by Sarah Ockler
“You think?”
“It looked bad, Lucy. You were all cuddled up. I couldn’t even tell if you had clothes on. You know that saying ‘seeing red?’ I saw it. I whipped out my phone, only it was one of those times where I couldn’t get it to work, and then I saw yours on the dresser. I grabbed it, took a few shots. You guys were the living dead—didn’t even wake up. Someone else was coming up the stairs, so I just swiped the phone and vanished. My phone still wasn’t working, so I just started taking random party shots with yours, passing it around to whoever. A little while later, Olivia and Quinn were laughing about you guys, joking that someone should take pictures in Cole’s room and send them to Miss D’s scandal thing.”
“So you offered?”
Griff shrugs. “I told them to drop it, which they did because they were wasted and Olivia has a crush on Cole and anyway, who cares? It was just a party thing. But the idea got in my head. I was so pissed about the stuff you said to me, and all the times you scoffed at me about hooking up or whatever, and I just . . . I snapped. I woke up in the morning hoping I’d feel better, but you and Cole were gone, and that made it even worse.”
“I had to get out of there.”
“Yeah, without even saying good-bye or trying to talk to me, after everything that happened that night. You just . . . you bailed on me. And you didn’t call—”
“You had my phone!”
“You didn’t even call me from your house to make sure I got home okay. That was the last straw. I wanted revenge.”
I laugh. “Safe to say, you got it.”
Griff shakes her head, her eyes red and glassy. “I didn’t think about it like some big viral campaign. I swear I never meant for the Juicy thing to happen, or for you and Cole to get targeted like that.”
“We were a Lav-Oaks Internet scandal, Griff. What did you expect?”
“I was venting. I wanted to embarrass you, call you out. And I thought maybe it would bring me and Ellie closer instead of me always being, like, the add-on friend. But it just got crazy.”
Griff’s crying now, and I know I should be angrier at her, that nothing she says can explain this, can make it okay. The only reason I agreed to meet her at the picnic early was to tell her off, to make a scene and stomp out in a blaze of glory. Friendless, maybe, but avenged. Right.
But Griffin’s right too. She was the add-on friend, and I judged her every time, with every new crush and eye-candy target, her football boy hookups and fake British accent and hairstyle-of-the-month. I looked down on her. Not intentionally. Not with true malice in my heart. But the judgment was there nevertheless, and to deny it I’d have to bury myself even deeper in the sand than I already have.
Everything in me is exhausted and broken, and when I open my mouth again all that comes out is a whisper. “Should I tell her, or will you?”
• • •
“It was Griffin,” I say.
Cole and I didn’t have a chance to go private at the picnic, and now we’re leaning on our boulder just before dusk, catching up while the dogs run in circles through the woods.
I tell him the whole story—Miss Demeanor’s photo evidence. Kiara’s metadata research. How I confronted Griff this morning, how she promised she’d tell Ellie. How she and Ellie were still BFFing around at the picnic all day, sharing drinks, reading under the trees. Hugging like everything was cool while I watched from the sidelines.
Griffin didn’t tell her.
I gave her the chance to confess, and she snubbed it, because she knows I’m the girl who never says anything, not when it counts. Griff left me out to dry, to shoulder the blame for embarrassing Ellie and outing everyone at that party. Half of them are grounded for their last summer in Lav-Oaks, all because of pictures they think I posted. I’m lucky the worst I endured was posters on my locker, gum in my hair, chocolate milk on my boots. People could seriously kick my ass if they wanted to.
Because I’m the girl who never says anything, not when it counts. Right?
No. That girl is gone.
I have the evidence. And one last, epic chance to clear my name completely, to expose the perp to everyone: graduation.
I tell Cole my plan. “I have to do it,” I say.
His eyes hold nothing but sorrow. “Maybe it sounds like a good idea in your head, but I really think you should drop it.”
“And let Ellie think I posted all that stuff? Graduate as the class narc? The slut? The insert-favorite-name-here?”
Cole runs a hand through his hair. “Tell Ellie in private. Tell Griffin’s parents. Do what you need to do directly. . . . I just don’t see the point of making a spectacle just to call Griffin out. That’s not you, Lucy.”
“She called me out, and she totally screwed us over.”
He levels those coppery green eyes on me. “Okay, what she did was seriously jacked. I’m shocked, honestly. But we’re here, right? Together? Alone in our woods with two awesome dogs?” He traces his fingers along the fringe of my bangs. “All that stuff she posted doesn’t change it. Doesn’t change this.” His lips brush my cheekbone, trail softly to the edge of my mouth, and there he stays, lingering, breathing.
I shiver and pull back. “Distractions won’t distract me. I’m serious.”
“So am I. Look, I know you dealt with most of the crap at school, and trust me, it about killed me watching it happen, not being able to stop it. But it’s done. Our fifteen minutes of shame are over. Everyone’s focusing on exams next week; then we’re at graduation, and who cares? The bullshit of Lav-Oaks High is already a memory.”
“But I never say what I’m feeling. Yeah, I’m snarky and opinionated, but I don’t say stuff when it matters. I liked you forever, and I didn’t . . . This is something I have to do. For me.”
“I never said how I felt about you either. So for four years, we didn’t say anything. And now there’s just a few months left before we’re both getting into cars, driving off in opposite directions.”
I lean back against the boulder, looking around for Night and Spike. I spot them romping behind a tree, sniffing each other’s butts, digging in the dirt, not a care in the world. “Don’t remind me.”
“I’m just saying. We lost four years by not talking. There’s a million things I want to know about you, stories I need to tell you. We can’t spend our last few months together obsessing about this scandal. About Griffin.” His eyes are pleading, but he doesn’t understand how important this is, what a Really Big Deal in the whole spectrum of my life.
If I let Griff get away with this, if I graduate with this scandal looming over me, I’ll never be able to look at myself in the mirror. I’ll never be able to trust anyone, including Cole, because I won’t be able to trust myself. I’ll spend the rest of forever walking under a cloud of shame and regret, wondering why—just once—I didn’t do the right thing.
“You can’t do this,” he says. “It’s cruel and mean spirited and it’s nothing like the Lucy I fell in love with.” Cole must see the hurt in my eyes, but he’s not backing down, and neither am I.
“I have to do it, Cole. And there’s nothing more to say about it.”
He nods once, calls for Spike. We hook up the dogs in silence and lead them back into the world beyond the woods, and when the houses of our perfectly beige neighborhood come into view, he goes his way, and I go mine, only the dogs looking back at each other, wondering where the fun went.
ALL WE ARE SAYING IS GIVE (E)VIL A CHANCE
Nestled in my pocket on a flash drive the size of a Hershey’s miniature Mr. Goodbar is all the evidence I need. My thoughts are drawn to it, heat-seeking, guilt-seeking, seeking anything other than crushing sadness.
After thirteen years of formal education and the last week of high school exams I’ll ever take, I’m graduating today.
It’s nothing like I imagined.
Here on the Swordfish football field, all decked out for the ceremony, I’m not waving at Griff and Ellie across the crowd, ticking down the hours until we
celebrate our freedom, barbecuing and swimming and counting the stars. We were supposed to go with Cole and his family back to the cabin for the week.
Now Cole’s going without us.
I’m not smiling at my parents, secretly proud with each cheesy photo they snap, secretly glad that my sister’s here to share this day.
Instead, I’m sitting uncomfortably in a stiff metal folding chair between Pete Underfell and Kessa Vans, the three of us brought together by the alphabet for more than a decade of classes, assemblies, and ceremonies. I’ve watched them grow up, change glasses and hair colors and outfits and friends, but we’ve never shared more than a smile and a few polite words.
Next to Ellie’s moms and the Fosters, my parents sit in the bleachers, faces still tanned from their time in Laguna but etched with new lines. Lines that weren’t there until they came home from dinner last weekend to more photographers on the lawn, to Jayla crying in her rental car, locked in the garage.
She finally told them everything. Had to, really, and they wanted her to cancel her commencement obligations, to take some time to just be Janey again—our Janey-girl, they said—but she refused.
I don’t want to disappoint Lucy.
She’s kept my secrets, though, assuring my parents that my last weeks of school went just fine in their absence. Smooth sailing.
Even though, as Marceau can attest, we’re landlocked.
My former best friends are in their chairs somewhere too, all the parents and grandparents and cousins looking on, no one meeting my eyes but Principal Zeff, offering her occasional smile, a double thumbs-up on acing my exams and surviving the scandal.
We’ve already crossed the temporary outdoor stage, and sitting here in my metal chair, I’m holding a rolled-up piece of paper that tells the world I made it. I graduated high school. I’m ready for bigger and better things, ready to be an adult. There’s a couple of signatures and an official gold seal, so it must be true.
It’s hot on the bright green field, hot under the black graduation robe, hot under the cap and the too-bright Colorado sun, and in my pocket, on that flash drive the size of a chocolate, I have everything I need to throw someone else to the gossip hounds.
Franklin’s onstage now, telling family-friendly jokes and giving us the traditional valedictorian send-off, and I watch him, smiling, momentarily distracted from the burn in my pocket. His curly hair makes a fuzzy halo beneath his graduation cap, and he looks happy up there, like he was made to be this great orator, a leader of the people. In the final moments of his speech, I feel his eyes on me, his smile broad and genuine.
“I’ve always thought that the people who made a difference in this world were the ones who shouted the loudest,” he says, “no matter who or what tried to drown them out. It’s why I started writing, reporting. I wanted to be one of those loud voices, a voice from which people could learn. But sometimes the quietest person is the one who makes the most impact, just by refusing to give in. By refusing to be anyone other than herself, even if she’s not shouting it from the rooftops. Or, you know . . . an online fake gossip column.” The audience cracks up. “So as you leave the world of high school behind, no matter what challenges await you beyond, find your own voice. Trust it. Loud, soft. Online, offline. Find it, and don’t let anyone silence it. Thank you for inspiring me to do the same.”
“Thank you, Mr. Margolis,” Principal Zeff says, applauding at the podium. Her voice is thick with emotion after Franklin’s speech.
“Speaking of bright futures,” she says, “it’s my great honor to now introduce a very special speaker, a Lavender Oaks High School alum who really knows what it means to get out there and follow your dreams. Please join me in giving a warm welcome to our very own little darling, Miss Jayla Heart!”
There’s an overblown cheer from the crowd, half a standing ovation, fake plastic glee rising above our heads. The camera crews and photographers that had been snoozing on the sidelines for most of the ceremony now surge forward, each one jostling for the best angle as my sister takes the podium.
She smiles for a moment, waves to her fake fans, gives the cameras time to get her best features. The flashes continue as she flips through her note cards.
“So, I wrote this whole speech about following your dreams and reaching for the stars, but Margolis basically stole my lines. . . .” Jayla narrows her eyes at Franklin, then gives him a playful wink. “Angelica might have a few choice words for you, Margs. You’re lucky this is a family event.”
Everyone laughs.
“Can I just . . .” Jayla holds up her note cards, examining them as if they’re strangers to her. As if she hadn’t spent the last week crafting Angelica Darling jokes, reviewing them to cross out the R-rated ones. She fans them with her thumb, then grabs them in both hands and shreds. “Who needs notes? I’m a so-called adult living in the so-called real world, also known as Hollywood. Yes, I’ll give you a moment to wrap your minds around that.”
More laughing.
“But since I’m supposed to give you some wisdom from my post-high-school reality, let’s start with the things I know. I know that on any given Saturday, most of you are laughing at me rather than with me. I know that unless you’re a fourteen-year-old boy, you’re not professing any real love on my Heartthrobs fan page. I know that people have turned my life’s work into a drinking game, an Internet meme, a practical joke. I know that despite how hard I work, how much I try to find meaning in my career, I’ve spent more time on the #TRENDZ front page than I have on any awards shows, on any interview outlets. I know that like many of you, I had huge dreams on my high school graduation day, and I followed and achieved them. But now I can say this with complete authority: Dudes, being a television star is nothing like what you see on television.”
People are still chuckling, but there’s a whisper making its way through the masses, confusion laced with mockery. They don’t know if this is supposed to be funny, if they’re supposed to laugh, or if Jay’s having a public, tweet-worthy meltdown.
The cell phones are out again, clicking and tagging, posting and sharing, a hundred silver devices turning my sister’s honest words into another practical joke, another J-Heart tabloid smear.
I shrink in my chair.
“Advice from a so-called grown-up?” Jay says. “If you have a dream in your heart, no matter how impossible or silly or expensive or far-reaching, you have to go for it, to find a way to make it happen. Anyone will tell you that, right? That’s what graduation is all about. Looking ahead. New beginnings. Finding your voice, like your esteemed valedictorian said.” She holds up the torn pieces of her speech cards. “Like I was supposed to say. But no one ever tells you how hard it is when you get what you want. That even if your dreams come true, you’ll still face a mob of people waiting to take them away from you, desperate to see you fail, ready to take pictures of the whole thing and tell the world how screwed up you are.”
She turns a pointed smile on Quinn, sitting in the front row with her cell phone out.
“Thank you, Miss Heart, for that inspirational reminder.” Principal Zeff is on her feet again, already applauding, giving Jayla a gentle nod. Translation: Time to go! This school doesn’t need another scandal!
“Ms. Zeff, if you’ll allow me just one more moment.” Jayla’s all poise and confidence, more real than I’ve ever seen her. “When the spotlight shines on you—whether it’s because you’re a celebrity or just a person following your own personal dreams—you don’t get to choose which parts it illuminates, good or bad, false or true. But you can choose to remain true to yourself, to be who you are, no matter what people think. That’s really the best advice I can give you. Stay strong, Swordfish. Stay real. And yes, you can quote me and Angelica Darling on that.”
Jayla blows us all a kiss, and the paparazzi surges again, waving their camera crews forward as Ms. Zeff tries to usher them back to the sidelines. The spotlights are on Jayla, lighting her up like a fallen pop-culture angel, beautiful and brok
en.
Jayla and I lock eyes for one more second, but I look away before anyone notices, before anyone reads into it and makes the connection.
I have to clear my name. . . .
She steps back from the podium, turns it back over to Ms. Zeff, and takes her honorary seat at the side of the stage. The reporters follow her, clumped and bobbing like rotten seaweed at her feet.
“Ladies and gentlemen, graduates and families,” Principal Zeff announces. “There’s one more thing we’d like to share during our ceremony today. It’s unconventional, but we believe it’s an important message for everyone living in these digital times. Please welcome Lucy Vacarro and the student-run Electronic Vanities Intervention League: Asher Hollowell, Kiara Chen, Thomas ‘Tens’ Girard, Stephanie Wilcox, and Randall ‘Roman’ McCorkhill.”
My classmates stir in their seats, but thankfully no one’s hurling insults. Maybe it’s the specialness of the day, the sanctimony of the graduation ceremony that’s keeping them all respectful. Or maybe Cole was right—maybe this is already behind them, our fifteen minutes over, our lives moving forward whether we want them to or not.
Or maybe they’re just too busy taking smooshed-face selfies in their caps and gowns to care.
I line up with my group, me with Dad’s laptop at the podium, (e)VIL in formation behind me, heads down, awaiting their cue. PowerPoint is on the screen, projected for all to see, and I click the flash drive into place.
Error in connection.
My palms are sweating, my stomach a tangle of knots and weeds. I pop the drive out, push it back in. Relaunch PowerPoint as the crowd fidgets and groans.
This time it works.
Showtime.
The air around us has gone still in the heat, and a drop of sweat trickles down my back. Save for the paparazzi still bugging my sister, all eyes are on me, and I know the moment is here. My one last shot to rid myself of scandal.
I scan the crowd and find Griff’s eyes. She’s near the front, her face expressionless, arms crossed. A few rows behind her, Ellie watches me with the same bored, distracted look. Olivia’s not too far away, looking sad and grim.
