Up until a few weeks ago, AP History was lauded as one of the most brutal courses offered at Ashton Wellesley. In some ways, it was even more difficult than our STEM classes since it required a photographic-like memory to recall all the minute details—names, dates, places, events—covered in each unit. Daily assessments were always given in a timed essay format. Ms. Holt's questions tended to be very open-ended, requiring students to apply a surplus of critical thinking prowess backed by concrete examples from historical and current events.

The woman knew her subject area better than most professors in college, so it was impossible to bullshit my way around her. Unlike calculating the molarity of a Na2CO3 solution or applying binomial theorems in Pre-Calc, there was never one clear or obvious answer on her mind-boggling tests and quizzes.

To make matters even more fucked up, only a set percentage of A's were up for grabs each semester. This was a system loosely based on Princeton's model to curb grading inflation.

However, since Ms. Holt went on an unexpected medical leave, the class disintegrated into a GPA-boosting free for all. Daily assessments were put on hold, indefinitely, and A's were practically being handed out to every warm body in class.

Suffice to say, I wasn't happy about it. No way I was going to sit idly by and allow the laxness in AP History trickle into our other classes. Already the balance of power was threatening established expectations. Several of my classmates were pushing Dr. Williams to dumb down her curriculum. They were also threatening our AP lit instructor to dole out extra points for essay revisions.

Nothing annoyed me more than the sight of the powerful bullying the weak, unless, of course, I was the one in power. I hated seeing classmates with fully functioning derrières being rewarded for half-assed efforts. As someone who had been playing the GPA game since freshman year, I knew the framework inside out. Lowered standards in even two or three weighted courses might very well fuck with the junior class standings, which was why I needed to protect and uphold the current system at all costs.

After Ms. Holt made her sudden exit, our class blew through three subs in two weeks. Two out of those three left in tears. This shouldn't have surprised anyone. My duplicitous classmates were only well-behaved until they smelled weakness. There was nothing that delighted them more than to exert dominance over those they deemed to be lesser or unworthy.

Lucky sub number four, Mr. Tilton, had been the most competent on paper so far. He held an M.A. in History from Berkeley. From his first day on duty, I started emailing and hounding him incessantly. I wanted him to apply a heavier hand to our unruly class, follow Ms. Holt's syllabus, and, you know, actually do his goddamn job.

Unfortunately, the man seemed far more concerned with what my entitled classmates and their powerful parents might do to him if he suddenly grew a pair of balls. He always smiled and shrugged at me, feigning impotence, before deflecting my requests with infuriating bullshit like, "I'm sorry, Cate, I'm only a short-term sub. My influence is limited at Ashton Wellesley, and I don't want to rock the boat."

My next option would be to take my concerns straight to admin with Amari at my side, but the bureaucracy and paperwork involved in hiring another new sub would probably take weeks. By then, we'd be waist-deep in midterms, and it would be too late to enforce Ms. Holt's curved grading system. I felt backed into a corner.

Out of desperation, I decided to go after Tilton one last time. This time, however, I planned to use his own bullshit against him. For the past two days, I had been waiting in the wings, gathering intel and doing recon. Surprisingly, he was tougher than any of us had anticipated. The man was still showing up everyday despite the ceaseless abuse from my dipshit classmates.

The dippiest of all the shits was the principal's son, Hunter Pratt, and he was currently milking Mr. Tilton for grades he didn't deserve. Yet again. Most of his PowerPoint presentation had been "borrowed" from Dev Tahir, who served as my VP in Model UN. Dev hadn't pulled any punches when he spilled the tea on how Hunter bullied him into "sharing" his slides.

Barely an inch or two taller than the girls in our class, Hunter stood on the shorter side, but, with his wavy brown hair and baby blue eyes, he was classically handsome like a Ken doll. As he flipped through "his" slides, the sheer sense of entitlement that oozed from his pores made me want to smack the smirk off his face.

"During the second world war, the major participants threw their entire economic, industrial, and scientific capabilities behind the war effort, blurring the distinction between civilian and military resources..."

The second he sat his plagiarizing ass back down, my hand shot up.

Mr. Tilton turned to me with visible trepidation. "Um, what can I do for you, Cate?"

Hunter tossed me a warning look.

I ignored him and asked, "May I go next, Mr. Tilton?"

Mr. Tilton relaxed slightly. "Oh. Is that all, Cate? Of course. Please go set up your slides."

I rose from my seat and brought my thumb drive along. I had been assigned to research Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin and how their relationship shaped the outcome of WWII, but I decided to take a minor detour before diving into my actual PowerPoint.

I recounted, "In order to fully appreciate the complexities and nuanced agendas behind FDR, Churchill, and Stalin's alliance, we need to set the stage and the parameters for which they were operating in. During the second world war, the major participants threw their entire economic, industrial, and scientific capabilities behind the war effort, blurring the distinction between civilian and military resources..."

By the time I finished my analysis, the entire class was silent, and Hunter was red in the face.

Mr. Tilton cleared his throat. "Excellent work as always, Cate, but, um... the beginning of your presentation didn't seem to address your topic at all, and it sounded a bit similar to Hunter's presentation."

"Maybe it sounded like Hunter's presentation because I recited it verbatim," I offered helpfully.

To my right, Hunter growled a warning, "Donati, what the fuck are you doing? I'll have my dad expel you!"

I leaned over his desk and threatened softly, "If I get expelled by daddy dearest, then there won't be anything holding me back from leaking that disgusting pic you sent to Aleah McLeary. You were dumb enough, by the way, to include your face. I'm sure Principal Pratt will be so proud to see his boy's little prick, I mean, his little boy's prick all over the news!"

Hunter glared angrily at me, but he shut his trap and didn't try to butt in again.

I turned back to Mr. Tilton. "I'm curious, Mr. Tilton. Do you think I should be disciplined for plagiarizing Hunter's work?"

A sheen of sweat gathered on Mr. Tilton's forehead as he responded, "Well, plagiarism is certainly a serious offense, but, uh... the rest of your presentation was very well researched and thoughtfully organized. Why don't we discuss this after class?"

I took out my phone and pulled up screenshots from Dev's PowerPoint. "No need, I have the source material right here. Would you like to take a look?"

Mr. Tilton gaped at me incredulously.

I didn't wait for him to respond as I continued, "I also have a hard copy of the student handbook if you need it. You can find Ashton Wellesley's policy outlining disciplinary action against plagiarism on page 78."

"It's alright, Cate, I don't need to see it," Mr. Tilton muttered with a trace of annoyance. "I'm familiar with the student handbook."

"Wonderful," I said as I handed him two copies of Ashton Wellesley's student disciplinary forms. "Then, you've probably seen these floating around as well."

Once Mr. Tilton realized what I'd given him, his face dropped. "Disciplinary forms? Oh, dear. You really can't leave well enough alone, can you, Cate?"

I flashed him a winning smile. "I think it's pretty clear that I committed plagiarism. While you're completing my form, though, you might as well fill one out for Hunter, too. I stole part of my presentation from him, as you know, and he copied everything from Dev in your first hour."

A look of alarm passed over Mr. Tilton's thin face. I knew there was a snowball's chance in hell of him writing up the principal's son, but now I had the leverage to begin negotiations.

"Or," I mused while inspecting my nails, "instead of blowing this whole situation out of proportion, we could just take a closer look at the syllabus Ms. Holt left you? Maybe you could start enforcing her grading policies more effectively? I believe no more than 35% of our grades are supposed to fall in the 'A' range, but the last few subs have been handing them out like candy on Halloween. Participation trophies are fine for public school, but Ashton Wellesley is an elite institution, you know? Not to mention, a little merit-based competition would probably help nip all this copy-pasting nonsense in the bud."

As I laid my cards on the table, my classmates began tittering all around me. Most of them were mourning the end of easy A's. A few of them decided to speak up.

Priscilla Montgomery complained, "Oh, my God, Cate! Why do you always have to be such a killjoy?"

Frankie Dohrn, Hunter's idiot friend, sneezed loudly into his elbow, "Ah-BITCH!"

I let their insults roll off of me as though I couldn't hear them.

Mr. Tilton chuckled nervously. "I see you have thought this through carefully. I don't know whether to commend you for your efforts or write you up for whatever you're trying to get away with right now."

I answered honestly, "All I want is for someone to deliver the level of rigor that we signed up for in this class. I'm not trying to cause problems for you, but you should know I don't give up easily. If you can't get the job done, then I'll find someone who can. As Hannibal once said, 'Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.' I shall either find a way or make one. No offense."

Mr. Tilton coughed. "None taken. 'Exitus acta probat.' The outcome justifies the deed. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to take a closer look at the syllabus this weekend."

The man was versed in Latin. I gave myself a mental pat on the back, pleased that I hadn't misjudged him.

"Thank you, Mr. Tilton. When should we expect the grading curve to go into effect?"

Mr. Tilton paused as he considered my question. "On your next assignment."

Smiling like the Cheshire cat, I replied smugly, "Sounds good. I can't wait."

A familiar sense of satisfaction washed over me. Now that AP History was back on track, it wouldn't be hard to shut down the dissenters in AP Lit and Mr. Ashford's class. My classmates erupted into another round of indignation, but it was easy to ignore their bitching and moaning when I knew I had won.

Those assholes didn't call me the "Bitch of Ashton Wellesley" for nothing.