinclair. Eight twenty.” She smirked. “Your first authentic score. It might be borrowed, but shouldn’t we pop some champagne to celebrate?” “Shut up,” I muttered. But beneath the sarcasm, I was thrilled. An 820! If I actually pulled an 820 on the real SAT, my sisters might be so relieved they’d buy me that island anyway. That night, Preston dropped a message into a group chat dedicated to low-income financial aid students: If you want to boost your score by 500 points overnight and buy a ticket out of this zip code, DM me. Slots are extremely limited. Within thirty minutes, his cracked iPhone was overheating from the notifications. The next day after school, a massive line snaked through the wooded park behind the campus. Preston sat on a concrete picnic table, one leg crossed arrogantly over the other. “Here are the rules. First, you get whatever score from the Legacy Cohort transfers to you. Whether that gets you into the Ivy League or just a solid state school depends on your luck. Second, you take the actual SAT and you bubble in every single answer. You hand in a blank test, the swap voids, and I keep your money.” The System said both parties have to make a legitimate attempt for it to stick, he calculated internally. As for whatever pathetic scores these losers transfer over to the rich kids… who cares? And when the rich kids realize their scores are gone, it won’t matter. I have the System. No one can trace it back to us. A guy in the line rubbed his palms together nervously. “I was on track for community college, but with an Ivy League degree, I wouldn’t have to work in a warehouse. I want Harvard.” The girl next to him nodded fiercely. “Why do those legacy kids get to have everything? What’s wrong with taking what’s theirs? It’s basically Robin Hood!” The slots sold out instantly. Seeing the demand, Preston hiked the price on the spot from $15,000 to $25,000. Hands still shot up. I was standing behind a large oak tree, eating a breakfast burrito I’d just bought from the food cart by the exit. The owner, Mrs. Davis, always slipped an extra egg into mine. She had medical tape over the veins in her hand from her dialysis treatments. Just minutes ago, she had patted my arm, saying, “Harper says your class is full of good kids. Look out for her, will you? If she can just get into a good state school, all this pain will have been worth it.” Yet right now, her daughter, Harper Davis, was standing at the very back of Preston’s line. Her phone screen was lit up—it was the confirmation page of a predatory payday loan app. Preston glanced at her, the cash register in his head dinging. Harper? If she drains her mom’s dialysis fund and takes out that high-interest loan, she can hit $25,000 perfectly. Harper gripped her phone, her voice shaking. “Twenty-five thousand. I can get it.” The burrito in my mouth suddenly tasted like ash. Without thinking, I shoved the food into Sloane’s hands and stepped out from behind the tree. “Harper, come here a second. I need to talk to you.” She jumped, instinctively hiding her phone behind her back. “Holden? What… what are you doing here?” “Where did you get twenty-five grand? Is that your mom’s dialysis money for next week?” The woods went dead silent. Dozens of eyes locked onto me. I swallowed my anger, trying to sound as rational as possible. “There’s no such thing as magically jumping hundreds of points overnight. Why would anyone just hand you something that valuable? You can’t gamble your mother’s life savings on a scam. You just can’t.” I couldn’t tell them I could hear a sci-fi System in my head. I had to appeal to basic logic. Preston leaped off the table, his eyes instantly welling with perfectly manufactured tears. “What’s your problem, Holden? We finally find a way to level the playing field, a chance to break the cycle of poverty, and you’re trying to stop us?” He gestured to the crowd. “You Legacy kids were born with silver spoons! Does it kill you to see us get a sliver of hope for one single day?” Thank God this idiot showed up late and didn’t hear me talking about stealing his scores, Preston thought in a panic. He’s right, there are no magical scores… but I’m stealing yours! The line immediately turned hostile, rallying behind Preston. “Yeah, the 1% gets the whole pie and won’t even let us lick the plate!” “He got an 820 yesterday, he’s just jealous Preston got a 1580!” Harper’s face hardened. The desperation in her eyes curdled into cold resentment. “My mother is none of your business, Holden.” “Do you know how badly she wants to see you go to college?” I pressed. “She said if you just get into a state school, she’d die happy—” “A state school degree is practically toilet paper!” Harper screamed. She lunged forward, shoving me with both hands. My heel caught on a root. I stumbled backward, the small of my back slamming into the sharp edge of the stone table. The world went black for a second, and as I braced my fall, my palms scraped violently against the gravel, shredding the skin. “You pretentious prick, you just want to keep us down!” she spat. “Hey! Don’t you dare touch him!” Sloane shrieked, dropping the burrito. She charged at Harper, grabbing her by the collar of her worn sweater, her fist pulled back. I grabbed the hem of Sloane’s skirt. “Don’t hit her.” “She assaulted you!” “I said, back off.” Sloane ground her jaw so hard I heard her teeth click. She slowly lowered her fist, dropping to her knees to inspect my bleeding hands, cursing under her breath. “You’re an idiot, Holden. Why do you care… does it hurt? Come on, I’m taking you to the nurse.” “I can walk.” “Like hell you can, your back is probably bruised purple.” Behind us, in front of the entire crowd, Harper finalized the payday loan and transferred $25,000 to Preston. [Target 41 secured. Capacity reached,] the System chimed. Over a million dollars! Preston gloated internally. Try and stop me now, Holden! That night, Mrs. Davis showed up at the school in tears. The money for next week’s dialysis, along with the entire savings account passbook, had been wiped out by her daughter. I had my driver take her to the hospital. I walked up to the billing department and swiped my platinum card—dialysis fees, hospital room, all paid in full for the next six months. Mrs. Davis clung to my hands, bowing her head over and over. “Holden, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault, I didn’t raise her right…” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her daughter had physically shoved me into a stone table a few hours prior. Sloane was leaning against the sterile hospital wall. For once, she wasn’t making sarcastic comments. She watched me for a long time before sighing. “You know, for someone with the foulest mouth in school, you have a sickeningly soft heart.” “Shut up. You’re grossing me out.” I had warned who I could warn. I had tried to stop it. The path Harper chose was her own. Through the walls of my consciousness, Preston’s voice buzzed again, this time laced with anxiety. I sold all the slots, but the Legacy kids refused to even look at the drinks I bought them. How am I supposed to get the swap-serum into their systems? Damn it, the test is tomorrow morning… I pulled out my phone and dropped a single message into the Legacy Cohort group chat: Tomorrow morning. Nobody bring your own water bottles. On the morning of the SATs, the Legacy Cohort met in our designated homeroom for the Headmaster’s final, tearful pep talk. I got there first. When I pushed the door open, Preston was crouching by our classroom water dispenser, sweating through his shirt. I instantly understood. He was trying to dump the ‘Score-Swap Item’ into the communal water supply so we’d ingest it unknowingly. Unfortunately for him, the water dispenser was a high-end, imported Italian model donated by Sloane’s father. It had a biometric lock and only dispensed water to registered fingerprints of the students in our cohort—specifically designed to prevent anyone from tampering with our hydration. Preston hadn’t anticipated this. He was clutching a small glass vial, and when he heard the door open, he jumped so hard he nearly dropped it. “H-Holden? I… I just came to wish you guys good luck.” I’m dead. He caught me! I faked a massive yawn, walked right past him, and pressed my thumb against the biometric scanner. Beep. The heavy lid of the water tank popped open. “This thing is always glitching,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. “If you need to refill your bottle, just let me know.” Preston froze, staring at me as if I had two heads. This idiot… he really didn’t suspect a thing! The universe is literally handing this to me! His hands shaking, he hastily poured the contents of the vial into the water tank. I even politely handed him a tissue to wipe the condensation off his hands. That’s right, buddy. You make absolutely sure that swap works. By 7:30 AM, all forty-one of my classmates had filtered into the room. I grabbed my Yeti tumbler, stood on the teacher’s desk, and knocked on the whiteboard. “Listen up! Facilities just changed the filter on the water machine. Hydrate before the exam. Nobody leaves for the testing center until you’ve finished a full cup!” A room full of teenagers who usually defied every order given to them obediently lined up, chugging the water like it was the elixir of life. Sloane downed three cups in a row, smacked her lips, and yelled loudly toward the hallway where I knew Preston was hiding. “Wow, this new filter is incredible! Tastes faintly like matcha. So refreshing!” Around the corner, I saw the edge of Preston’s shirt vibrate with excitement. In my head, the System’s notifications fired off in rapid succession: [Binding successful. 39/41.] [40/41.] [41/41.] Staring at the empty doorway, I mentally gave him a standing ovation. Once inside the testing center, I carefully bubbled in my name, my student ID, and the date. Then, I placed my shoe squarely in the center of the Scantron sheet, ground it in to leave a perfect, dusty footprint, and handed it to the proctor. It was an old tradition in our cohort. We let fate decide if the machine could read it. If we couldn’t do the work, the least we could do was be honest about our apathy. When we exited the testing center, Preston conveniently crossed my path. “Holden! How did it go? You’re our resident genius, I hope you didn’t let us down.” “Rock solid,” I smiled. He walked away, practically skipping. The day the answer keys were released, the park behind the school was like a festival. Harper estimated she’d score around a 1550 based on her memory of the questions. Another kid bragged he was a shoo-in for Stanford. Preston stood on a bench, announcing, “The state valedictorian is standing in this very crowd, I guarantee it.” When the official scores finally dropped online, Preston rented out an entire row of computers at a local gaming lounge. He said he wanted to experience the “miracle” alongside his forty-one buyers, and specifically invited Sloane and me to bear witness. He took a deep breath, typed in his credentials, and clicked ‘View Score.’ The number that loaded on the screen drained every drop of blood from Preston’s face.
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