by Sarah Ockler
“Then what?”
Franklin’s pacing, his curls springing out everywhere. “It’s about people using the anonymity of the Internet to make a public spectacle, to sanction harassment. Asher Hollowell’s methods may be unconventional, but his point is valid. Social networking should bring people together, not serve as an online gladiator arena.”
My mind drifts to Russell Crowe in his gladiator outfit, but even that picture of perfect badassery can’t keep the knots out of my stomach. I want to do the right thing, to say what I need to say, to stand up for what’s right—not just for me, but for everyone who goes through stuff like this.
But I’m not strong enough to do it alone.
“You have to trust people, Lucy. Maybe not everyone, but someone.”
“I trust people. You, and I told (e)VIL about my sister, and. . . . Hey.” At the meeting yesterday, Franklin walked into my house, saw Jayla in the TV room. He wasn’t surprised, and I forgot that he should’ve been. “You knew Jayla Heart was my sister?”
Franklin nods. “I’ve always known about your connection to Jayla. What kind of investigative journalist would I be if I didn’t, you know, investigate?”
“But why didn’t you say—”
“Bloody hell, Lucy, I’m not talking about trusting people with Jayla’s identity. I’m talking about trusting your friends with the truth. We all want to help, but none of us knows what happened that night because you haven’t told us.”
“Trusting my friends?” I say. “You’re only helping because I promised you the story.”
“Yes, well . . .” He rests the back of his head on the locker and closes his eyes. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.”
I’m not sure whether he’s changed his mind about running the story or about helping with the investigation, but I don’t stick around to ask.
I’ve got evidence to collect.
• • •
In the last stall of the emo bathroom, under cover of a wretched song about a woman named Sweet Caroline, I read Kiara’s message on my now-contraband iPad.
From: Code Name Hackalicious
I’ve written up the details in a separate official report in case the authority figures need something more specific, but in laymen’s terms:
We already know that the self-named creator of the Juicy Lucy page is Narc Alert—obviously, an alias. By comparing the time stamps (login/logout times, message and comment post times, date and page creation time) of Narc Alert and of the likely suspects from Cole and Griffin’s lists—both on the Juicy page as well as on their own personal profiles—I was able to significantly narrow the suspects.
From there, it was a simple matter of correlating common linguistic patterns, crutch words, slang usage, tone, average message length, and style on the Narc Alert page with the personal profiles of those on the suspect short list.
And ding ding ding! We have a match.
I’ve identified the creator of the Juicy Lucy fan page with a 99.8% confidence level: Olivia Barnes.
I will provide hard copies of all evidence in person. Please destroy this message on receipt.
I was never here.
—Hackalicious out
From: Lucy Vacarro
Hackalicious:
Your findings are both thorough and interesting. Thank you for your service. I’ll destroy your message, per your request. We’ll never speak of this e-mail again.
—Vacarro out
From: Code Name Hackalicious
By replying to previous message, you’ve created an electronic trail of our communiqué on multiple servers, thereby making it easier for the NSA to track, flag, and store indefinitely.
Please delete this and all related messages in your sent and received mail folders.
—Hackalicious out
From: Lucy Vacarro
Sorry! :-( I’m new at cyber espionage. Consider them deleted. Mum’s the word. Um, words.
—Vacarro out
From: Code Name Hackalicious
!!!
Oh, right. God, this superspy gig has a lot of rules. I don’t know how (e)VIL does it.
A new song floats through the XM feed, some girl dreaming about an eternal flame, and I delete Kiara’s messages, trying to decide what to do with the information. I don’t have enough evidence to prove Olivia stole my phone and posted the original #scandal photos, but I can at least prove she launched the Juicy Lucy campaign and turn her over to Zeff.
But to clear my name for good, I need more evidence.
Far as I know, the Prince Freckles #scandal award idea was a bust—no one’s come forward to claim it.
I click over to Miss Demeanor’s page and start composing a private message, explaining the situation with the Juicy Lucy page and asking if she has any information that might connect Olivia with the #scandal photos.
The note was supposed to be brief, a quick request, but once I start tapping in the words, I can’t stop.
You have to trust people. . . . Maybe not everyone, but someone . . . None of us knows what happened. . . . You haven’t told us. . . .
Franklin’s voice is in my head as my fingers fly over the iPad. As if they’re being guided by some otherworldly force, some instinctual reaction to Franklin’s words, a full confession takes shape beneath my hands.
I admit everything. Cole. How I’ve loved him since that first time in the woods behind our houses, when he met me and Night. How every moment with him is this crazy adventure, a promise of sunshine and something more. How he smiles at me and I’m simultaneously lost and found.
I tell her about kissing him in his bedroom at the cabin, about our walk in the woods. How I’m so scared of losing Ellie, but that deep down, if it really comes to it, I’d choose Cole. How in so many ways, I already had.
I’m not a good friend.
I’m in love.
My heart is broken, but that’s the truth.
And I’m still hiding, still doing exactly what Franklin accused me of. Staying in the shadows, too scared to take a stand.
My fingers finally stop, the iPad smudged and dim.
The confusion. The feelings. The mistakes. It’s all there in the unsent note, the most I’ve ever admitted to anyone, including Jayla, including myself.
The message waits patiently, my thumb hovering over the send button.
Maybe it’s because Miss Demeanor doesn’t have a face. Maybe it’s because out of all the people who’ve come into my life postscandal, she’s the only one who doesn’t gain anything by helping me. And maybe it’s because, best of all, I won’t have to see the judgment in her eyes when she finds out who I really am, no filter.
Maybe there are a million reasons to send it and a million more not to, but beneath a heartbreaking glam band soundtrack about roses and thorns, I hit the button, sending my deepest secrets through cyberspace to a person who doesn’t even exist.
FANBOYS AND OTHER MINOR SCANDALS BY WHICH WE MEAN SCANDALS INVOLVING MINORS
What’s wrong with you? Move.” Haley bumps my shoulder as she stomps toward school on Monday. She’s on her phone, and whoever’s on the other end is no longer in the friend zone.
“I can’t believe you guys did this without me,” she says. “I thought we weren’t doing the campout thing. Well, no one texted me, and I had to find out on Instagram! That’s it. I’m deleting all you bitches.”
The Lav-Oaks campus is dotted with the remnants of tents and campfires, and dozens of my classmates are hanging out in circles, playing guitars, singing, kicking around Hacky Sacks. It’s a regular lovefest for everyone but Principal Zeff, who’s frantic and overly pink in her beige sundress and white shawl.
“What’s happening?” she’s saying to 420. “Some kind of Occupy Lavender Oaks? The last thing this school needs is another scandal.”
420 squints in the too-bright sun, nodding, but his nod looks more like a head groove to some nonstop Marley soundtrack playing deep within his soul.
“Do you people have any demands
,” she says, “or is this just a thing?”
“Thing, dude.” 420 gives her two thumbs-up. Well, two thumbs kind of sideways, but I’m pretty sure he means up.
“Just . . . clean it up before the bell rings or you’re all getting tardies. Lucy?” She smiles when she sees me, but it’s a shark’s grin, a warning. “I need to see you in my office. I’ll let Mrs. King know not to expect you in homeroom, okay?”
“No problem, Ms. Zeff.” I have some information for her, too.
I don’t see Ellie, Griffin, or Franklin in the campout crowd, but Cole’s here with John, rolling up his sleeping bag and checking his gear like a pro. I’ve seen him do it a hundred times, all the mountaineering stuff spread out in his driveway before some new trek with his dad.
So this was the big prank.
John must’ve told him about it. Cole tried calling and texting me a few times this weekend, but I couldn’t deal. I never heard back from my pseudo friend Miss Demeanor, neither a message nor a new advice column, and every time I saw Cole’s name on my phone, I was certain she’d forwarded him my note, all the secrets I’m too scared—despite his own confessions, his own declarations—to say to his face.
Now that I see the tents, I wonder if he was simply calling to invite me.
I would’ve said no. I would’ve tried to talk him out of it too, despite his insistence that we’ve got nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of.
Still, when I see him packing up his stuff, sun shining on his messy hair, I can’t help but wonder what things would’ve been like for us if I’d just been honest about my feelings all along, from the day we met. Would we have hooked up right away? Would we still be together now, high school sweethearts, crawling out of a tent together the morning after the senior prank?
Would we still be friends with Ellie?
The what-ifs fill my insides, tightening my throat with sadness for the real friendships lost and all the unknown potentials, and when Cole spots me and waves me over, it takes every bit of strength I have to turn and walk the other way.
Right smack into Franklin.
“Hey!” I say, relieved to see him. “There you are. I’ve been texting you all weekend.”
“Oh?” His smile is low-wattage, his eyes unfocused. “Right, I had my phone off. I’ve . . . I’ve got to go, Lucy.”
“Wait!” I grab his arm. After our argument on Thursday, he dodged me all day on Friday, ignored all attempts at communication. I felt so bad about how we left things that I hid out in my room all weekend, pulling back-to-back Undead Shred marathons and eating Cocoa Puffs straight out of the box.
“I just . . . I wanted to apologize,” I say. “For how I acted the other day. I know you were just trying to help and I was a complete brat, and—”
“You’re not a brat, Lucy.” His eyes hold mine for a moment, and something in his face looks sad, full of regret, and then it’s gone. He checks the time on his phone. “I really have to go.”
• • •
“Close the door, Lucy.” Zeff’s all business, the calm of her beige sundress belying her frantic eyes.
“I’m glad you called me in here,” I say, like, Way to be proactive, Lucy! “I have some information I thought you’d be interested in. It’s about the Juicy Lucy page.”
Her eyebrows raise. “Oh?”
I hand over the full report I printed out from Kiara, keeping her name out of it, as promised. “I did some sleuthing this weekend and identified the page creator.”
Zeff scans the file.
“It’s Olivia Barnes,” I say triumphantly. If that doesn’t deserve a cookie, I don’t know what does.
But Zeff isn’t offering up any congratulatory treats. She’s frowning, shaking her head.
“This is all very interesting, Miss Vacarro, and I can tell you put a lot of work into it, but I’m afraid you can’t prove anything. The Juicy Lucy page has been deleted.”
“What? I was just on there this weekend!”
“As of this morning, it’s gone. I suppose whoever created it realized someone was on the trail. Perhaps he or she decided to take our cyberbullying policy changes seriously. I can’t say I’m sorry about that.”
“But I have a report, and—”
“A report is not irrefutable evidence. Anyone could’ve typed up this information. Without the actual page backing up your claims, I’m afraid you don’t have a case.”
I flop into the chair. “Then . . . why did you call me in here? Did something else happen?”
From a drawer she procures a pile of magazines, spreads them out on the desk between us. They’re tabloids—CelebStyle, #TRENDZ, all the usual suspects—each one featuring a variation on a theme.
By theme, I mean Jayla Heart, glowing in a tiny, sky-blue slip dress, her hand dangling like a carefree little bird from the driver’s side window of her Porsche. The car is packed with half a football team. Our football team, according to the jerseys they’re all wearing. I recognize a few of them as vamps from Cole’s party, including Griff’s Ryan/Brian boytoy.
Headlines: MINOR INFRACTIONS IN THE MILE HIGH CITY. DANGEROUS LIAISONS WITH DANGER’S DARLING. CARPOOL COUGAR LOVES BOYS WITH BALLS.
“I know you have your own scandal to worry about right now,” Ms. Zeff says, “and there’s nothing precisely illegal about an adult driving young boys in her car. . . .”
“But?”
“But it would really help me if you could talk to your sister and kindly request that she avoid engaging in social activities with students outside of our sanctioned visits and, of course, her personal connection to you.”
“I don’t really socialize with my sister,” I say. “She’s just . . . helping out at home.”
“Where are your parents, Miss Vacarro?”
“They’re on a couples . . . vacation. Thing. In California. They’ll be back tonight.”
“I hope so.” The weight of Lavender Oaks’s many scandals is heavy on her shoulders. She reaches across her desk for the familiar, encouraging hand pat. “Two more days of classes. Let’s make the most of it.”
• • •
Nasty glares aren’t exactly traceable evidence of bullying, so I’m still getting plenty of those in the hallways, but otherwise? All seems quiet on the Lav-Oaks front.
It’s the calm before the storm, the last desperate days of high school before finals and the crossing of the big stage, the bridge from childhood to adulthood. I mean, if you’re into all that symbolism stuff. I would be, maybe, if Ellie and Griff were here to joke about it.
But my friends are keeping their heads down, all of us unsure about where we stand. About who posted those pictures, whose secrets were the most damaging, who was most in the wrong.
About where we’re supposed to go from here.
After school I take the long way home, through the woods, and when I get to the house, I find Asher and Tens in front of the television, my sister between them, wildly slashing the air with her arms and legs. Night’s pacing and barking, cheering her on as Asher brags about his high score.
Jayla’s laughing, breathless, beautiful.
I drop my backpack in the entryway. “WTF?”
Three humans and one canine turn to face me, guilty grins across the board.
“Lucy!” Asher waves at me from side to side like I’m standing on a boat dock. Bon voyage, sanity! “We came by to go over some final moves for our presentation.”
“Does our presentation involve Fruit Ninja?” I ask.
“Dude.” Tens chops the air with his hand, dreads whipping around his face. “Your sister’s teaching us.”
“On Xbox?” I glare at Jayla. “Jayla! You’re totally corrupting them! They don’t do Xbox! It’s connected to the network and . . . This is messed up on so many levels.”
“Tell me about it.” Jayla drops to the couch, panting. “I just got my ass kicked in Fruit Ninja by a guy in a wheelchair.”
“Tried to warn you.” Asher beams, giving the air a few ninja arm chops. “I
got mad upper-body skills. Hand-eye coordination skills. Shit, big sis, I got skills you haven’t even dreamed about yet.”
Jayla raises an eyebrow, but before she can make an inappropriate cougar joke, I say, “Party’s over, guys. And I’m sorry about . . .” I wave around at Jayla, Xbox, Fruit Ninja, the dog, my whole situation collectively, but they’re all smiling.
I’m the dark cloud, swooping in to kill the buzz for no reason other than the fact that I wasn’t part of it. “I’m just really tired. Talk tomorrow?”
They gather up their stuff and salute, fake chopping each other as they roll out the front door, down the sidewalk to Tens’s car. He helps Ash into the front seat and carefully folds up the wheelchair, packs it into the trunk like he’s done it a thousand times before and will keep on doing it for as long as Ash needs him.
Jayla pats the couch cushion next to her, which Night takes as an invitation. “How was your day? Any new scandals to report?”
“Now that you mention it, big sis.” I dig Zeff’s tabloids out of my bag and throw them on the coffee table. They slide across the surface, two fluttering to the floor, knocking down an empty wineglass.
“Oh, shit!” She picks up the top rag. “I can’t believe they shot this! It was Saturday night. I went out after Danger’s. Remember?”
“This is you going out? A fun Saturday with the boys?”
“I invited you, but you were being little miss mopey pants.”
“These guys go to my school!” I say. “They’re in my class!”
Jay shrugs. “They said they were eighteen.”
“Zeff’s pissed,” I say. “They’re not all eighteen. And even if they were, this is so . . . not appropriate.”
“You’re overreacting, Lucy.”
“Don’t you have a publicist or something? I mean, since this is so challenging for you, isn’t it her job to tell you what not to do in public?”
Jayla waves me off. “Fired her. She was a helicopter publicist.”
