by Sarah Ockler
“Cole—”
“Do it. You’ll feel better.”
I do as he asks. He’s right, as usual. “Have you talked to Ellie since . . . the other day?” I’m still in friendship Siberia. I’ve called a few times, sent two texts and a link to Franklin’s baby owl video—nothing.
“Tried. Still trying.” Cole puts his hands on my shoulders, holds my gaze. “Don’t worry. We’re not giving up on Ellie. And you’ve got three other people working on the investigation with you. We’ll solve this thing, okay?”
I take another deep breath. He’s right again. Despite my pariah status, I’ve still got allies here. Friends. Cole.
“Griff and I are meeting with Margolis at three to compare notes,” he says. “After that, we’ll come by your place for a recap. And possibly to stop you from trading your possessions for a stake in an underground survival compound with (e)VIL.”
“And a year’s supply of dehydrated food,” I add, just as the late bell rings. “You can’t live in an underground compound without dehydrated food.”
Cole smiles. “There’s my little apocalypse survivor. Welcome back.”
MY MOM’S HOUSE IS A COOLER SECRET BUNKER THAN YOUR MOM’S HOUSE
I’m just saying,” Ash Hollowell’s just saying. He’s also brushing blue corn chip crumbs from his lap onto my TV room floor, something that endlessly delights Night of the Living Dog. “Star Trek technology is limited by comparison. They get around the galaxy way more efficiently in Star Wars. Take Empire Strikes Back. The Millennium Falcon hopped from Hoth to Bespin in, like, ridic time, without a functioning hyperdrive. What Trek ship does that?”
Tens rolls one of his dreads between his fingers, considering. “Doesn’t the Falcon carry a Backup Class twelve Hyperdrive?”
“Yes, and that’s an excellent point. Hyperdrive units are portable—singular intricate components. Warp drives have all those crazy-huge parts. Antimatter pods, dilithium crystals, warp core, cooling system. And how long does it take to get from Earth to Vulcan? Days . . . with warp drive!”
Kiara rolls her eyes. “Are you guys fracking lunatics from Arkham? Comparing warp technology to hyperdrive is like comparing Klingon to Wookiee. One’s grounded in proper grammar and phonology—an actual language—while the other is . . .” Kiara lets out a hilarious series of Wookiee grunts.
“Shields up!” Ash covers his face with his hands. “Angry Federation-beats-Empire type has entered the conversation!”
With a freckled hand, Roman reaches across the coffee table for a corn chip, does a flyby on the guacamole bowl. Night tracks his every move. “Captain Janeway? You denying that Star Wars vessels—”
“There’s nothing to deny. Hyperdrives have no basis in real science, no limits; they’re utter magic.” Kiara makes a starburst with her fingers. “Poof! Warp drive functionality is rooted in theoretical physics, which is why there are limits. Fact versus fiction. There’s no arguing this, guys.”
“An observation from planet Earth?” I flop into Dad’s recliner and flip open an orange Shasta. “The antitechnology club is sitting in my TV room having a serious debate about two different technologically advanced societies that only exist in your minds at all because of our own advanced technology.”
“I know,” Tens says. “Meta, right?”
“If by meta you mean hypocritical, yeah.” I turn on Dad’s laptop and pull up the new official cyberbullying manual Zeff sent me, twice as long as the old one. My plan is to basically plagiarize, reimagining a few key points with PowerPoint animations. “Aren’t you guys, like, hipsters?”
Ash nods. “I’m about half hipster, thirty percent nerd, fourteen geek, dash of headbanger.” He throws a death metal sign and rocks out. “If you’re into labels.”
“I’m half jock,” Stephie says, her swim team hoodie zipped over the Facebook tee. “Then equal parts hipster, nerd, and bookworm.”
“Hipsters, gah.” Kiara shudders. “I’m a cybergeek with a side of marching band groupie. I go total bookworm on the weekends, though.”
Roman’s Mohawk twitches. “And I fucking hate labels, so there’s that.”
“He’s a hater,” Stephie says. “That is his label.”
“I’m a foodie and a coffee snob,” Tens says proudly. “And a baker. I make tarts on the weekends for my parents’ café.”
“Those aren’t labels, dumbass,” Stephie says. “Those are activities. Labels are like: band geek, comic book nerd, art freak.”
“I’m those, too,” Tens says, and Ash beans him in the forehead with a chip.
“Wait,” I say. “Not Black & Brew?”
“Seriously? How do you think it got its name?” Tens thumbs at his chest.
I blink.
“Are we challenging your Ass and Umptions today?” Roman laughs at my flabbergasted face. He’s teasing, but my cheeks flame anyway.
Am I like this with everyone?
No wonder the whole school believes I posted those pictures. I might as well be wearing a shirt that says, If you can read this, I’m already judging you.
“Consider me challenged,” I say.
“Hey! That’s my line,” Ash says.
Stephie punches him in the shoulder. “Challenging, maybe. Or just annoying.”
“Lucy, we’re not against technology,” Kiara says seriously. “We’re against vanity-based technology—which doesn’t exist in these imagined societies—and the corporate regime that’s co-opting it for their own gain. Not to mention bullshit labels, as Roman so eloquently pointed out.”
Ash leans forward in his wheelchair to scratch Night’s ears. “Corporations own the government. Agribusiness, big pharma. Like the FDA really cares about what’s in our drugs, or how those drugs end up in the water supply. They’re lobotomizing us.” He taps the dog’s head. “Mind control.”
Night barks in agreement.
“Don’t get me started on the FDA,” Roman says. “Or the USDA.”
“Not to mention the NSA and Department of Defense,” Kiara says. “I’m totally applying DOD after college so I can, like, infiltrate.”
Ash pats her on the shoulder. “Our girl here’s a code breaker. Not to mention an ace hacker. Hardwired, of course. Wireless isn’t secure.”
She shrugs. “How else are you supposed to learn about the freedoms the government is revoking, one quiet infringement at a time?”
“Quiet infringements?” I say.
Kiara pushes my laptop closed, inspecting the side for what I assume is a hardwire port. “It’s like you haven’t even read the Patriot Act.”
Tens and Roman chuckle, like, Yeah, right! Who hasn’t read that old classic?
I look to Ash with a pleading gaze. “Rein in your minions, fearless leader?”
“Not until Kiara admits that hyperdrive technology is vastly efficient, thereby making the Millennium Falcon a much more elegant ship.”
I slam my soda can on the coffee table in mock indignation. “Listen up, nerd herd. I was in the room at Comic Con when Neil deGrasse Tyson articulated all the reasons why the Enterprise wins the starship smackdown, so in all manner of superior space technology I defer to him, a legit astrophysicist, over a group whose primary mission in life is to unplug the Internet. Now please shut up about fictional societies and help me figure out this presentation or I’ll activate the locator chip on the laptop and broadcast your shit to the man.”
That locator chip thing? I don’t even know what I just said. But Ash looks pretty impressed, and everyone cracks up, including me.
“You went to Comic Con?” Asher asks. “And stood in the presence of greatness like that?”
I shrug. “Truefax.”
“Marry me?” he says.
“Only if we can update our relationship status on Facebook.”
He winks. “We’ll find a way to cross this digital divide, Lucy.”
“Let’s start with PowerPoint.” I reopen the laptop and flip through the templates. “These backgrounds suck—we need to pick so
mething semicool.”
“Dude, no,” Ash says. “PowerPoint is the devil’s playground. Bill Gates? Definitely working for the other side.”
I blink and stare, openmouthed. It’s getting to be my usual response with Ash.
“Allow me to demonstrate the proper way to do a group presentation.” He snaps his fingers, and Tens, Kiara, Stephie, and Roman are on their feet, standing in formation.
“Point made,” I say. “Let’s put our nonlobotomized heads together and see what we come up with.”
• • •
Ultimately, we compromise with a combination PowerPoint slide show and live-action interpretive dance on the negative effects of cyberbullying. We map out our bullet points, and I let them run through their moves, offer a few pointers on making it more obvious that they’re supposed to be electrons bouncing up against humanity.
“Thanks for coming over today.” I save the PowerPoint presentation and close the laptop. “Sorry I got you guys into this mess with my stupid scandal.”
“Not your fault.” Ash offers a sympathetic smile that his friends mirror. “And I don’t know who’s trying to frame you, but obviously they’re in deep. That’s why this presentation is so key. If we can reach just one person, stop this from happening to someone else . . . you know?”
“Tagging. God,” Roman says. “Bad enough you can post pictures of anyone without their permission. Now there’s facial recognition technology and location data . . . creepy.” He shoves in another guacamole-covered chip. “Sanctioned stalking.”
“And sanctioned bragging. Sanctioned bullying.” Stephie nods at me, her blue eyes bright and compassionate. “You really are in a position to take a stand here, Mockingjay. Go all hashtag privacy rights on their asses.”
I blow a frustrated breath into my bangs. “I’m not a poster girl, guys. I’m definitely not a revolutionary. I’m just trying to clear my name. Get Zeff off my back and prove to my friends that it wasn’t me.”
Kiara says, “If they’re your friends, shouldn’t they just believe you?”
It’s a fair question, one I’ve considered. I know Cole believes me, but Griff? There’s still a shadow of doubt in her eyes, and how could there not be? She’s splitting time between me and Ellie, caught in the middle. And Ellie’s back to pretending I don’t exist.
“My friends are—”
“Who wants bundts?” Jayla sings her way in through the front door, Bundt Heads box in hand. I swear she’s reading Mom’s parenting magazine articles on how to relate to your ornery teen and her friends. She should’ve checked the freezer—we’ve still got a few dozen left over from the “you’re not on the list” prank meeting.
I smile at her with gritted teeth. “I thought you were busy promising to stay at the mall and far, far away?”
“Whoa. You’re . . . Ohmygod. The . . . Dangers . . . Aren’t you . . .” Kiara’s hyperventilating, and the guys are about three seconds from full-scale fanboy meltdown, all of them tripping over their sneakers and wheels to help Jayla with the box.
Before someone loses an eye, I stand and take the box from my sister, set it on the coffee table.
“This is top-secret, superclassified, doesn’t-leave-this-room-or-I-kill-you information.” I scrutinize each (e)VIL member, meeting their eyes in turn. “Jayla Heart is my sister.”
Kiara still can’t breathe, and the boys are practically squealing. It’s a common reaction from those who haven’t bought into the tabloid smears, but the show never gets any less barfy for me.
Still, Jayla seems touched. For all her marriage proposals and Heartthrobs fan page likes, Angelica Darling is mostly a joke. She acts all cool and bubbly, all the show must go on, but she has to know how people see her—the tabloid version. The Angelica version. That’s who she is in their eyes, not even a real person.
I look at her now, her eyes misty, her smile almost shy, and my heart hurts.
Ash says, “Miss Heart. I truly apologize for the interruption at the pep rally. I hope the exercising of our First Amendment rights didn’t upset you.”
Jayla laughs. “Dude, not a problem. You guys rocked out there! I’m just sorry some jackhole sent pics to the tabloids—I hope your parents aren’t pissed.”
Ash beams. “They don’t even know about it,” he says. “As long as they don’t check the secret cache under my SETI server . . .”
Stephie rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell people the location of your secret cache, dumbass.”
• • •
While (e)VIL continues with the being-enamored-with-Jayla portion of our meeting, my Mars Investigations team arrives, Spike in tow. He spazzes when he sees Night, and the two of them crash down the basement stairs in a blur, like, Come on! Let’s go do something naughty while the people aren’t watching!
Cole’s got a folder—sorry, a dossier—full of printouts, photos Franklin enlarged on the school printer. Before he shares the details, he looks cautiously at Asher, waiting for my signal.
“Asher,” I say. “Tens. Roman. Stephie. Kiara. What I’m about to share is, like the identity of my sister, highly classified. My friends and I are working undercover to investigate the scandal. If you’re not interested, I understand, and you can leave now, no hard feelings. On the other hand, if you want in, you got it. Full security clearance.”
I scan the ragtag (e)VIL members assembled in my TV room. How must I look through their eyes, a girl who until recently never spoke to them? A girl who spent more time making fun of their club, their mission, than she did finding out what they were about? A girl who never bothered to learn one simple thing about any of them—a hobby, a favorite book, how they spend their weekends?
Who am I to them? To anyone?
Labels float in the air before my eyes, angry black font on torn white paper.
Goth. Gamer. Ashamed sister. Bitch. Zombie freak. Bad friend. Loner. Slut. Narc. Slarc.
“Dude. Are you serious?” Ash pumps his fists in the air, like, Rock on! “I speak for everyone when I say, uh, yeah! We live for this stuff. And I’m not leaving my future wife out to dry.”
Franklin says, “Congratulations on your engagement.”
Cole and Griff simultaneously raise their eyebrows.
“Confidentiality is a given with us,” Stephie says. “I don’t even let my parents film the swim team meets. None of us have Face-frack or Insta-sham or any of that crap.”
“Only my nana,” Kiara says, and everyone laughs, and minutes later, we’re huddled around the coffee table, bundts and corn chips everywhere, looking at a spread of party photos that just yesterday would’ve mortified me.
There’s something about a real-life joint mission, a shared burden that lessens the sting in a way that all those hours surviving zombie attacks with my online gamer crew never has.
“After all the bloody cross-checking,” Griffin says, fake accent cutting in and out, “I’ve determined that our mystery wing wearer is one of five girls. Olivia, obviously—best guess. Her friends, Haley and Quinn. Farrah, the zombie girl who was—according to the vampires—making out with all of them. And Clarice, president of SASA. John had wings for a while, but they were silver, and despite his eagerness to go all scandal, I don’t think he’s interested in 420 in a sexual or drug hookup way.”
“Thanks for the analysis, Agent Colanzi.” I look over the photos again, some of them circled in Sharpie where the girls appear with pink sparkly wings. “Guess they had a sale at the fairy store.”
Kiara lines them all up, poring over each one with stern concentration.
“I’m telling you, Olivia makes sense,” Griff says. “She’s majorly crushing on Cole, and she’s been giving you shit hard-core ever since this happened.”
“She also told Zeff I started the Juicy page myself,” I say.
“No.” Cole shakes his head. “She’s acting crazy, but before all this, Olivia was really quiet and sweet. She’s pissed, but I don’t think she’d go to all this trouble just to out me and Lucy. Plus, t
hat picture of her? Her dad freaked.”
“Maybe it’s a cover,” Griff says. “It’s not like any of us talked to the dad. Right?”
“Despite her atrocious accent,” Franklin says, “Griffin has an excellent point.”
She beams. “Thank you, Franklin.”
“Well, it’s not zombie girl,” I say. “Cole and I saw her in the bathroom with one of the vamps at the same time our fairy would’ve been in the closet with 420.”
“You guys. It’s her.” Jayla, who’d been quietly snarfing bundts until this moment, points to a picture of Clarice.
“Wait. She’s right,” Ash says.
“Dude.” Tens shoves Asher’s wheelchair. “You didn’t even see who Jayla was pointing at. You’re just in love with her.”
“You’re in love with her.” Asher’s face is the color of Jay’s fuchsia tank top.
“Jayla Heart? I’m totally in love with her,” Kiara says with a playful smile, “and I say she’s right, too.”
“You guys. Clarice?” I grab the picture for a closer look. Clarice is bent over the recycle bin, dropping bottles in by the fistful. There’s a clear shot of the wings. Pink, sparkly. “No way. She’s so, like, proper.”
Jayla points to the photo in my hands. “Look at the wings. See how the top edge is scalloped? Three scoops there. Most of the others only have two.” On the table, she pushes aside shots of Haley, Olivia, and zombie girl, all with two scoops. She grabs a picture of Quinn. “This one has three scoops, but only the tops of her wings are sparkled.” She points to Clarice again. “The sparkles on the bottom set these apart. Now, look at the picture of the wings in Cole’s room.” She shuffles through the stack and locates it, holding the two photos side by side. “Same wings. It’s totally her.”
I take a closer look. As much as it pains me to say this, my sister’s right.
“Clarice is a closet stoner?” Cole scratches his head. “Really didn’t see that coming.”
“She’s legit,” I say. “I’ve sat through her ‘just say no’ lectures—no way is she into that stuff.”
Franklin taps a pen against his chin, leaving a blue smudge. “If that’s true, what on earth were those two doing hiding out in the—oh. Oh!” His eyes go wide.
