by Sarah Ockler
Being the inspiration for a meeting agenda was bad enough, especially since copies—annotated and illustrated for my viewing pleasure—appeared on my locker this morning. But sitting through a special screening of my personal Facebook shame is, like, top-ten cringe-worthy moments in history.
Zeff’s all over the Juicy Lucy page, pointing out pictures and commentary from yesterday’s lunchtime tell-all with Cole and Ellie, a shot of me and 420 that suggests more than just an innocent exchange of Doritos, and an entire video of Marceau handing over the contraband flowers, which some enterprising Lav-Oaks student has remixed into a voice-over marriage proposal complete with orchestral soundtrack.
Somewhere out there is a therapist who’s going to put her kids through college as a direct result of my senior year.
“I don’t know who made it,” I say. “Basically, I’m trying to ignore it.”
Zeff nods, her face both stern and worried. “The board reviewed this page at the meeting and—”
“What? How?”
“We have a projector. Lucy, the parents are upset. Specifically, John Brandt’s father and Griffin Colanzi’s mother. Both are concerned about their children’s futures.”
I can only imagine Griff’s mother at the meeting. I’m sure she had their full attention as she detailed all the ways in which I’m a horrible influence—she’s room-commanding like that. Also, she has this total bitchface that makes babies cry and causes heart failure in small dogs.
“Mrs. Colanzi was upset that parents hadn’t been notified about the viral nature of the photos earlier.” Ms. Zeff leans forward, head in her hands. “I’d hoped to keep this thing better contained, but Facebook being what it is . . .”
“Griff’s mother is a little crazy,” I say, breaking off a piece of cookie. “You should see her at family dinners.”
“I got that impression,” she says. “Sane people do not wear lipstick that severe. Anyway, she wasn’t the only one. It turned into a ‘My Little Angel is the Best at Everything’ free-for-all, and they all wanted someone to blame.”
“Me.”
“I kept your actual name out of it, but yes. ‘The female student in the green sheets,’ they called you. I’m sure some of the parents recognized you, though.”
My cheeks go tar-in-the-summer hot. “Griff’s mom.”
“Griff’s mom.” Ms. Zeff flicks off her monitor and folds her hands on the desk between us. “Miss Vacarro, you should know . . . the other day in my office, when I showed you my Facebook? I was trying for a teachable moment. I was wrong to blame you. I didn’t realize things had gotten so bad, that you’d been targeted like this.”
Franklin’s words echo. Get your side out there. Take a stand on this issue. . . . You won’t tell Zeff about the posters. . . . You won’t state your case. . . .
“Any idea who may be targeting you?” she asks.
I shove in a bite of cookie and shrug. It’s not like I can show her Franklin’s files, tell her about all the cross-referencing and our investigation. Not until we have proof. And with Ellie back in the arctic freeze-out zone again, I’m not sure it even matters.
She leans in close, lowers her voice. “Miss Vacarro, I’m in a jam here. The board’s pushing me to do something about this, and I don’t know where to start. You say you didn’t post the original pictures—”
“I didn’t.”
“—and I believe you. But that leaves a lot of plot holes.” She holds my gaze a moment longer, then sighs. “I thought maybe the adults could set an example, log out of Facebook for a while. But that won’t fly. Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but it seems that some of my esteemed colleagues are just as plugged in as you kids. They revolted when I suggested it last night.”
“It’s the baby pictures,” I say. “Classic parental oversharing.”
Ms. Zeff’s eyes light up. “I know, right? I’m so tired of baby pictures I could vomit.”
I let out a halfhearted laugh, but it seems Zeff realizes she’s crossing into the adults-trying-to-be-friends zone, and she stiffens. “Miss Vacarro—Lucy. I want you to know that I’ll be announcing some new student policies tomorrow. We’re also investigating the Juicy Lucy page to see if we can track down the owner.” She looks to her darkened monitor, then back to me. “Olivia Barnes was in here yesterday, trying to convince me that you launched the page yourself to cover your tracks.”
I stare, mouth open, cookie crumbs leaping onto my shirt.
“No, I didn’t think so,” Zeff says. “She’s just rattled. She’s as anxious to resolve this as we are. The pictures of her are quite embarrassing.”
“I’m sure.” I had no idea that Olivia’s Cole crush was so Fatal Attraction. I wonder if I should put Night of the Living Dog on guard duty for poor Spike, just in case.
“I know I was wrong before, but now that all of this is out in the open, I have a job to do.” Across her big oak desk, Ms. Zeff pats my hand. “Principals have to protect all students, regardless of fault. Sometimes that means doing things that make other students unpopular.”
She means me.
“Couldn’t you just wait on the unpopular-making stuff until after I graduate?” I ask.
She offers a sympathetic smile. “I wish I could. Unfortunately, you seem to be the source of this scandal, and those megaphone kids—what are they called?”
“(e)VIL.”
Ms. Zeff laughs. “You think?”
“No, that’s their call sign. Like, their acronym. Electronic Vanities Intervention League.”
“Wow,” she says. “That’s . . . clever.”
“Ash Hollowell? He’s the leader. He’s pretty smart. They all are. Crazy, but smart.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Zeff says. “It makes what I’m about to tell you much easier.”
She nods toward the plate of cookies. I shake my head, sink lower into my chair.
“Between you and Asher and his conspiracy buddies,” she says, “the school’s riled up. Teachers are complaining about the disruptions. And parents—as we learned last night—are getting pushy.”
“But after exams and graduation, it’ll blow—”
“It won’t, especially if you’re not willing to hand over names.” She waits, giving me another opening, but I don’t take it. Pointing fingers without evidence? That plan has backfire written all over it.
“I don’t think you realize the seriousness here, Miss Vacarro. Your prom night escapades and the mess that came after—which you didn’t deserve, but it’s happening regardless—forced us to reconsider whether our current cyberbullying policies are effective. Most of those kids are minors. Parents could decide to get the police involved. I’m not trying to scare you. It’s just the way it is in the age of social media.” She pauses a moment to let that sink in. “Unfortunately, to show that we’re being proactive, I need to make an example out of someone. You guys are the most visible.”
“What kind of example?” I ask.
“Nothing too painful, I hope.” She smiles without showing her teeth. “I’d like for you to do a group project. I’m allocating a ten-minute slot in the graduation ceremony, and I expect you to put your brilliant brains together and come up with a presentation about the dangers of sexting and cyberbullying.”
“Um . . .” Does not compute does not compute . . .
“It’s a cause they’re obviously passionate about,” she says, “and one that’s come directly to your doorstep. Couldn’t be a more perfect match.”
“Oh, it could be.” I picture Asher and his dossiers, white pants on the soccer field. Megaphones. “Ms. Zeff, couldn’t I just, like, clean whiteboards? File people’s . . . files? You have files. I’ve seen them. I can file them. I’m an excellent filer.”
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Miss Vacarro. I look forward to seeing you channel it into your presentation. I’ll notify the others, and you can get started tomorrow after school.”
“But how are we supposed to coordinate? They don’t even hav
e cell phones.”
“And neither did I when I was your age, yet I survived.” She gets that nostalgic look in her eyes that reminds me of Mom when she’s talking about Texas barbecue. “Do you know we had to carry quarters so we’d always be able to use a pay phone in an emergency? And pay phones didn’t have text. Can you imagine? The flip side is that there’s no viral evidence of my personal indiscretions—not that I was indiscreet, but . . . anyway. I’ve already spoken with your sister about this. She’s got no hard feelings toward Mr. Hollowell about the pep rally interruption, and she offered to host the group meeting at your house. Things are in motion, Lucy. Embrace the wave.”
“But . . . wave? We’re landlocked.” I’m still stuck on the whole group project thing, but Zeff’s face is all, Are you really going to argue this, Miss Vacarro? “Ms. Zeff, I do think cyberbullying is a worthwhile cause. I mean, anti-cyberbullying. But wouldn’t you rather give that time at graduation to Jayla? You know how she moves a crowd. And there’s supposed to be cameras and media and—”
“Let me be absolutely clear.” Zeff leans forward in her chair, suddenly firm. “If you don’t find a way to make this happen, you won’t be graduating. Mr. Hollowell and his associates won’t be graduating. And you’ll all get to be very close friends in summer school together.” She grabs the plate from her desk, the icy glare replaced with a fresh smile. “Cookie?”
GET GROUPTHINKY WITH IT
In conclusion, everyone is encouraged-slash-ordered to hate on Lucy for the rest of forever, and also, you should steal her lunch money and kick her dog while he’s sleeping, and if she shows up at the twenty-year reunion, you should totally freeze her adult diapers.”
Homeroom announcements the following morning, only slightly paraphrased.
“Hang in there, mate. We’ll bloody solve this.” Griffin offers a sympathetic smile, but I focus on my Converse, add a new skeleton to the pen-and-ink masterpiece I started at the beginning of the school year. Back then, drawing on my sneakers in homeroom was just a way to pass the time. Now it’s like my personal Zen retreat where I go to sip green tea and listen to wind chimes and pretend everyone isn’t plotting my make-it-look-like-an-accident demise.
Because . . .
LAVENDER OAKS HIGH SCHOOL CYBER SAFETY RULES (EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY)
1. Student Cell phone usage will be strictly prohibited during school hours. All students seen with cell phones—including at lunch and open periods—will have those phones confiscated.
2. Seniors will be required to attend an online Sensitivity and Anti-Cyberbullying training Session, to be administered repeatedly during lunch hours by a Local Law-Enforcement expert in Cybercrime.
3. All students are required to watch a Cyberbullying video at home, available on YouTube, and sign—together with their parent or guardian—a Pledge against bullying.
4. Any student caught engaging in bullying on school property, or using school computer equipment for said bullying, will be suspended and, depending on the type and severity of the bullying, turned over to the Police.
5. The students who launched and/or continue to engage with the Juicy Lucy Facebook page are urged to come forward with a full confession. Otherwise, the Page will be investigated and the students responsible will be punished to the fullest extent possible.
Strangely, Miss Demeanor’s page avoids all the mud. Maybe because it’s more of a conduit than an actual content originator. Or maybe Ms. Zeff is totally Miss D. Or maybe I’m getting a little too Asher Hollowell conspiracy cracked for my own good.
Griff’s ditching first-period calc for a Black & Brew run with Ellie. When the homeroom bell releases us, we go our separate ways.
Moments later, the corridor goes total red zone.
The kids who aren’t making lewd gestures and buzzings of the vibratory nature are cursing me about the new policies, taking up Quinn and Haley’s slut-narc-slut chant with renewed vigor. A tennis ball bounces off my head. Catcalls pierce my ears. Someone flings an open water bottle, dousing my arm in icy liquid.
Bag clutched to my chest, I keep my eyes down, trace the familiar path to my locker.
Cole’s there when I arrive, his arms loaded with torn-down posters and duct tape, my locker fully maroon again. I’ve been avoiding him since the thing with Ellie the other day, still overwhelmed, still shell-shocked and dizzied by his confession.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He smiles, and everything else just melts away. The pressure in my chest releases like a balloon set free, propelling me into his arms. He drops the papers and wraps me in a hug, rubs my back. His lips press the top of my head, shhh shhh shhh, everything’s gonna be okay, and that’s it.
Nothing.
Else.
Matters.
Not the snickers and ohmygods that float down the hallway. Not the click-clicks of the cell phone cameras already breaking the new no-phone rules. Not the projectiles. Not Olivia, clucking at us from across the hall.
Sometimes the right hug from the right person at the exact right time makes all the wrong in the world disappear. . . .
And sometimes true love just can’t compete with a dude and his megaphoned minions.
“Attention networked pod people. The corporate social media empire thanks you for your service and your soul.” Ash rolls down the hallway with determination and authority, legit hell on wheels, club members in formation behind him. They’re dressed like Facebook—blue shirts adorned with a white, glued-on F. Knit hats stamped with the thumbs-up icon.
Kiara marches in step, megaphone at the ready. “Every time you upload a picture to the network, a baby seal dies. Thank you.”
A few people laugh, but they’re actually putting away their phones.
“Every time you tag someone in a compromising photo, a spot in hell opens up for new members.” Tens flashes a wicked grin, the shells in his hair clicking as he moves. “Thank you.”
A few more people vanish into classrooms or move along down the hallway, pretending not to pay attention.
“The battle for humanity will come down to the singular fight of our time, techs versus the tech-nots, machines versus hearts. Where do your loyalties lie, sheeple?” Kiara shouts. Well, she’s not really shouting, but with the megaphone, it’s loud.
“Tech-nots!” the (e)VIL members chant in unison. “Hearts over wires. Souls over clouds. Unplug, unplug, unplug!”
There’s a knot of girls across from us, gathered around the water fountain with their phones still out. One seems to be typing a novel with her thumbs while the others giggle. Tens darts toward them, still chanting into the megaphone. “Unplug, automatons! Unplug!”
“Every time you perpetuate online drama and fuel the toxic waste dump of bad social karma, the terrorists win. Thank you.” A long, beige slip of a guy with an army of freckles and a Mohawk the color of maraschino cherries—I’ve seen him around, but realize now he’s the “Roman” missing from the pep rally—finishes with a bow.
Two of the science teachers poke their heads out of their classrooms, but if they’re at all concerned about (e)VIL’s latest demonstration, they’re leaving it to Zeff, who’s presently zipping toward us at lightning speed.
“Asher Hollowell,” she says. “I do appreciate your dedication, but this is a school, not a movie set.”
“I understand that perfectly well, ma’am. It’s the school we’re trying to reach.”
She holds out her hand, nods toward the megaphone. “Hand them over. All of them.”
“But—”
“Would you like to spend the rest of the week in detention, Mr. Hollowell? Copying the constitution by hand, perhaps?” She’s acting all bad coppy, but her lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. Deep down, she’s impressed.
Reluctantly, Ash motions for everyone to hand over the megaphones. His minions slink away to class, Zeff close on their heels.
Ash rolls up to me and Cole.
“That was quite a performance,” I say. “What’s up?
”
“Revolutionaries to the Mockingjay.” He gives a firm salute. “Sorry we couldn’t debrief you guys on the mission, but we didn’t have a nontech way to reach you.”
The hallway is mostly empty now, save for us and a few stragglers swapping books at their lockers.
“Dude, you guys planned that?” I ask. “For us?”
He nods curtly. “Yesterday Zeff told me she’d be announcing the new policies. I figured you’d be targeted. She also gave us the good news about the project.”
“Good news?” I say. “We have to do a presentation in front of the whole graduating class. Not to mention parents and grandparents. And the paparazzi—Jayla Heart will be there. If you look up ‘total suckage’ in the dictionary, there’s a picture of this project.”
“It’s the perfect time to get the message out. Captive audience. Various members of the media regime.” Ash pulls an old-school date book from the back pocket of his wheelchair. “Zeff said it’s cool to meet up at your place later? I need the coordinates.”
“Cool as it gets,” I say, but I’m pretty sure the sarcasm is lost. I give him the address and cross streets, thank him for clearing out the networked masses. In a blur of blue and white and chrome, he vanishes down the corridor.
Cole’s been dead silent since the first (e)VIL “thank you,” and now he’s reanimating, giving me a playful shove on the shoulder. “Looks like you have more friends at this school than you thought, Mockingjay. And also, I’m totally coming over later, because there’s no way I’m leaving you alone with those fanboys.”
“But . . . I don’t have time for all this,” I say, reality settling back in like a dark cloud. “I have to get my evidence. Even if Ellie never speaks to me again, I can’t let this go on. Zeff’s on my case. John’s parents are pissed, Griff’s mom . . . The whole school’s getting sucked into the vortex, and everyone hates me, and I didn’t even—”
“Hey, hey, stop.” Cole brushes his thumbs under my eyes to erase the tears. “Take a deep breath.”
