by Lamar Giles
Cutting my eyes to the screen, I see the subject, and nearly double over from the resulting stomach cramp. The message title: PANDA’s next shoot.
Mom and Dad don’t notice, too into the asking-our-daughter-if-she-got-molested-by-the-PE-teacher moment. I need them to leave. Now.
I play on my nervous stomach, rubbing it and saying, “Guys, I’m having some, um, woman issues. Do you mind if I lie down a little longer?”
Dad springs to his feet like I said I had some Ebola issues. “Right, yeah. Sorry to wake you.”
“Do you need medicine?” Mom asks.
“No, some rest will be fine. Could you close the door when you leave?”
They comply, and I’m at my desk as soon as their footsteps recede down the hall. I open the message and there’s an attachment. I click the JPG before I read, and stare at the image a moment. More than a moment. “What the hell?”
Considering the picture, a more appropriate question might have been “Is this hell?”
There are a couple of couches, and a coffee table, and a framed painting on the wall. It doesn’t look much different from my family’s living room. Except it’s all on fire.
The floor, the seats, not just the painting, but the entire wall, consumed by flames wicking air from the top of the frame. It’s like the fire is liquid poured into the room from a giant molten cup, and the photo’s capturing the splash. How’s that even possible?
I drag the photo to the side of my monitor, so I can read the message underneath.
Panda, I can imagine you had a rough day. Your world and passions threatened; you powerless to do anything about it. I hate feeling that way so I will end your agony. I’m not blowing the whistle. I’ve followed your work for some time and don’t want to see you retire. Nice job on your most recent character assassination, by the way. Decent photos. Eric would probably call them life changing.
I should feel relief that he’s a fan and doesn’t plan to blow my cover, but I’m stuck on two words.
Decent photos.
I did top-tier work, considering the conditions.
My eyes shift to that amazing fire photo, unable to fathom pulling off such a shot, and immediately doubt my conviction. I read the rest.
How do you like MY work? I call the piece I sent you Dante. Get it? It’s part of a series, one I want you to help me complete. Or maybe you prefer skulking in the shadows. If you’re ready to do something on the next level, the assignment is simple. Top my photo. I understand if you’re not into it. Or just can’t. Either way, think it over. I’ll give you a week until I reconsider my position on sharing your trade secrets. Happy shooting.
There’s no signature. Of course there’s no signature.
Blackmailers don’t sign their demands.
I click between that fiery photo and his message at least a dozen times. With each iteration, my angry index finger threatens to crack the pearly white surface of my Magic Mouse.
If I’m being honest, though, being blackmailed isn’t what bothers me most.
Top my photo. I understand if you’re not into it. Or just can’t.
I can write back, but I don’t want to toss email taunts. Trading words is a waste of my time. Besides, when it comes to words, you know how much a picture’s worth.
Game on.
CHAPTER 8
GAME . . . NOT SO ON.
It’s been two days since my admirer dropped the gauntlet and I’m dry. I mean, I’m never short on things I can shoot. As Petra Dobrev says, “Life’s the photo!” But I’ve got nothing that trumps that so-incredible-I-hate-it fire portrait. I wasted a bunch of time trying to figure the logistics of that shoot. Or, rather, debunk it.
At first I was all “This has to be Photoshopped,” like those fuzzy pictures of Bigfoot or the super-obvious UFO fakers. I looked for telltale signs of overlays, and duplications, and masking. Like out-of-place shadows, odd blurring around the couch suggesting it was cut from some other image and blended into this one. Or a lack of charring on flaming items, which could mean he used a digital paintbrush styled to look like flames instead of actual flames. Anything that showed I was dealing with a great digital artist instead of a photographer with an envy-inducing eye for the most dramatic amateur shot I’ve ever seen. I found nothing.
Doesn’t mean I’m wrong. He could be a pro-level digital artist. The kind who’s so good he leaves zero clues.
Yeah, right.
The fire is real. So real I expect it to flicker and crackle every time I look at it. Never mind that the temperature had to be like a thousand degrees in the room where the picture was taken, maybe hot enough to melt the camera. How did he get that shot?! Grrrr.
“Why are you growling?”
I look across the lunch table. “What?”
Ocie’s giving me her WTF squint, curling her lip for extra emphasis. “You were quiet and I thought we were doing the oh-my-God-it’s-Thursday-why-can’t-it-be-Friday silent dread thing. Then you went all feral and growled.”
“Just clearing my throat.”
“Like a dog?”
Her blue-on-blue ensemble becomes a tempting target for changing the subject. A Smurf joke is too easy. Besides, being a Hall Ghost works in crowds, not at our private, two-(wo)man table in the corner of the cafeteria. Really, I’m never invisible to her.
I make up something while molding my gross mashed potatoes into animal shapes with my fork. “There’s this online photo competition. I need to come up with something to win it, and soon. The, uh, organizer’s being a jerk about the whole thing. He’s won it in the past, and thinks he’s God’s gift to eyeballs. He—he just irritates me. You know?”
After finishing my horrible version of a potato cheetah, I glance up, expecting Ocie to be infected with my indignation, even more squinty. Instead, she’s giving me a portrait-perfect smile that I can never get her to duplicate when I catch her on camera. “What?”
She says, “Is he cute?”
Mind. Blown. “Really? Is that all you think about?”
“Yes. When I don’t have to think about World War II and statistics and Jane Eyre. What else do we have to think about but school and boys?”
I slaughter the spud cheetah with a fork jab to the gut. “Maybe you should rethink that outfit. You look like the Blue Man Group.”
Her curious grin falls away. Quietly, she says, “You’re being so other right now.”
Maybe I am. But, jeez, her questions.
An apology may be in order, but the thought is lost when we’re suddenly a party of three. Taylor Durham stands in my periphery. It’s like he just appeared. All that’s missing is a puff of red smoke and the scent of sulfur.
What’s this about? Has he built up some steam to confront me about nearly running him over the other day? He doesn’t even look my way.
“Mei, hey,” he says, eyes on Ocie, “thanks for the chem notes.” He passes a binder covered in Ocie’s doodles to her.
She hesitates, then accepts her returned property, eyes flicking from him to me. My nostrils flare, like I can smell her fear.
She says, “Uh, thanks.”
“We still on for tomorrow night?” he asks.
Ocie shifts in her seat, visibly uncomfortable. “Sure. Text me when you’re on your way.”
She wants this exchange to end, as do I. Now, I have questions—a lot of questions—for her. Only, Taylor’s still here. Why?
He says, “Did you two get the Letter?”
Ocie brightens, unable to resist the gossip despite the source. “Oh, God. Yes.”
The Letter. I knew the moment Mom ripped open the envelope that, presumably, the school sent it to every student and parent. A Cover Your Ass mail campaign, if you will. Mom called me downstairs and read it aloud like it was some executive order from the president. For all the drama, it was vague, referring to an “incident of an inappropriate nature,” while reassuring everyone that Portside High was a safe, educational environment where the faculty upholds the highest moral sta
ndards. No names were mentioned.
Taylor asks me, “Did you get one?”
He’s so casual, like I didn’t almost kill him with my car. His nice-guy ruse. I nod simply to hurry this along.
Redirecting his attention to Ocie, he says, “Has anyone seen Keachin since this blew up? Seems like it’s getting serious.”
“I heard she’s in Alabama,” Ocie says. “She’s got an aunt there, the only person who’ll take her in because she’s shamed her family.”
That’s BS. I saw the light glowing in Keachin’s bedroom when I rode past her house last night. “Where do you get this stuff?”
“The band,” Ocie says. “Nothing happens in this school that we don’t know about.”
Her cluelessness makes me laugh; it’s one of my favorite things in the world.
My giggles are the only sound now. Taylor shuffles foot to foot before saying, “Mei, tomorrow then.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I rise and take my tray to the dishwasher window. They can finish this nonsense on their own. When I return to the table, he’s gone and Ocie’s twisted in her seat, tracking me with her eyes. Anxious.
“Panda, about that—”
“Sorry,” I say. I grab my bag off the back of my chair. “Lunch is over. Gotta get to class.”
There’s a full five minutes left in the period, but Ocie doesn’t argue. I’m sure she knows there will be plenty of time for that later.
We’re all something we don’t know we are.
Let me tell you about a girl who didn’t know she was a freaking idiot.
It’s not a long story; take out the specifics and it probably isn’t even uncommon. A gorgeous boy came to her school. A military brat, like she used to be. Even spent time in her mother’s birthplace. Long enough to learn the language. They bonded over similarities until they started creating shared moments.
Movies and pizza and birthday parties. His parents dropping him off for dinner with her family. Her sneaking kisses on the couch between her dad’s chaperone patrols.
She told him about the camera she wanted for her birthday, and her subscription to National Geographic, and how she knew who took the picture of each and every panda on her wall. He told her private things, too, but even now she doesn’t share them, because she still can’t destroy their old trust the way he did.
Things between them were good. Until they weren’t.
One weekend she was home alone. His older basketball buddies brought him by well after dark. They took a trip to her room where it didn’t go all the way, but got close enough to frighten her and irritate him.
She got it. She really did. She wanted him. Bad. But she was scared. Scared that something would go wrong, something that would last a lifetime, and chase away all the dreams they talked about so much.
He said he understood, said he wasn’t mad. When his friends picked him up, he must’ve said different things.
By Monday morning, the school was saying them, too.
Things like how she was obsessed with pandas, but not in a real way. Like a freak show.
They called her “Panda Fucker.”
Because she trusted the wrong boy.
That girl is something different now. She won’t make that mistake again.
Though she may need to consider which girls she trusts, if they can’t recognize the wrong boys either.
CHAPTER 9
OCIE’S TEXTS BLOW UP MY CELL as I eat dinner with my parents.
Dad’s complaining to Mom, for like the thousandth time, about how frightened Virginians get over “a little wind and rain.” There’s a bad storm forecast for tomorrow night, and whenever that happens, there’s a run on bread and water at all the local stores because folks around here are afraid of flooding and lengthy power outages. Dad drew the short straw tonight and had to brave the crowds for milk and cheese on his way home. Thus, the tirade.
“You’d think they’re expecting a category five hurricane,” he says.
Mom smiles. “They? We have been here for ten years. We are Virginians, too.”
“Maybe. We’re not the kind that overreact, though.”
Mom glances toward the pantry. “So you suddenly felt we needed three cases of water because . . .”
“I was thirsty. Most Americans are chronically dehydrated.”
I can’t help but giggle, even as I’m palming my phone under the table because dinner’s supposed to be tech-free. Ocie’s messages are all I know UR mad, but . . . and I need 2 explain about T . . .
What’s to explain?
My best friend is consorting with the enemy.
“Lauren,” Dad says, diverting talk of storm paranoia away from himself and peering over the tines of his fork with SternFace, “something pressing on your phone?”
“Nope. Not at all.”
I put it away though it purrs against my thigh. Ocie gets the hint shortly after dinner and stops the thumb groveling. Good. She should take some time to reflect on what she’s done. We’ll settle up soon.
Tonight, my Admirer problem.
I’m not down for the invisible puppet master act and I’m in just the right mood to make a thing of it. Even if I did have a concept to top his photo, why should I have to prove anything to some anonymous creep? I compose a quick message expressing my dissatisfaction.
Who are you? Tell me or I’m not shooting anything.
When I send the email I’m sweating. It’s a big bluff. The last thing I want is for him to expose me, not while the Keachin-Coach stuff is getting hotter by the day. I mean, I never want to be exposed, but especially not now.
Coach Bottin’s sure to lose his job soon, and talk of jail if Keachin was underage when they started is still circulating. Here’s the thing: if Coach Bottin broke laws, he should go to jail. Me and Mom are in 100 percent agreement on that. But . . .
Jail is full of thieves, and murderers, and child molesters. People are lumping Coach into that last category. When I hear molester, I think of creepy guys in nondescript vans scoping out playgrounds. I had Coach Bottin when I was a sophomore, and he was one of my favorite teachers. He never freaked if you really didn’t understand how a three-man weave goes, or couldn’t get a softball all the way from the mound to home plate. I never got the vibe he was ogling us like some porn scout. And trust me, the uniforms us girls get duped into wearing—little booty shorts and tight shirts, like the school orders them from a Vegas burlesque emporium—probably would’ve drawn him out. It sure did for other teachers.
I’m thinking about you, Mr. Mitchell, aka GawkEye. Really, what possible reason does the Automotive Arts teacher have to walk through the gym two to three times a week?
My point: Coach Bottin was not the one I was after. He shouldn’t have done what he did, and maybe I somehow saved Keachin from a monster who manipulated and took advantage of her. But when I think about Coach’s life in shambles, why don’t I feel like a Panda the Vampire Slayer badass?
My computer makes this weird, unfamiliar dinging noise. A window I’ve never seen before flashes in the center of the screen.
SecretAdm1r3r wants to chat. Do you accept?
Oh, fu—
I snatch my hands from my MacBook like it’s grown teeth. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms my door is closed. I cross the room on gummy legs to make sure it’s locked, and my palm is slick when I jiggle the knob.
I’m slow returning to the machine. My bluff’s been called.
Forcing myself into the seat, I reread the message flashing.
SecretAdm1r3r wants to chat. Do you accept?
I do.
I click the YES button and a new window opens.
It’s the messenger program that came with my computer. I never use it, had forgotten it existed. My default username, PandaD, occupies the chat window next to an impatient flashing cursor. My parents’ caution voices whisper across time, warning my eleven-year-old self never to chat with strangers, in person or on the internet. I won’t let this go anywhere ske
evy.
PandaD: Hello?
SecretAdm1r3r: Hi.
PandaD: Hi? That’s it?
SecretAdm1r3r: Sorry, I’m a little starstruck. I’m talking to *GRAY*
PandaD: Who are you?
SecretAdm1r3r: You know I can’t tell you that, Panda. If I did, I’d be in the same predicament you’re in.
PandaD: What you’re doing is creepy.
SecretAdm1r3r: Says the girl who follows people, takes picture of their most private moments, then pimps them for retweets.
PandaD: That’s not the way it is! If you knew what they did you wouldn’t come at me like this.
SecretAdm1r3r: Oh, I know. Joshua Amell, number 5 on Gray’s Hit List. He switched little Larry Marsh’s chocolate milk with something that was almost totally ex-lax. That kid only drank half, but the explosive diarrhea—which hit during, and ended, a school assembly—still put him in the hospital for two days. And earned him the nickname “Shittermission.” You posted pictures of Joshua stealing from the Salvation Army’s overnight drop box. How low is that guy?
Joshua is a sleaze. That bit of petty larceny got him a few hundred hours of community service, which included him apologizing to a bunch of underprivileged kids. Nowhere near Keachin-gate level, but good enough.
SecretAdm1r3r: Simone Presley, number 9. She befriended a lonely, unattractive transfer student on a dare, then invited the girl to her birthday party where all the other pretty people brought unattractive guests as part of some narcissistic competition where the climax of the night is embarrassing all the clueless victims. A “Pig Party,” I hear they’re called. You got a picture of Simone scoring some Molly downtown, right?
PandaD: Actually, it was coke. She’s old school. That photo got her a stint in rehab.
SecretAdm1r3r: Forgive me. I might be fuzzy on the specifics, but I see the theme of your work.
PandaD: Do you go to Portside?
SecretAdm1r3r: I’m not judging, Panda. I want you to know that.
PandaD: You’re just dodging my questions.
