Cat turned off the sound and tucked her feet under her on the desk chair in her bedroom. Grady had begged her to expand into more multimedia reporting. She’d given him this chance to prove himself.
As usual, the latest Shrieking Violet story had more fiction than fact. Angeline had gone to their dad’s house. She’d brought a wedding gift: a photo of the four of them, her dad in the center with his guitar slung across his back. It was the first year his band had played a set at Heritage Days, the annual festival celebrating the founding of the town, and he’d never been happier.
Angeline thought the picture would remind him of where he belonged. Instead, she got the reminder. Because from the front steps of his fiancée’s house, she spied her dad through the window— smiling just as wide as in the photo—helping his fiancée glue daisies onto boxes of wedding favors with the cockapoo’s muzzle on the side. That was why Angeline wasn’t a flower girl—Angeline or Cat. The cockapoo was. He’d chosen it—he’d chosen Botox Wife—over them.
With tears welling, Angeline had turned to leave. She noticed wisps of smoke coming from the side of the house where a charcoal grill was heating up. The sight of the bag of marshmallows—as homey as the hot glue gun and the perky fiancée and the cutesy dog and so unlike the dad she knew—was what did it. Angeline gathered as many leaves and twigs as she could find. She even yanked out handfuls of grass. She lifted the lid and dumped it all onto the grill. As the flames roared, she tossed the framed photo on top and bolted.
Her hair did hold on to the odor, just a little, even the next day.
Cat: You really want to post this?
Grady: After my edits, it’ll be perfect, Chief. I’m a whiz with editing software. No worries.
Cat: Talk to Angeline. You need to give her a chance to respond.
Leo knew the whole truth. But he hadn’t used it in that story in The Shrieking Violet. Cat was both glad and not.
Cat: Make the edits and show me again.
Cat: And you might want to make your crush on Sonya less obvious.
Grady: Crush? I don’t . . . I’m not . . .
Grady: Yeah, okay.
Cat pushed her phone to the side, planted her feet on the floor, and dragged the play button back to that “#HotheadQuinnCantWin.”
Her breathing became shallow, and she let herself be drawn to her sister’s bed, where she’d found Angeline that long-ago night, curled into a fetal position, tears streaming down her cheeks, her long hair still wet from the shower, clutching the angel-embroidered pillow she’d just gotten for her then brand-new YouTube channel. Cat had approached slowly, pausing in the space between their two twin beds, surprised when Angeline reached for her. Cat clasped her sister’s hand, sat on the edge of the bed, and folded Angeline’s arm into her chest, unable to remember the last time they’d been that close.
And then Angeline inched toward her and rested her head in Cat’s lap. “He’s really gone,” Angeline had said, because she had yet to learn the lesson that Cat had internalized in fourth grade: she’d never be enough for him. They’d never be enough for him. For his hopes and dreams remained so wrapped up in the person he wanted to be that he couldn’t see the person he was—the person he should have been. No amount of attention-seeking from either of them would tear off his blinders. And so Cat had stroked the tangles out of her sister’s hair and told her it was going to be all right, but all she’d thought was good.
She’d been glad he was gone. Most days she still was.
Cat rested her hand on the angel-embroidered pillow and heard a crinkle. Underneath were two issues of The Red and Blue. Cat had never seen her sister reading her paper. Not once. And yet the issue with her first Frankengirls story had markings in her sister’s handwriting including underlines and hearts in the margins. A lump swelled in Cat’s throat. She returned the pages, fluffed the pillow, and picked up her phone.
The Shrieking Violet was calling her sister—Leo was calling her sister—a loose cannon. Too emotional to be president. How would he like the same sexist comments to be made of his mom?
Cat texted Grady.
Cat: Those female-empowerment comments on Angeline’s feed? Maybe add one or two. Helpful to see specifics.
Grady: Good idea, Chief. Support comments for Leo too?
He should. To be fair. Cat glanced at the notebook Leo had given her. Leo, who no longer cared about fair.
Cat: One. Only if there’s time. We don’t want it to go too long.
Acedia Confronts Its Inner Sloth:
Controversy Surrounding Student Council Unprecedented in Charter School History
A SPECIAL REPORT
Part 3 of 6
Coverage by rival newspapers The Red and Blue, which began to employ new ways to reach its audience by increasing its online presence, and The Shrieking Violet, an exclusively online publication, flamed interest in the student council election within the walls of the school.
Quinn’s platform of more oversight sparked support from those who felt the administration was not properly addressing complaints, including harassment and cyberbullying, as well as from students wanting to free the school from what many saw as an unequal, hierarchical culture. Eliminating things like prom court, blocking texting in school, and tightening the dress code to forbid extravagance gained steam with a large percentage of voters. Yet a near equal number of students endorsed Torres’s campaign seeking fewer restrictions. Citing the dress code as archaic and biased, Torres found favor with those wanting the freedom to express themselves with clothing choices that defied expected societal or gender roles.
All of these issues begged for debate, but that Acedia’s student council election permeated beyond the walls of the school came courtesy of the Frankengirls. The salacious nature of the photos made them primed for social media sharing and engagement. And with no one to hold accountable, one voice of outcry became two, which became four, and so on in a social media spiral that reached hundreds, then thousands, and culminated with live television coverage of Quinn standing beside the statue of Major Mushing on the front lawn of the school.
Quinn, as an influencer popular mostly with young women, had a built-in platform that situated her well for encouraging and promoting calls for more action, particularly with respect to schools.
The Frankengirls shined a spotlight on the fact that schools are not—and many believe cannot be—immune to the discussions surrounding gender and diversity that have taken hold in the wider landscape in recent years. In fact, drilling down through simple fury and venting and “I’m with her” or “I’m with him” social media posts brings one to a core argument: the need for awareness and tolerance to be instilled from an early age in order to set patterns of behavior.
Torres himself remained largely silent as the online storm brewed. But a “no comment” attitude that may have worked in an earlier time does not stand now. Silence equals complicity, and Torres was hit with a landslide of feminist attacks. And so the Battle of the Exes that had once been stunts and pranks escalated in the online world, with some of the more vocal supporters on Torres’s side, including The Shrieking Violet, poking at Quinn.
But, some say, Quinn poked back. With near deadly consequences.
“Blue. My man could’ve slipped inside a Marvel comic, he was so blue,” Baker said of Torres. “Switched my vote after that. No way I was gonna test that witchy-woo mojo.”
Click for more: 3 of 6
19
When Angeline Becomes a Hashtag
10 DAYS TO THE ELECTION
#HotheadQuinnCantWin was trending.
Locally.
But still.
Trending?
Wasn’t everyone on Snap or Insta anyway? How was this much of Acedia on Twitter that #HotheadQuinnCantWin was trending?
A
ngeline defiantly strode down the hall to her locker, employing the deep-breathing exercises Sonya had helped her to learn from that meditation app. She’d trained herself out of blushing the same way she’d trained herself out of sweating. Her mind controlled her body, not the other way around.
Then she reached her locker. And the picture. Her head jammed onto someone else’s body, wearing an orange prison jumpsuit.
Her breathing grew short and fast.
So juvenile.
She pressed her hand against the metal door.
Pathetic cowards.
She tore off her cropped white denim jacket even though her #ad said she’d be wearing it today.
Who were voters.
Goddammit, that deposit was nonrefundable. This had better not make her lose—
Viewers.
That was how #HotheadQuinnCantWin was trending. It wasn’t just Acedia.
Oh my God, has Evelyn seen?
Her blood boiled, and her sweat glands defied her, and she couldn’t stop it, and she couldn’t breathe, and—
“Assholes.”
Leo surprised her by tearing the picture off her locker. “I’m sorry, Ang.”
“You should be,” she spat out.
He tore the photo in half. “You think I did this?”
“You didn’t have to do that, specifically, to be responsible. You’re spilling my secrets to them. It. Whatever. The Shrieking Violet.”
He set what she used to think was his trustworthy square chin straight. “No way.”
“That’s what I told Cat. I almost believed it too. How naive was I to think you couldn’t be the ‘source who says’? Tell me, who’s writing it, anyway? Least I can do is give her a name.”
“I can’t tell you because I don’t know. Maybe Baker or . . . who’s that guy who was opposite you in the school play last year? Doesn’t he do podcasts?”
“Ash? We’re friends. And I’m pretty sure he’s had a crush on me since freshman year. Bad choice for a scapegoat. Besides, this is all about access. You have it. Had it.”
Two guys passed, and the one wearing a DON’T BE SEXIST (CHICKS HATE THAT) tee called, “So how much is the inheritance, Angel? My uncle knows someone who can do more than light a match.”
Angeline’s chest inflated, and she felt herself about to unleash a rant that was sure to go viral. She settled her breath and leaned against her locker. “So we should all believe everything we read?”
The guy shrugged.
“Because stall three in the girls’ east corridor bathroom has a whole book written about you.” She lowered her voice. “And I’m no expert, but you might want to see a specialist.”
His jaw fell open, and his buddy put two feet between them.
And Leo . . . Leo laughed, full and deep and real.
It threw her. “Careful. Can’t appear to be consorting with the enemy.”
Leo’s head shook slightly. “You’re not my enemy.”
“Does your campaign manager know that?”
“He’s not really my campaign manager.”
“Again, does he know that? Because he seems to be pulling your strings. Strings that are all for guys wearing gross shirts like that.”
“And who’s pulling yours? Cell phone restrictions and no limos to prom? You’d hyperventilate without your phone for five minutes, and you’ve wanted us to go to prom in a limo since our first date.”
“Actually . . .” The truth danced on her lips. A truth Leo could use against her. Whatever, let him. She was tired of all of this. “I wanted us to go to prom. The limo was so it looked better on Instagram. Which is pretty pathetic when you say it out loud.”
“Yeah, well, is there an application process to join that club? ’Cause I’m there with trying to defend that asswipe’s right to wear that shirt.” He frowned, but his dark eyes reached out to her. Though that was their only contact, Angeline felt held, as she always had with him.
They fell into step on their way to government. Down the hall, the same two guys were cornering a petite freshman girl, the taller one wiggling a cell phone above her head. The girl clutched the sides of her skirt with one hand and stretched toward her phone with the other.
Her faint smile said, I’m a good sport. Her forced chuckle said, I’ll play along; it’s just a game. Her sweaty forehead said, I’m the butt of some inside joke. Her crimson cheeks said, I’m mortified. But it was her eyes that had the most to say: I’m afraid, afraid of having no control, afraid that anything could happen.
Two male teachers hovered outside their classrooms, arms crossed, eyes glazed, staring straight at the scene before them but not seeing it—or not seeing it for what it was.
This was how they got away with it. So routine that it didn’t register. And the girl wouldn’t log an official complaint for the same reason.
Angeline remembered the research she’d done into peer juries. In most, anyone could file a grievance. Anyone could start an inquiry.
One of the guys said, “You got a prom date yet, sweetie? I’m taking backups if my girl boycotts because of this stupid no-limo shit. Forget ‘I’m with her.’ You can just direct those pretty blue eyes my way and say, ‘I’m with him.’”
Leo slipped his sling over his head. “Hold this for me?”
She took it, wrapping her hands in the warmth that was Leo’s.
He strode over. He told the guys to stop. He told them to give the girl her phone. They elbowed each other and laughed and said he of all people, he of the Franken-donut, should know this was all in good fun and raised the phone higher, winking at Leo as if he were playing the game too.
Leo clenched his fist, and Angeline rushed forward. She’d never seen Leo fight—he’d never even consider it with his mom’s focus on their image—but the anger on Leo’s face was something she’d only seen once before: that night in Maxine’s screening room. With super fast aim, Leo shot out his arm, and his hand connected with the guy’s torso. And tickled. The phone fell, and the girl caught it in two hands. She gave a quick thanks and started to run off.
“Report them,” Angeline said.
She mumbled an “It’s okay,” to which Angeline said it wasn’t. None of it was.
Ignoring the “Hey, man” and “Can’t take a joke,” Leo approached and introduced himself.
“Olivia,” the girl replied sheepishly.
Leo gestured to her phone. “Can I?” She handed it to him, and Leo punched at the screen. “That’s my number. Text or call or anything if you want to talk. Or if it happens again.”
Her eyes were wide and grateful, and Angeline and Leo walked her to ELA, two doors down from their own classroom.
Just as Angeline and Leo were about to enter, a “Hothead Quiiiinnnn” rang out.
Angeline ignored it. “Well, here’s something. If that girl tells her friends what you just did, you’ll be a hero and have this election locked up. Maybe I should just drop out now.”
“Then they win.”
“And so do you.”
Leo slipped his arm back through his sling. “Listen, if you want to quit because you don’t want to do this, that’s your right. But don’t quit because they’re trying to make you.”
An earnestness infused his expression, but could she trust what she saw in his eyes? Was it proof that he wasn’t behind The Shrieking Violet?
He gently touched the heart on her ring before wrapping his hand around hers. He was only an inch or two taller than Angeline, but one wouldn’t know it from his hands. Wide palms, long fingers, always warm around her always cold hands. That was proof too, his touch, strong and sure and right.
She wished he’d never let go.
He did.
But his eyes remained on her.
“Stay,” he said.
And Angeline let herself pretend he meant more than in
the race.
* * *
“Accountability,” Ms. Lute said. “That’s been bandied about in this student council election by both of your candidates. Let’s take a closer look at that today but with respect to this.”
The screen on the projector flashed to the home page for The Shrieking Violet. The headline: “Voters, Be Warned! Track Record Shows Quinn Betrays 100% of HS Boyfreinds: You Could Be Next.”
“Hilarious,” Josh Baker said.
“Gets my attention,” from someone else.
Tad slapped the top of his desk. “Spot on.”
Silence followed, broken by Sonya. “Typo aside, it’s technically true, but without context, it’s not the whole story.”
Angeline gave her a grateful smile.
In her front-row seat, Emmie raised her hand. “It challenges us.”
Angeline jerked her head. “In what? Our ability to spot typos and the lack of actual facts?”
“Maybe,” Emmie said. “Or maybe in how we have a responsibility too.”
Ms. Lute smiled. “I like this, Emmie, continue, please. Responsibility for what?”
Emmie rested a finger on her ratty friendship bracelet. “At leadership camp, we’re taught that when we enter positions of authority, we have a responsibility to be honest and accurate. Because those who hold higher positions are automatically perceived as more trustworthy. There’s a bias toward those in charge, that they should be believed.”
“Meaning political leaders?”
“Political, corporate, the media, all of it. Authority commands an inherent level of buy-in for a lot of people.”
Leo leaned forward. “Which is why it matters when they lie. Everybody wants to be somebody. No matter the fallout.” Angeline’s body tensed, but then he turned to her and said, “But the problem with lies and exaggerated truths is that sometimes people follow because they’re too weak to trust themselves. We’re all responsible at some point, for something. For not questioning or for not standing up or for taking the easy way out.”
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