A Dance With Levina

EPILOGUE

The school investigated my PayPal records. Though my account log clearly showed the money coming in from the dance website, it did not show any money going out. No hoard of cash was found in my bank account or at my house – or Derek's – so they couldn't charge either of us with a crime.

Instead, Ms. Wong punished me for "sloppy handling" of school funds. I was sentenced to help old Ernie Staffordson paint the inside of the school during the summer.

Our class did not cruise on The Enchantress. Instead, our Senior Class Trip consisted of a long, smelly bus ride to a decrepit arcade center in downtown Seattle. The food was terrible and the games were lousy. Or so I heard – I did not attend.

After the dance, pretty soon I was wishing for summer to begin, even though it meant I'd be spending it inside the school, lugging around a paint roller. Life was miserable for me in the last few months of school. I was more popular than I had ever been: everybody knew me now. But they all pretty much wanted me dead. Levina obviously never spoke to me again. Only Kaycee, who knew what Derek was, believed me.

What did happen to the money? It had to have been Derek. The sleez must be smarter than I thought. He had to have stolen my PayPal password when I logged onto the site at school to show him the account balance, the week before the dance. He probably found some password sniffer program online and had it set up on the school's computer. It was a simple ruse for him to feign disbelief at the amount of money the website had collected. And I, foolish, prideful idiot, had eagerly showed him the total balance. All he had to do was wait for me to arrive at the dance; then he could log on to PayPal and transfer the money into some dummy account and clear the transaction logs.

He probably used the money to buy a bunch of Visa gift cards which could be used as cash. I'm sure they're sitting in a safe place right now, available whenever he needs them for a night of glamorous fun while he shmoozes his way through NYU. Meanwhile, I'm hunkered in my prison-size dorm room at Whatcom State College, pouring out my pathetic heart into a letter no one will ever probably read.

****

I had planned to send this letter to the student editor of the Jacobite, but I know they would never publish it. And if they did, Derek would no doubt sue me for "character damage." (Though really, how can you damage something that isn't there?) In the end, the only person whom I really want to know the truth is you, Levina. So I'm sending this story to your Dartmouth email address (please forgive Kaycee, I forced her to tell me) in the hopes that my embarrassing honesty will entice you to read the whole thing. Will you believe me? Probably not. But what have I got to lose?

-Judah Loren

Whatcom State College, Dorm C, Room 321