by Molly E. Lee
“Well, here goes nothing,” I said, staring at the grueling work I’d just done.
If it worked, I’d win.
If it didn’t, but I could at least help one person, then every risk would be worth it.
Because I knew what it was like to have something happen…something out of your control and feel completely alone afterward. Yes, I’d been lucky enough to have my mom and Hannah to help me through it, but they didn’t understand the nightmares. The flashbacks. The fear that jolted me every single time I saw Brandon in the halls. That was something only another person who’d experienced something similar could truly relate to. And I never wanted anyone to feel that alone. Not if I could help it.
And if I got caught?
Ice froze the adrenaline in my veins.
I’d probably be expelled, which would then result in a rejection letter from MIT in March instead of an acceptance letter.
I won’t get caught.
I’d taken too many precautions.
I was too smart to get caught.
Repeating that internally about a dozen times, I reached for my keyboard…
And clicked.
Who else is totally sick of the school’s so-called sexual education?
Who here hates that Google is a one-way trip to I’ll-never-unsee-that-ville?
Who here is over the school’s blog pushing an outdated agenda?
Who here wants a place to vent and discuss topics that we’re constantly told to stay away from?
I’m here to help. I’m here to say:
Ask Me Anything.
Want to know where to get birth control without your parents knowing? I’m here.
Want to know the pros and cons of flavored condoms vs. regular? I’m here.
Want to know if that after-sex burn is normal or something to worry about? I’m here.
Want to vent about something in general? I’m here!
Now, I know what you’re thinking. That I’m probably some adult in disguise, luring you to this blog to trap you. I get why you’d think that…because if I stumbled onto this, I would, too.
But I assure you, I’m one of you. That’s right. I’m a female student of Wilmont Academy. I likely see you in the halls. I may even have classes with you.
Don’t believe me? If I wasn’t, how would I know about the top-secret elevator that is underneath the gym? You know, the one only upperclassmen know about?
How would I know that the softball captain sang the best rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody while standing on the diving board above a certain party hoster’s pool this summer? How would I know that a JV soccer player nearly broke his leg zooming down a hill on a minibike on an icy night last winter?
Have I proven myself yet?
Look, everything on this site will be 100 percent anonymous. Use a code name when you post your question, or simply leave it blank. I will approve each question before posting publicly, and if you feel the need for extra privacy, you can email me at the address listed.
So, I’m here. I’m ready to listen. I’m ready to answer.
Ask Me Anything.
Oh, and that birth control I was talking about? Check out the useful links tab to find the best locations to score some safely.
In the meantime,
Stay Sexy. Stay Healthy.
Chapter Six
Dean
NightLocker: Crash before 2am?
PixieBurn: Does it look like it?
NightLocker: Didn’t mean it like that
PixieBurn: Sure
NightLocker: I didn’t stop coding until 4
PixieBurn: Over achiever
NightLocker: Have to be to beat you
PixieBurn: Flattery won’t help you win
NightLocker: DC!
I frantically typed our standard code word for killing an illegal chat—DC, aka don’t chat, don’t code—when a teacher was too close to walking by one of our screens.
Amber quickly clicked off-screen, allowing the Spanish assignment to fill the space. Mrs. Francesca wasn’t the strictest teacher at Wilmont, but she’d be pissed if we were caught.
After she’d taken an unexpected walk around our quiet classroom, I flashed Amber a smile. She was six rows away from me, and we’d adapted this way of chatting a couple years ago when we’d gotten bored during Computer Science class. It was a good, solid class. It simply was teaching us things we’d known for years—it wasn’t until we’d accelerated to the more exclusive coding courses that we were actually challenged. The one saving grace of this school were those higher-level computer classes. And though Amber and I had always been in competition with each other, we’d come up with the code word to let each other know when push came to shove, we hackers had each other’s backs.
Or, at least, Amber and I did.
The word had saved me plenty of times—even when I hadn’t been actively chatting with her. A few times she’d thrown it in a chat box on my screen when I’d been coding or locked into another hack.
Amber yawned as she tried to return my gesture.
I chuckled under my breath, giving her a too-knowing look.
She’d been up as late as I was last night. Working on our challenge. Not that she looked like she was tired, like she’d implied, but I could see it in her eyes. The heavy way they gazed at the assignment on the screen—seeing it but not computing. The same way I was, because I’d stayed up entirely too late and gotten up way too damn early.
A tremor of nerves rolled through me. I didn’t have a clue what she was preparing, but I was sure it’d be incredible. The girl knew her shit. Born with a gift. And I’d have to up my game in order to fully beat her.
Once Mrs. Francesca returned to her position behind her desk, I opened another chat box, completely unable to resist.
NightLocker: Will I see you tomorrow?
PixieBurn: Why wouldn’t you?
NightLocker: Didn’t know if you were going to come again
PixieBurn: Wouldn’t leave you to host and empty room
NightLocker: Ha. Ha.
PixieBurn: Think you can beat me in a round of CTF?
NightLocker: Name the time
PixieBurn: Code Club. Tomorrow
NightLocker: God, we have to come up with a better name
She snorted quietly and shook her head.
PixieBurn: You do. I’m just a dutiful member
NightLocker: Not fair
NightLocker: I thought we were in this together?
PixieBurn: I thought we were always competing to see who would wind up on top?
The last line made a deep ache wrench in my stomach. Flashes of her on top of me, smiling with those perfect lips, her short hair falling gently across her forehead as I held her.
Barely able to escape the involuntary fantasy, I was typing a response before I could get the feel of her phantom-self out of my head.
NightLocker: I think it would be fun with either of us on top
The sentence repeated in my mind the second I hit enter, and I jolted. Fuck, that sounded so wrong.
Or completely right.
I hushed my inner voice and risked a glance at her.
She stared at the screen, her once-tired eyes wide and alert, a beautiful rosy color flooding her cheeks.
NightLocker: Calm down, Pixie
NightLocker: You’re blushing
PixieBurn: It’s hot in here
PixieBurn: Don’t flatter yourself
NightLocker: I rarely do. You’re the one clearly dreaming of me in all sorts of naughty ways
NightLocker: Cause you know I didn’t mean it like that.
I tried to make light of my blunder, but I was equally surprised that was where her mind went first.
Did that mean she was thinking about me, too?
Damn.
Why did that make my heart race?
A sweet smirk shaped her lips as she reached for the keyboard.
Well, as long as we were playing.
NightLocker: Or did I?
She paused her typing, hitting the backspace button over and over again as she read my message. Her shoulders dropped but didn’t make a move to respond. The smirk had left her face, the joking gone from her eyes.
Shit. I crossed a line.
I clicked the keys in a hurry.
NightLocker: Hey
NightLocker: Pixie
NightLocker: I was only joking. I promise
PixieBurn: It’s moot either way
NightLocker: Reasoning?
PixieBurn: I’ve sworn off boys.
PixieBurn: Scratch that. Love. I’ve sworn off all forms of it.
I glanced at her, swallowing a lump in my throat.
What happened to make you say that?
It was written all over her face. The pain. The regret. And…fear?
Brandon. He must’ve torn her heart to pieces.
Dick.
I cleared my throat, straightening in my chair with my fingers on the keys.
NightLocker: That’s a shame...
I hit the backspace.
NightLocker: Too bad...
I deleted that one, too. Because even if I hated seeing those words—that she’d shut down her heart for good—it was for the best. I could joke around all I wanted, tease her to get her a little out of her head, but in reality? I’d never want to cross a line she’d drawn. Especially when the relationship she’d just gotten out of was so clearly hard.
So I typed the words I didn’t want to say but knew I needed to.
NightLocker: I understand. Who has time for that anyway, right?
PixieBurn: Not me.
NightLocker: Not people like us
PixieBurn: Truth
She closed the chat box, slowly turning her head to glance back at me.
The breath knocked from my lungs at the direct look in her eyes. So much brewing there—laughter and understanding and fear and…something else I couldn’t quite figure out. I sure as hell wanted to. I wanted to know her story. Wanted to know what had turned the once-outgoing pixie I watched from a friendly distance into a timid, internal being.
I wanted more than the passing convos we had during class, mostly revolving around coding or hacks or techniques.
I wanted to be a real friend.
I gave her my most understanding smile. I could be there for her without actually being hers. I could spend time with her without losing sight of my goals. I could have fun with her without falling for her.
Friends.
Finally…maybe we were ready to cross over that gap.
Chapter Seven
Amber
The cheers of more than half of Wilmont saturated the stadium as our football team stormed the field. I forced my way through the flailing arms and foam fingers, weaving in and out of the crowd as I climbed the bleachers.
“Amber!” Hannah shouted from three rows up, her golden hair held back by a black headband. She practically swam in Jake’s practice jersey, the bottom of the number thirteen hitting her knees. “Up here!” She waved, a wide smile on her face. “You’re late,” she said once I took my spot by her side.
I shifted my bag over my shoulders, the gray T-shirt I wore ruffling under the weight. “Not even,” I said, pointing to the field as everyone took their seats. “They haven’t started yet.”
Hannah rolled her eyes but gave my shoulders a squeeze. “Are those new jeans?”
I nodded, glancing down at the ripped black skinnies I’d treated myself to last weekend on a fun shopping trip with Mom. “You like?” I asked, shifting so she could see where they tucked into my silver Chucks.
“Love,” she said.
That was the one good thing about sporting events for Wilmont—we were allowed to wear our own clothes.
Setting my bag between my feet, I gazed out at the field as the game started, my eyes finding number nineteen out of sheer muscle memory.
Even with the helmet and the bulky jersey, anyone could tell Brandon was in good shape. Muscles for days upon days, biceps thick, thighs thicker. Something I used to admire, used to compliment on the discipline he had when it came to training.
I rolled my eyes.
I used to love coming to watch the games, too, but he’d ruined it for me.
Not that I’d ever mention it to Hannah. She attended every game, rain or shine or sleep deprived. She’d never miss an opportunity to cheer for Jake.
Her sharp whistle jolted my senses, as did the loud crowd. All I’d wanted was to go home and crash for a couple hours—catch up on what I’d lost last night building the blog—but I’d promised Hannah I’d be here.
She followed my line of sight, huffing. “Wish they’d bench him.”
A laugh ripped from my chest. “The only way coach would bench Brandon is if he broke something.” I shook my head. “Seriously, it’s fine, Hannah. I’m here for you. And Jake.”
“Thanks,” she said. “It’s always so much more fun when you’re here.”
I tore my eyes off Brandon, trying like hell not to remember how I used to clap and cheer and scream his name just like Hannah. I’d even gone so far as to paint his number on my cheeks last year.
Stupid, stupid girl.
“No Code Club today?”
“Tomorrow. And Friday.”
“That’s exciting.” She waggled her brows at me, and the look took me straight back to Spanish class this morning.
Dean’s and my chat had been fun, borderline flirty compared to our normal recaps of codes or techniques. But I’d choked when his words had sent my heart flying. Made me picture things. Want things I knew I shouldn’t. Because the relationship road only led to pain or humiliation or both.
I’d learned that in a harsh way.
“Totally,” I finally said, swallowing hard. It wasn’t a lie. I was looking forward to spending the extra time in the coding room—with Dean or without.
Okay, with.
But mainly I was happy because it’d be uninterrupted time spent on the challenge between us. I’d need every minute of it to top him.
Color flooded my cheeks at the thought, my mind circling right back to the joke he’d made. The way I’d been ready to respond with my own innuendo, rile him at his own game.
The memories—they stopped me.
Because I didn’t want to give the wrong vibe. Didn’t want to invite unwanted advances, not that Dean was advancing…
I sighed, rubbing my palms over my face. I needed sleep. Every time I crossed that line of deprived, I became delusional. I was an over-analyzer by nature—something that helped my natural ability to read code, exploit systems, and more. But pair that with little sleep and a wave of emotions that wouldn’t stop crashing? I was downright loopy in my thought process.
“Omigod!” Hannah gasped beside me, and I snapped the eff out of it.
My eyes darted from her to the field and back, worried Jacksonville had scored on us. It was a time-out. “What?” I asked, noticing she held her cell.
“Check out what Sabrina just Snapped.” She handed me her cell, and when I saw the screen, I damn near dropped it.
Plan worked.
It actually freaking worked.
Clinging to it with weak fingers, I forced my breath to slow. It wasn’t Sabrina’s model-worthy selfie that had me fearing I’d pass out right then and there. It was her comment splayed over a screenshot of the bio page of the website I’d launched last night—at two a.m.
Whoever is behind this is a flippin’ goddess! I don’t know about y’all, but I could use the $250 gift card. Here’s the code to find the page. Everyone
follow it. Now. Party at my place if I win!
“This is her messing around, right?” Hannah asked, taking the phone back, and I pressed my lips closed.
I had posted the giveaway as an incentive for web traffic—sacrificing half my regular check from the coffee shop—hoping someone found it and spread the word, but holy Loki’s helmet, I didn’t think the most popular girl at school would get a hold of it so quickly. Sabrina was connected to everyone on social media—Wilmont and plenty of other schools surrounding us. And she’d just shared my midnight creation to all of them.
“Maybe?” I said, my voice coming out a whisper.
This is what I’d wanted, right? A following from Wilmont. That way I could potentially help someone who needed it. And it would get back to Principal Tanner and throw his tight-gripped rule off kilter.
“No,” Hannah said, completely ignoring the game to swipe on her cell. “Check it out. The site is legit.”
I glanced at the screen again, already knowing what she’d pulled up.
My site.
My stomach rolled as I pretended to read what I’d spent countless hours crafting. I hadn’t expected it to reach my best friend so fast…
“Huh,” I said, instead of a proper response.
“Huh?” She scoffed, taking the cell and pocketing it. “That’s it? This is exactly what we were talking about yesterday! Do you think someone heard us?”
I chuckled. “Nah,” I said, shrugging. “You saw the prank. We’re not the only ones totally over the way Tanner runs this school. Someone just decided to take the rebellion a step further.” I motioned to the cell I could no longer see, unable to meet her eyes.
“True,” she said. “This is crazy, though.” An excited smile shaped her lips. “I can’t wait to see who actually writes in.”
Me, too.
I cleared my throat, ignoring the urge to dig in my bag for my laptop and check if Sabrina’s post had resulted in any questions.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. How the hell would I find the answers? What if I couldn’t? What if I failed someone who needed me?
This is really happening.
“Amber, you okay?”
I snapped my eyes to hers, taking a deep breath to calm the nausea rolling my stomach.
