Chapter 5 The Premium Contract

The rain started just as the final bell rang, covering the Upper East Side in gray skies and the yellow lights of passing taxis.

I sat in the corner of a small, dimly lit Starbucks three blocks from school, waiting for the rain to slow down. The air smelled of coffee and wet coats. My laptop was open on the small wooden table, and its glowing screen reflected in the dark window beside me.

I was staring at my GhostGrad dashboard. Jaxon’s five-hundred-dollar payment had officially cleared escrow after his history teacher accepted the outline this morning. It was enough to cover our immediate rent deficit, but it was a temporary band-aid on a bullet wound.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the table. It wasn’t the app. It was a text from my mom.

Mom: Avery, the landlord called. He’s raising the monthly rent by two hundred dollars starting next month because of the new building renovations. I’m going to ask the diner for extra Sunday night shifts. Don’t worry, we will figure it out.

A heavy, suffocating weight settled straight onto my chest. My mom was already working herself to the bone. If she took on Sunday nights, she would barely sleep four hours a day.

Before I could type a reassuring reply, a second notification flashed across the top of my phone screen. This one carried the distinct red ghost icon.

User7742: V. I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.

I bit my lip, closing the text thread with my mom and opening the encrypted network.

V: I’m here, 7742. Did your teacher catch onto the outline?

User7742: No, the outline passed with flying colors. I got an A minus. The teacher actually praised my historical perspective. It’s not about that.

User7742: I almost got caught today. I had the web app open during a study session with my English project partner, and the window snapped open right in front of her.

My breath caught. I stared at the typing bubbles as they appeared and disappeared quickly.

User7742: She saw the screen. She didn't see the messages clearly, but she saw the logo. I managed to shut it down, but it was way too close. If she wasn't such a quiet, unbothered nerd, she probably would have asked more questions.

I rolled my eyes at the screen, letting out a quiet, sarcastic breath.

V: Maybe your 'nerd' partner was just being polite. You should be more careful, 7742. A ghost can’t protect you if you’re careless with your laptop.

User7742: I know. It freaked me out. It made me realize how much I have to lose right now. If my grades slip even an inch for the rest of the winter season, my dad is pulling me out of the draft pool. I can't risk bouncing around from tutor to tutor on this app hoping someone is free.

User7742: I want to hire you exclusively. For everything.

I froze, my fingers hovering over the keyboard 

V: Exclusively? What does that mean?

User7742: It means you handle every single essay, outline, and weekly reading summary for my AP History and AP Literature classes until the hockey finals in March. You become my permanent digital ghostwriter. I won't post public requests anymore, and you don't take on any other clients from St. Jude’s.

My mind raced as I thought about how much work it would take. It meant writing his assignments while sitting right beside him in class, pretending I knew nothing about his life. The risk was huge. If I made one mistake, if I said something in person that I had written to him online, everything would fall apart.

V: That's a massive amount of risk and time,

7742. Exclusive retainers on GhostGrad aren't cheap.

User7742: Name your price. I'm serious. I'll pay whatever it takes to secure my season.

I stared at the blinking cursor, my mom's text about the rent increase flashing in the back of my mind. I didn't want to be tied to Jaxon Montgomery any more than I already was. He was arrogant, unpredictable, and entirely too observant for comfort. But five hundred dollars wasn't going to save us next month.

I took a deep breath, steeling my nerves, and typed out a number that felt completely ridiculous.

V: Three thousand dollars. Half upfront in escrow tonight, half upon completion in March. And the moment you miss a deadline or leave your laptop open around people again, the deal is dead, and I keep the deposit.

I expected him to argue. I expected him to call me a thief again.

The typing bubbles appeared instantly.

User7742: Deal. Check your account in five minutes.

User7742: But I have one condition.

My heart skipped a beat. 

V: What condition?

User7742: I need to know you're fully committed to this. No more automated responses. If I text you because I'm stuck on a prompt at midnight, you answer. We stay in sync.

User7742: Oh, and one more thing. I took your advice from the other night. I apologized to my project partner today. I told her her coat looked nice.

I stared at the screen, a sudden, stunned laugh escaping my lips in the quiet coffee shop. He actually thought he was being smooth.

V: I'm sure she was thrilled by your generosity, 7742. The contract is locked. Don't make me regret this.

I closed the laptop, my hands shaking a little as a notification showed the fifteen-hundred-dollar payment had reached my secure wallet. I had just put myself in a dangerous situation, and one mistake could ruin everything.