by Sarah Ockler
“How do you figure?” Franklin asks, perpetually hammering the keyboard. We just finished debriefing on my dead-end 420 inquisitions—during which I was stared at blankly, offered Doritos, and dismissed in a cloud of smoke and giggles—and Franklin is still recording the details.
“I got the attendee list from Cole.” Griff unfolds a crumpled piece of notebook paper, smooths it out over her coral miniskirt. “Where is he?”
“Vanitas has practice today,” I say. “We’re supposed to text him with an update.”
Griff taps the list. “I talked to fourteen guys from Lav-Oaks: John, Spence, the football vampires, 420, a few randos. The vamps ganged up and tried to jock block me, but a few innuendos and a side of cleavage later, they were eating out of my—”
“Griffin.” I shoot her a glare. “Stay focused.”
“I’m totally focused! I have a date with Brian this weekend,” she says. “Or Ryan? Brian’s the blond one, right? Ryan’s the—”
“Thanks so much for the detailed analysis of the football team’s hair,” Franklin says over his shoulder, “but did you get any actual leads?”
“Sheesh. Sorry, Sherlock Holmes.”
“He prefers Keith Mars,” I say. “Don’t ask.”
“Sorry, Keith Mars.” Griff flashes her patented flirty smirk—part fake-insulted and part dare-you-to-kiss-me. Behind Franklin’s head, I mouth a “back off.” Griffin thrives on a challenge, and the valedictorian would definitely be a new mountain to climb, but we can’t derail the investigation on account of her unquenchable hormones.
Her attention returns to the list. “It’s so obvious, Lucy. Yeah, some of those guys put the douche in douche bag, but they’re not schemers. It’s one thing to make a dumb comment on Facebook. It’s another thing entirely to stake you out at a party, steal your phone, take all these incriminating uploadables, post them on your profile, tag stuff to Miss D, and frame you. Not to mention whoever started the Juicy page.” She leans back in her chair and sticks out her chest. “Only another female could pull off this level of backstabby. Right?”
Franklin’s still typing behind us. “On behalf of the Y chromosome, I’m offended at your lack of faith in our ability to scheme. However, your point is a valid one. Also, I don’t believe ‘backstabby’ is a word.”
“What about Paul?” I ask her.
“Called him at lunch. He’s, like, boy-band-lyrics-level angsty over me, but he’s not a schemer either. And I was with him all night, after everyone else was asleep in the living room. We were . . . Anyway. I know he didn’t do it.” She waves her hand in the air, erasing her memories of rolling around on the floor with Paul. “This thing has lady rage all over it.”
I take her list and lean back in the chair, scrutinizing the names. The guys she’s already interviewed have been crossed off, but the last one is circled. “Why is Marceau circled?”
Griff’s eyes go wide. “Yes! Another interesting development. He wouldn’t talk to me. Got all quiet and dodgy, walked away before I could press.”
I lean forward into a cloud of her spicy perfume. “Do you think he did this?”
“Jealous lover, crimes of passion.” She considers. “He’s got the motive. Not to mention a great ass.” Griff wriggles her eyebrows. “Still. Despite his qualifications, I stand by what I said. This isn’t a boy’s scandal.”
“Marceau isn’t a boy,” I say. “I mean, he’s a boy, but it’s different. He’s French.”
“Canadian,” Franklin says. “French Canadian. Subtle but important distinction.”
“We have a foreign-exchange student from Canada?” Griff asks. “Who does that?”
“Lav-Oaks,” Franklin says. “Obviously. So what’s his deal? Why so shady, you think?”
Griff laughs. “He’s not shady, Sherlock—I mean Keith—just in love with Lucy.”
“Shut up! He’s not—”
“Franklin. Ladies.” Principal Zeff watches us from the doorway, arms crossed. “Just the people who can help.”
Griff rises from her chair. “We are helping. We’re helpers.”
“Just wrapping up our final Explorer issue,” Franklin says. “These two intrepid readers are my sounding boards.”
Zeff smiles, her eyes lasering me. “I’m glad you’re channeling your energies into something positive, Lucy.” Smile vanishes, eyes narrow. “Come with me. All of you.” “They’ve been doing this at random locations all day,” Zeff explains, ushering us across the gym. The prom-night disco balls have yet to be removed; they scatter diamonds of light across our faces as we pass.
“This is the fourth report I’ve gotten today,” she says. “The teachers are nervous, but there’s more to this than meets the eye.” Zeff shoves open the emergency exit that leads to the soccer and lacrosse fields, and we follow her out. No alarm sounds. “They’re asking for Lucy.”
We squint in the bright sun. The competitive season is over, but the soccer team still uses the field for scrimmages, and they’re out here now, Marceau included, staring at three students dressed in all white, head to toe.
(e)VIL has taken over center field.
“Are those . . . berets?” Franklin asks.
“And let’s just go on record in saying that white pants favor few men,” Griff says.
Marceau catches my eye and gives a small wave. Before I return it, Griff elbows me.
“Don’t lead him on.” To Zeff, she says, “I saw those guys in the caf today. They were doing some kind of dance, or a chant, but . . . I don’t know. It’s better if you tune them out.”
“You agree that they’re not posing a threat, then?” Zeff whispers. She’s gone all statue, like we’re observing rare owls in the wild.
Griff laughs. “They’re probably just warning everyone about UFO abductions and protecting yourself from unnecessary probes.”
“Are there necessary probes?” I ask. Griffin gives me a conspiratorial wink.
Zeff turns to Franklin. “You’ve worked with them before. Any idea what this is about?”
“You’ve worked with them?” I ask Franklin.
“Research.” He shakes his head. “Thanks for confirming my suspicions that you’ve never read the Explorer.”
“Principal Zeff!” Asher calls into a megaphone. “There is nothing to fear. We are gathering peacefully to express our freedom of expression. I mean, to exercise our right to free speech.”
Zeff forms a megaphone with her hands. “I. Support. Your. Constitutional. Rights.”
“This. Is. (e)VIL!” Asher responds.
“Yes, but . . . evil what?” she asks.
He sweeps his hands before him, indicating their vast group of three.
“Represent!” he shouts.
“Represent!” The other two pump their fists.
Griff, Franklin, Zeff, and I are like, head scratch.
Ash raises the megaphone again. “This. Is. A. Flash. Mob.”
Zeff turns her hand megaphone into an amplifier for her ear. “A what?”
“Flash mob!” he says. “For Lucy Vacarro and all who’ve been burned by our cultural addiction to—”
“Mr. Hollowell,” Zeff says, waving him toward us, “that all sounds wonderful. Why don’t you and your mob friends let the soccer team continue their game, and we’ll talk about how we can help one another over here. Sound like a plan?”
Asher pulls his minions in for a conference, then breaks away and raises the megaphone. “We’ve discussed your demands amongst ourselves and have come to a consensus! We will meet your demands! We’re coming over there now!” To the soccer boys, he says, “Please continue, Swordfish, and pardon our disruptive yet socially important interruption.” He sets the megaphone in his lap and rolls toward us, leading the others onward.
The soccer team re-forms their lines. Marceau gives me a final, brokenhearted smile, and I curl my fingers in a tiny wave.
“Stop.” Griff’s breath is hot on my neck. “You’re making it worse on him.”
Safely
back on the sidelines, Asher greets each of us with a curt, official nod. To Zeff, he bows his head and holds out a hand, giving her the floor.
“You tell me,” she says. “Seems you’ve got something important to say.”
Obviously thrilled by the invitation, Ash launches into what would be, if there were a few hundred more people around, a riot-inducing speech about the fall of the Roman Empire, the conspiracy of big pharma that’s keeping us all sick, something about Homeland Security that I’m not a hundred percent sure on because I zoned out for a minute, and—
“Lucy.” Asher crosses his arms, and the other two exchange approving nods. “All down to her.”
“Down to who-the-what-the?” I blink. Blinding sun reflects endlessly off their white berets. “Could you repeat the question?”
“Lucy,” Zeff says, glancing at her watch, “this sounds like another great opportunity for branching out in a positive direction. And, Asher, I’m proud to see your group testing the boundaries of civic engagement. I trust you’ll both resolve this like responsible young adults, without further disrupting the sports teams?” Not waiting for confirmation, she says, “Great. I’ll leave you to it!”
And she does.
Asher’s (e)VIL membership pitch is a repeat performance from the other day at my locker. Only this time, his minions join in.
“We could really use a rallying point,” one guy says. He’s got thin, shoulder-length dreads with little shells at the bottom and a silver eyebrow ring. Tens, I think they call him. Pretty sure he’s Asher’s best friend—I’ve seen them together a lot.
“You could be our Mockingjay,” the other says. It’s the blond swimmer who handed me a flyer that first day. Her eyes are bright blue in the sun. “Lead us to take down the corporate social network regime.”
“And it’s no coincidence, Stephie,” Tens says, clearly rehearsed, “that if you rearrange the letters in ‘corporate social network’ you can make ‘Capital’ and ‘Snow.’ ”
“And Oreo rocket,” she adds with a nod. “Definitely a message.”
“Really?” I say. “What’s happening here, people?”
“What’s happening here?” Asher says. “Vanity-based technologies are corrupting our relationships, destroying our souls, and rendering genuine human interaction a quaint relic people won’t even be able to reminisce about, because reminiscing would require the very interaction whose demise we’re lamenting. That’s what’s happening here.”
“I meant—”
“And as someone directly impacted by the shadowy side of friends who let friends Face-frack,” Stephie says, “you’re in a position to take a public stand on this issue.”
Griff giggles behind me. “With great scandal comes great responsibility, Lucy.”
Franklin scoffs. “I’m fairly certain that’s not how the saying goes.”
“Why do you like correcting my syntax so much?”
“That’s not syntax. It’s—”
“You have control issues,” she tells him. “And for your information, I rock an A minus in AP English.”
“Guys!” This train is rapidly going off the rails. It’s after four, way past time to go home and boot up a little Undead Shred. “Asher,” I say, “I get some of the stuff you’re saying. But I’m not . . . I can’t . . . No.”
“Please, Lucy?” Stephie asks. Her blue eyes are so sincere, but . . . no.
Asher blows a frustrated breath into his fist. “Truth time,” he says. He motions for me to crouch down close, and when I do, he puts his hand on my shoulder. “We’re looking for a cause, Lucy. Something to put us on the map before we graduate, something to preserve for future generations of dedicated Lavender Oaks underclassmen.”
“You need a legacy?”
“We need new members, especially now. The NSA monitoring our communications. The TSA monitoring our body cavities. Drone surveillance at an all-time high . . .” He looks to the sky, searching. Franklin and Griffin do the same.
“Drones?” Franklin asks.
“Drones.” When Ash looks at me again, his eyes are watery from the sun and/or his passion about invasion-of-privacy issues.
“You know the ironic thing?” I rise from the grass and dust off my hands, offering a sincere but apologetic smile. “You guys could recruit a lot more people if you used Facebook and Twitter instead of white pants and megaphones. All the cool revolutionaries are doing it.”
“So I’ve heard. But listen.” Asher winks at me, and my Spidey sense is all, Whatever comes out of his mouth next, no good can come of it. “I’m wearing you down, Lucy Vacarro. Trust me. After the pep rally tomorrow? You’ll come around. Resistance is futile.”
“Dudes wearing white pants is futile,” Griff says. But Asher has me locked in his sights like a UFO tractor beam, and Franklin’s scratching his head, and Tens and Stephie nod knowingly, and I find myself looking to the sky, just in case.
LAV-OAKS FLASH MOBS NEITHER FLASHY NOR MOBBY
MISS DEMEANOR
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Friday, May 2
In a series of unprecedented public displays that weren’t actually all that public, everyone’s favorite conspiracy theorists ditched the tinfoil hats yesterday for berets, igniting several self-proclaimed “flash mobs” across campus. These megaphoned, white-cloaked warriors made such lofty demands as: Dismantle the social media regime (boo hiss, tinfoilers, boo hiss)! Boycott smartphones! And . . . some other stuff . . . that no one remembers . . . due to mitigating circumstances of the wardrobe malfunction nature.
(Style tip, public protestors: He who dons white pants should un-don colored underpants.)
Inappropriately dressed as they may have been, (e)VIL’s attempts at defending one of Lav-Oaks’s own against the tyranny of the Lav-Oaks masses is to be commended. Just not by me, since I exist only online and Team We Hate Social Media won’t be clicking my like button anytime soon (that’s not a euphemism, kidlings).
So, my massive masses, if you see one of our no-flashy-no-mobby flash mobbers, thank them for . . . whatever it is they’re doing, because it probably has something to do with free speech and freedom from oppression and all that inalienable rights hoo-ha that I don’t feel like referencing right now because the bathroom where my U.S. Constitution shower curtain and coordinating Bill of Rights liner so proudly and currently hang is a long walk from my bed where I so proudly and currently hang.
Like most things on which I so doggedly report, you’ll just have to trust me on this. And, you know. Fight the power and stuff.
xo ~ Ciao! ~ xo
Miss Demeanor
THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE, JUST NOT ANYWHERE CLOSE TO HERE
Top ten reasons not to bail on the Lav-Oaks senior pep rally:
1. Vanitas is playing.
2. Jayla’s making a surprise Angelica appearance and I promised I’d critique her performance.
3. (e)VIL. Ash did say that resistance is futile, so here I am, not resisting.
4. Actually, there’s only the three reasons.
Inside the highly lacquered gymnasium, I scan the bleachers for a friendly face. Griff’s white-blond waves call out from the crowd, but she’s next to Ellie, and she turns away when she sees me. Seconds later, my phone lights up.
Griff: sorry. here w/ ellie. franklin’s got u covered.
Me: nbd. anything to report on mystery wings?
After the (e)VIL onslaught yesterday, Franklin and I gave Griff the 411 on 420, and now Franklin’s got her working the wings angle, scanning party pics to see if she can match up the evidence and find our fairy. Despite their pseudo bickering on the soccer field, she seemed more than eager to take his assignment.
Griff: nothing yet. got my eyes on olivia tho—girl’s def hiding something. more soon. agent colanzi out. xo
The sight of Olivia’s name makes my blood simmer. It’s still hard to imagine anyone would willingly post such an incriminating photo of herself—she looked seriously wrecked
in the emo bathroom that first day—but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s involved. Not just in the obvious ways—the Juicy Lucy posts, Operation Mean Girl with Quinn and Haley—but something deeper, more sinister.
Or maybe I’ve been spending too much time with Ash Hollowell.
I drop the phone into my pocket and lower my sunglasses to look for Franklin. When our eyes meet, he stands up and gives me a double-arm flag down.
I climb the bleachers and take the seat next to him. “Putting the pep in pep rally, Keith?”
“I thought this would be a good vantage point from which to investigate suspicious activity.” He points at the Jayla banner beneath the scoreboard. “We’re looking for anyone pulling a paparazzi on our little Darling.”
“I thought Jay’s visit was—I mean, um. Jayla Heart’s coming?” I nearly forgot that he doesn’t know she’s my sister. He thought I was joking when I offered to hook them up for an interview. “How do you know?”
“Zeff asked if I wanted someone from photography club to get pictures for the paper,” he says. “Anyway, it works out brilliantly for us.”
“Because you’re such a huge Jayla Heart fan?”
Franklin nudges me with his shoulder. “Miss Demeanor is a Jay-Heart megaminion. If anyone’s likely to get too close and camera happy today, it’s her. She might be careless enough to blow her cover.”
“You think Miss D might know something about the perp,” I say, catching his drift. “Something that can help us.”
Franklin looks supremely pleased with himself.
“But everyone fake worships at the altar of Jayla,” I say. “Have you seen her fan page? People never pass up a chance to snap a few selfies with a celeb, even if it’s just to make fun of her later.”
“For research purposes, I have in fact evaluated the Heartthrobs page.” Franklin scratches the back of his neck, which has turned suddenly and quite glaringly red. “But that’s not the point. Miss Demeanor is truly obsessed. Just . . . be cool, okay? Don’t give away our position.”
“Covert ops. I like it.” I put my sunglasses on and kick back, scrutinizing the crowd through dark lenses.
