#Scandal

by Sarah Ockler

  He’s tan from his week outdoors, scruffy around the edges. There’s a small bandage over one of his fingers, a new hole in his olive cargo shorts, just beneath the left pocket.

  He runs a hand through his hair, his perpetually perfect bed-head flopping back into place. “Can we skip the talking part?”

  I nod vigorously.

  He takes Marceau’s flowers and sets them on the wicker table next to me, captures me in his arms. “God, I missed you,” he whispers.

  “Dude. I thought we were skipping the talk—”

  His mouth is warm on my lips, apple-sweet and full of summer, and then he pulls back. “That . . . Wait. That felt like good-bye.”

  “You know what they say.” I hold his gaze, count the flecks of gold in his eyes. “One person’s good-bye is another’s hello.”

  “Who says that? I’ve never heard anyone say that in my life.”

  “You’re the one who said it felt like good-bye. That’s, like, totally unromantic.”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t supposed to be good-bye. It was supposed to show you I’m seriously in love to you and also, I want to help you find your heart to heal.”

  “That’s what you were trying to say with that kiss?” I frown. “Try again, drummer boy.”

  Cole grabs my shoulders and pushes me against the windows, takes my breath away and the last of my strength. His hands slide into my hair, our bodies so close I can feel the blue heartbeat just beneath his skin.

  His lips melt against my throat, and I gasp.

  “My parents are inside,” I say.

  “Your parents love me,” he whispers, breath hot on my neck.

  “That doesn’t mean they’re pro-PDA. Well, not when it comes to me. They don’t even know about . . .” I close my eyes. “Any of it.”

  Cole shrugs. “We’ll fill them in. Or . . .” He stretches his phone out before us, poised to snap a shot. “Selfie? We can put it online for old times, maybe tag Mom and Dad?”

  I snatch his phone away. “Say it again and you’ll be singing ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’ on your drive to Boston.”

  “You can’t break up with me,” he says, sparks lingering in his eyes. “Your contract is specific. I made sure this time.”

  • • •

  “Ten minutes to showtime, y’all!” Mom ushers everyone into the TV room, leaving me and Jayla in the kitchen to wait for the next batch of microwave popcorn. When it beeps, I shake it into a bowl with cinnamon and sugar.

  Jayla pops a handful into her mouth. “You’re really something, Luce. Have I mentioned that?”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s just microwave popcorn with sugar, Jay. The whole salty-sweet—”

  “No, I mean the guys. Cole. Franklin. Asher. Marceau. John. They’re all, like, wrapped around your finger, yet there’s no drama. Explain.”

  “I don’t believe in love triangles. Totally unrealistic.”

  “Hey, Miss I Got a Perfect Score on My Calculus Exam, that’s more like a love rhombus.”

  I laugh. “Either way. Four out of five are solidly in the friend zone.”

  Jayla chomps another handful of popcorn. “Angelica would totally sleep with all five, pick her favorite, and get the good one to ice the other four. In fact, she did that in season two, episode nine. Remember the lumberjacks?”

  “Mmm. Who knew flannel could be so . . . inappropriate.”

  “Girls!” Mom yells from the TV room. “It’s starting!”

  Jayla and I settle in on the floor between Cole and Tens as the opening credits roll, the anticipation in the room as thick as the early summer heat.

  Angelica appears onscreen in the opening scene, checking into a romantic hotel in Spain for a prewedding getaway with her third fiancé and Lady Wiggles. There’s lots of walks along cobblestone streets, shared tapas, sunsets, tiny purses for dogs. But always in the background, hidden in shadow, a dark and brooding stranger. Meaningful glances full of not-so-subtle subtext.

  Cut to the in-room hot tub and champagne bucket one fateful night, Angelica getting her man so drunk he can barely hold his head up.

  Next scene, he’s passed out cold in the four-poster bed, and she’s donning a little red dress, silky as water, sneaking out with Lady Wiggles to meet Mr. Dark and Brooding.

  Sadly and unbeknownst to our favorite schemer, this is the day of Pamplona’s famed Running of the Bulls, and despite Lady Wiggles’s frantic yelping, Angelica ducks down an alley near her lover’s apartment and steps right into the path of the oncoming bull run.

  That flowy red dress isn’t doing her any favors.

  Violins and tears, a life-flashing-before-our-eyes montage, the grief-stricken wail of a tiny dog, and before anyone can say olé!, Angelica Darling is gored to death, then trampled by the crowd in the bulls’ wake. By the time the chaos clears, all that’s left of Miss Darling is a scrap of red silk, fluttering dramatically down the cobblestoned streets.

  Violins, slow and soft. Softer. Silence.

  Fade to black.

  The credits roll, and the room erupts, all of us giving Jayla a standing ovation.

  Kiara is legit jumping up and down with glee. The only time I’ve ever seen her so spazzed out was right after graduation, when we’d deemed her Sarah Palin wild-goose chase a resounding success. “Okay, this is embarrassing,” she says to Jayla, “but I totally promised my mom and my nana that I’d ask for your autograph. Is that . . . is it weird? Because if it’s too weird, I’ll just tell them no. Is it?”

  “Hell no.” Jayla beams. “I’m honored.”

  “Fascinating,” Franklin says, still staring at the credits onscreen. “The emotion you brought to those final, knowing moments, death clutching you in his arms. That was bloody brilliant!”

  “Definitely bloody,” Stephie says.

  “Will they let you keep the Porsche?” Asher asks.

  Tens wings a corn chip at his head.

  “What?” Asher says. “I’m just saying, that car is hot. It totally completes her.”

  “I’m not usually one for televised drama,” Roman says, “but shit. Are the older seasons on Netflix streaming? I mean, not that I have Netflix streaming, or the Internet for that matter. I just like to be aware . . . you know, in case anyone asks and . . .” Roman rubs his Mohawk. “Are there any more Doritos?”

  420 giggles. “Sorry, dude. Have some fruit salad.”

  “Luce?” Jayla smiles. “Honest critique?”

  I rub my chin, strike an intellectual pose. “Blood. Guts. Fatal compound fractures. That might be my favorite episode ever.”

  Jayla throws a handful of popcorn at me, but her ear-to-ear grin softens the blow.

  Neighbors. Friends. Aunts and uncles. Everyone’s hugging her, patting her on the back, encouraging her. Mom pops a bottle of champagne, and soon there are congratulatory cheers for both of us, clinking glasses, tarts and mini bundts and fruit salad for days.

  How much can life change in a moment? A week? A month?

  When those pictures first showed up on Miss Demeanor’s scandal page, blasted from my own Facebook account, I was certain my life was over. Certain I’d lost the few close friends I had, all my years of ducking the spotlight for naught.

  But now I look around the TV room and kitchen, packed with people I never even knew before my private life got broadcast across the Internet, and I can honestly say I’m glad it happened. I wouldn’t have planned it that way—I hate what it did to Olivia and the other seniors who got in trouble at home. I hate that things with Ellie and me are patchy at best, and that it’ll probably be a very long time—maybe even never—before I speak to Griffin again.

  But without the #scandal, none of the people in my house right now would be in my life. In my heart.

  People like Franklin, who gave me a chance even when all the evidence was stacked against me, even when almost everyone else decided I was the worst friend in the world. Asher and the (e)VIL crew, kids I’d written off as a whackadoo fringefest for years, kids who in their own
crafty way had my back the minute the scandal broke. Jayla, happier than I’ve seen her in years, signing autographs, setting up Xbox for a Fruit Ninja rematch with Asher and Tens. Marceau, who may not be reporting back to Canada with an American girlfriend, but who’ll have plenty of stories to tell anyway. Besides, he and Stephie have been cozying up all night, bonding over their shared fascination with the concept of fish sticks in a landlocked state, the great debate of clever packaging versus food shortage conspiracy.

  And Cole. The one and only boy I ever truly fell for. Our first kiss was forbidden, and every one after a stolen secret, a whisper in the dark. A dream I didn’t dare to hope for by light of day.

  Yet here he is, smiling at me with mischief in his eyes, the unspoken promise of a summer of adventure, of nights under the stars, of walks in the woods. Of zombie game marathons and campouts with Spike and Night of the Living Dog. Of all the stories we still have to tell each other, all the memories we’ve yet to make.

  Friends. With real faces and names, no mythical creature costumes required. With smiles I can see and laughter I can hear. Hugs and high fives and heartbeats I can feel.

  Status update?

  Totally real. Totally here. Totally content.

  Vacarro out.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The following real-life people have earned blinking gold stars and legit double dark chocolate chip cookies for their contributions to #scandal:

  Alex, official consultant on all things zombie, author of (e)VIL’s crucial hyperdrive vs. warp-core smackdown, and the most loving and supportive bestie a girl could ever ask for. Buddy, if this isn’t nice . . .

  Ted Malawer, superagent, honorary (e)VIL club member, and straight-up literary therapist whose guidance and encouragement I endlessly require-slash-appreciate; Michael Stearns, Immortal Death fan club president; and the Upstart Crow extended family here and abroad.

  Patrick Price, rockstar editor and not-so-secret Jayla Heart fanboy who deftly guided these crazy characters and never once mocked my anti-smartphone status; Regina Flath, cover designer extraordinaire who brought to life that #scandalous kiss under the stars; and Bethany Buck, Mara Anastas, Craig Adams, Paul Crichton, Nicole Ellul, Michael Strother, Carolyn Swerdloff, Emma Sector, and the entire hardworking Simon Pulse crew.

  Zoe Strickland, curly-haired intern of awesome whose smile brightens my writing days. All the best book boyfriends are for you, HT. Bee tee dubs… Happy Birthday!

  Jessi Kirby, who fuels my creative soul with chocolate, wine, Tarot, the beach, writing advice, and friendship; Jackson and Dylan Kirby, who kicked my butt in Fruit Ninja and inspired those all-important scenes; Mike and Michele Knecht, who introduced me to the real Prince Freckles (totally love at first sight); Morgan Matson, who came up with the perfect title; and Jen Jabaley, Rhonda Stapleton, Heidi Kling, and Aprilynne Pike, whose early suggestions helped me shape a whacky proposal into a story.

  Finally, hugs to Mom and Dad, Moma and Popa, and all the dedicated bookworms who continue to read my stories and offer high fives from around the world, online and off.

  Status update?

  Totally awed. Totally inspired. Totally grateful.

  Ockler out.

  Author photo by R. Alex Morabito

  SARAH OCKLER is the bestselling author of The Book of Broken Hearts, Bittersweet, Twenty Boy Summer, and Fixing Delilah. Her books have received numerous accolades, including ALA’s Best Fiction for Young Adults, Girls’ Life Top 100 Must Reads, Indie Next List, and nominations for YALSA Teens’ Top Ten and NPR’s Top 100 Teen Books. When she’s not writing or reading at home in Colorado, Sarah enjoys hugging trees and road-tripping through the country with her husband, Alex. Visit her website at sarahockler.com, and find her on Twitter, Tumblr, and Facebook.

  Simon Pulse

  Simon & Schuster, New York

  Watch videos, get extras, and read exclusives at

  TEEN.SimonandSchuster.com

  authors.simonandschuster.com/Sarah-Ockler

  Also by Sarah Ockler

  BITTERSWEET

  THE BOOK OF BROKEN HEARTS

  * * *

  Thank you for reading this eBook.

  Find out about free book giveaways, exclusive content, and amazing sweepstakes! Plus get updates on your favorite books, authors, and more when you join the Simon & Schuster Teen mailing list.

  CLICK HERE TO LEARN MORE

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com/teen

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  First Simon Pulse hardcover edition June 2014

  Text copyright © 2014 by Sarah Ockler

  Jacket photographs copyright © 2014 by Tyler Stalman Photography (couple), Creata/Thinkstock (house and tree)

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Jacket designed by Regina Flath

  Interior designed by Ellice M. Lee

  The text of this book was set in Perpetua.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ockler, Sarah.

  #scandal / by Sarah Ockler. — 1st Simon Pulse hardcover ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When pictures of Lucy kissing her best friend’s boyfriend emerge on the world of social media, she becomes a social pariah after the scandal rocks the school.

  ISBN 978-1-4814-0124-1

  [1. Scandals—Fiction. 2. Social media—Fiction. 3. Best friends—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction. 5. Love—Fiction. 6. High schools—Fiction 7. Schools—Fiction] I. Title.

  PZ7.O168 Aah 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013045348

  ISBN 978-1-4814-0126-5 (eBook)