#Scandal

by Sarah Ockler

  “What? Oh, no!” Ms. Zeff laughs. “They just have babies. Like, constantly.”

  “But you’re practically my age,” Jayla says. “Way too young for friends with kids.”

  “Tell my mother that. Excuse me a moment.” Zeff takes to her keyboard, sounding out words as she responds to a message that just popped up. “Grayson. Is. Adorable,” she type-says. “Love. Those. Tantrum. Videos.” She smiles at us. “See? You post things from your life, and you encourage your friends to do the same, and it’s a nice, tasteful way to share important moments without having to overcommit.”

  Another message pops up, wondering if Zeff “watched the bathtub one.”

  “Watched. Them. All!” Zeff rolls her eyes playfully as she types. “New parents,” she explains to us. “They’re quite . . . enthusiastic. Anyway, it’s pretty nonthreatening as long as everyone stays respectful. Respect is the key to successful social media interactions.”

  Watching her feed scroll by, baby after crying baby, I realize two things: One, the Facebook profiles of new parents are an excellent form of birth control. And two, Zeff isn’t concerned about my being bullied.

  She thinks I’m the bully.

  “Ms. Zeff, I didn’t post those pictures,” I say. “From the party?”

  Her professional smile melts into a frown that says, I want to help you, but first you must help yourself by telling the truth. “Technically, we’re supposed to go through the antibullying manual together.”

  “But I’m not a—”

  “There’s a manual?” Jayla asks.

  “We take it seriously, Miss Heart.” Her eyes drift back to the monitor, suddenly huge with shock. “Unlike my mother, who takes nothing seriously ever! Can you believe this? She just posted something about my father staring at a woman’s ass.” She deletes the offending message and bangs out a clipped reply: MOM, YOU’RE VIOLATING MY PERSONAL SPACE AGAIN.

  She turns her attention back to us. “What I meant to say . . . Lucy, the school doesn’t need another scandal, and—”

  “Ms. Zeff?” Her assistant buzzes through the speaker phone. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got your mother on line one. She says it’s important.”

  “Excuse me, ladies.” Zeff picks up the phone and mutters into the receiver, eyes still trawling her Facebook messages. “Hi. Yes, I’m just . . . I understand, but take it up with Dad. You live in the same house, for the love of . . . Okay, but don’t post it on my page. . . . Of course I love you, I just can’t . . . No, I don’t want to say hi to . . . Hi, Daddy. No, I’m fine . . . School’s great—I’m actually in the middle of . . .” She meets my eyes briefly, then glances back to her monitor. “Miss Demeanor? How do you . . . ? Just click unlike. There should be a button and . . . What’s blinking? No. Listen, Dad, we’ll talk later, okay? I’m in a meeting with . . . Hanging up now. Love you too. Bye. Bye!”

  Zeff suddenly looks exhausted, like she was the one whose Facebook was scandalized and whose best friend is probably breaking up with her and whose principal is reading Fifty Shades and pushing stale oatmeal raisin cookies under the guise of easing difficult conversations.

  “Here’s the deal, Lucy,” she says firmly. “Since the harassment didn’t happen on school computers or during school hours, and it’s not a hate crime, I can’t legally do anything. But I’ve already received calls from parents, and the Explorer editor wants an official statement for the paper. . . . Things could escalate if we don’t nip it in the bud.”

  “But I’m not the—”

  “Isn’t it butt?” Jayla says. “Nip it in the butt?”

  “Bud, Miss Heart. Cookie?” Zeff offers the plate again, but I decline. Fool me once. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she says. “I’d like you to delete all the prom photos from your profile and issue a formal apology. If you could post a little something about what you’ve learned from—”

  “Someone stole my phone and—”

  “I really thought it was butt.” Jayla nibbles on her sunglasses, clearly vexed.

  “It would go a long way, Miss Vacarro,” Zeff says, “if you showed remorse toward the students who were impacted. Olivia Barnes was especially scandalized—she’s been in and out of the counselor’s office all morning.”

  I swallow the oatmeal-coated lump in my throat. “I feel awful about Olivia, but I was scandalized too. I mean, why would I post incriminating photos of myself? No one sees how crazypants that is?”

  “Teenagers do a lot of things in the heat of the moment,” Zeff says. “Unfortunately, the combination of camera phones and social networking ensures that a momentary lapse in judgment is never forgotten.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Miss Vacarro.” She holds up her hands, like, Stop, in the name of love! “It’s clear you were at the party, and regardless of who posted the photos, you made some poor choices this weekend. You’d be setting a good example all around if you’d simply accept some responsibility here.”

  “Ms. Zeff,” Jayla says, finally back on planet earth, “poor choices aside, surely you can see that Lucy is the one being bullied.”

  “I understand there are some shades of gray, ladies.”

  Eww.

  “No shades,” I say. “I straight up didn’t do it.”

  “I want to believe you. Both of you. Lucy, your academic record is perfect; your artwork speaks for itself. And, Jayla, I’m a huge fan. I wish I’d been on staff while you were a student here.”

  “Thank you,” Jayla says, and I’m just waiting for the “but.”

  “But the fact is,” Zeff says, “the pictures originated on Lucy’s profile. You’re welcome to report the incident to Facebook, but the school doesn’t have the authority to . . . to . . .” Her eyes slide to the monitor, to a new message from Mom.

  She types out another angry missive—MOM! BOUNDARIES: NOT JUST FOR NATIONS!—and merges back into our conversation, multitasking like Jayla drives. I’m seriously getting whiplash.

  “Legally I have no authority,” she says. “But if I deem that this scandal is disrupting the educational process or that students are being bullied on school grounds as a result of the photos, I could pursue . . . disciplinary action.” Zeff has the decency to look distressed, but not distressed enough to stick up for me.

  “The sooner you apologize,” she says apologetically, “the sooner this will go away. Isn’t that what we all want?”

  She’s nodding, nodding, nodding, and soon Jayla’s nodding, and then my head’s bobbing too. Zeff’s right—I do want this to go away. I’m not trying to stand up to bullies or make a federal case or be (e)VIL’s poster girl. I’m trying to duck and cover, get my friends back, forget this whole thing ever happened.

  Most of it, anyway.

  I’m resigned to the Facebook fates. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  “That’s my girl.” Her smile returns, and she rummages in her desk drawer for a late pass. “Now that we’ve settled that, where are you off to next?”

  “Ms. Zeff? With your permission,” Jayla says, enjoying the faux-thority these school-sanctioned dramatics have enabled, “I’d prefer to take Lucy home early so we can discuss this as a family and determine the appropriate next steps. In addition to posting the formal apology, of course.”

  “Oh, of course.” Ms. Zeff’s eyes are kind, foolishly trusting. “And, Lucy? I know it’s hard when you’re not as social as your peers, but there are more positive outlets for your frustration. Your art, for instance, can be a great stress reliever. Or hot yoga. My sister has social anxiety—it’s really helped her.”

  “I’m not socially anxious.” Socially annoyed, sure, but I doubt there’s a hot yoga for that.

  “Give it some thought.” Zeff’s doing that nod-and-smile thing, like, You’re already agreeing with me about the yoga. “And please remember that my door—sorry. Hang on.”

  Keys are banging again, Zeff spitting out words between clenched teeth. “Maggie. I. Already. Saw. The. Video. Twice. Adorable!” She offer
s me a forced smile. “Chin up, Lucy. My door is always open. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I say.

  “Great.” Zeff’s attention is back on her profile, fingers poised on keys, ready to take down the oversharers. “Would you mind shutting the door on your way out?”

  ANGELICA DARLING’S ADVICE TO A WOMAN SCORNED FROM A WOMAN WHO DOES A LOT OF SCORNING (AS WELL AS CHEATING, LYING, CONNIVING, BACKSTABBING, AND THE OCCASIONAL POISONING)

  There’s a sleek white Porsche in the visitor’s lot with tinted windows and polished chrome rims, a tricked-out 911 Turbo like the one Angelica Darling drives on the show.

  If getting my own scandal was the first sign of the impending apocalypse and getting a Get-Out-of-Jail-Early card was the second, the Porsche is definitely the third.

  “You couldn’t rent a Camry like a normal person?” I ask.

  “Mom thought it was clever,” Jayla says, all faux Jackie-O fab in the head scarf. She clicks the key fob to unlock it. “Get in.”

  “What the fuck, Jay?”

  “Ever hear of keeping a low profile? Shut up and get in the car. I don’t want anyone to recognize me.”

  “Ditto,” I say. Jayla’s been going by her stage name ever since she scored a national shampoo commercial her junior year, and as far as I know, Ellie, Griff, and Cole are the only ones in my class who know she’s my sister. But anyone with half a brain cell could do a little digging and connect the DNA dots. Sharing a dip in the gene pool with Angelica Darling? My scandal quotient would skyrocket.

  I collapse onto the front seat without further argument, velvety black leather hot on my thighs. Jayla races into the street before I even have my seat belt buckled.

  “You know what would be awesome, Miss Low-Pro? If you didn’t kill me before we got home. Today sucked enough without dying in a fiery crash.”

  “We’re not going home.” She banks around the curves that lead to the highway, pink peep-toes jamming the gas pedal. “We’re going to therapy.” Her eyebrows wriggle. “Retail therapy.”

  “Don’t be gross.”

  “Don’t be stupid. When your rich sister offers to take you shopping, you say ‘how high.’ ”

  “You must be high if you think a shopping trip can fix this.”

  “Shopping is the single most effective way to survive a scandal,” she says. “They’ve done, like, clinical studies.”

  “I thought we were supposed to quote unquote discuss this as a family?”

  “Oh, there’s an idea!” Jay downshifts as we merge onto the highway, the engine growling at the change. “Let’s be grateful I already dropped Mom and Dad at the airport by the time Zeff called the house, and leave the rest of the parenting to me. Deal?”

  “Wait. What? Where did Mom and Dad go?”

  “Laguna Beach,” she says breezily. “I sent them on a couple’s retreat so you and I could bond. No worries—they’ll be back before graduation. Oh, they said to tell you bye.”

  Ignoring my gaping stare, Jayla jerks across four lanes of afternoon traffic and zooms us down the highway, parentless, bound for the only place I hate more than school.

  The Lav-Oaks Mall.

  • • •

  “There’s something you should know,” Jayla says, dragging me by the arm into the Apple store. No one’s paying us much attention—I made her ditch the scarf and heels for a Broncos hoodie and flip-flops from Dick’s Sporting Goods the moment we arrived—but she’s no less dramatic without an audience. “While you were wasting the morning on your education, I was monitoring the online sitch. Your classmates are bastards.”

  “Brilliant.” I yawn. Retail therapy is exhausting. “Will this difficult conversation be the sort that requires a cookie?”

  “Just . . . here.” Jayla taps a URL into an iPad from the display table and turns it toward me.

  My once-desolate Facebook profile has become, in just two days, a bustling communications hub. Most of the tagged pictures are old news—me kissing Cole, me kissing Marceau, me and Cole in bed. There’s a new one tagged from Olivia’s profile of me and Cole leaving the emo bathroom this morning, and a few others tagged from a new profile named Narc Alert—shots of me moping around the school this morning and another with me getting into the Porsche, Jayla a thankfully unrecognizable blur. Cole & Marceau just can’t compete with this sugar daddy. A girl has needs! #scandal.

  “What kind of disease would, like, legit force me to graduate by mail?” I ask, eyes watering with shame. “And where can we buy a vial of it?”

  “Lucy. First of all, don’t cry and ruin your Sephora makeover.” Jayla rubs her thumbs beneath my eyes to fix the lines. “I showed you this to motivate you. Find your inner lioness, okay? You can’t let these people dictate your life. They’re piranha. And they don’t go away after high school.” She closes out the page and returns the device to the table. “Since your principal is obviously pro-piranha—”

  “Ms. Zeff is okay.” I downgraded her from “cool” because oatmeal-raisin cookies should never, under any circumstances, be advertised as chocolate chip. Also, the fake apology letter she’s making me write kind of blows.

  “That woman is more concerned with crossing off her little ‘how to stop cyberbullying’ checklists than doing her job,” Jayla says.

  “That is her job.”

  “I have a better strategy for you.” Jayla leans in close like she’s about to go all (e)VIL conspiracy theory on me. “When you post your apology, tell them you’re sorry . . .”

  Dramatic pause. Raised brows. Deep breaths all around. Aaand . . .

  “Sorry you’ve wasted four years of your life with a bunch of bottom-feeding ass-vampires who thrive on inventing tragedies just so they can suck the blood of the innocent, turning a young woman’s private pain into a public feeding trough for a pack of raisin-balled drama-whoring maggots who’d trade in the ashes of their own grandmothers for five seconds of pleasure at the expense of those very women on whom their sham-factory, boob-envying livelihoods depend.”

  I blink. “Ass-vampires?”

  “Well, I’m obviously paraphrasing, Lucy. The point is, they can all just pucker up and suck this—”

  “How can I help you, ladies?” The Apple guy must not recognize my sister, because she’s flipping the iPads the double Fs, and he’s giving us a look, like, You flip off my merchandise, you buy my merchandise.

  He’s also giving Jay’s boobs a look, like, Where have you two been all my life?

  “As a matter of fact”—Jayla squints at his name tag—“Steve, you can help us. I want the iPad. Two of them. And we’re getting my sister a replacement phone since some dirt-snogging jackass stole hers for nefarious sexting purposes. Is that not the great injustice of our time, Steve?”

  “Sorry,” I tell him. “She skipped her pills this morning. Bad idea.”

  “Steve!” Jayla snaps her fingers. “Are you helping us, or just staring inappropriately at my junk?”

  Steve goes, “Um.”

  “The activities aren’t mutually exclusive, Jay,” I point out.

  “Helping and harassing?” Jay says.

  “Yes!” Steve is the color of hot sauce. “I mean, no. Yes, I’m here to help. How can I be, um, helpful?”

  “Give us a minute to confer.” Jayla flashes her movie-star smile and shoos him away with a flick of her pear-perfumed wrist. Steve shuffles off behind the Genius Bar, shoulders slumped.

  “Too much?” she asks me.

  “Gee, you think?”

  “This whole thing just has me so riled up,” she says.

  “Steve?”

  “The scandal!” Jayla sighs. “It’s so typical. Blame the woman. There’s a name for it now, not like when I was your age. Slut-shaming. Slut-shaming, Lucy! Like a girl who has sex is vile, but the guy? It takes two to tango, right? Or whatever you guys were doing in—”

  “We weren’t doing anything.” Tango?

  “The point is, this is exactly like what happened in episode seven, season three,
” she says, “when everyone thought Angelica slept with her mother’s fiancé?”

  “Angelica did sleep with her mother’s fiancé,” I say, for one thing. And two, advice from a fictional slut is so not helpful, especially considering that three, I’m not a slut. Not that I’m shaming. I’m just, by even the loosest definition, not one. And four, “Jay, you realize we’re not on TV, right?”

  “I’m just trying to help.” She bumps her hip against the table where the iPhones are tethered. “Here comes our boy Steve. Better decide what color you want.”

  “You don’t have to get me a phone, Jay. Or an iPad.”

  Jayla swats the air. “I said I’d take you shopping. Key word: shopping.”

  “Key word: this.” I twist around to display the bags draped over my shoulder: Urban Decay eye shadow, eyeliner, and mascara from Sephora. Five different kinds of OPI nail polish, plus a bottle of Burberry Brit she found while the counter girls did my makeover. Two pair of Lucky Brand jeans. Gucci sunglasses that cover the entire square footage of my face. A black-and-silver bikini that covers way less.

  “I hate how we left things in California, okay?” Jayla’s fierce confidence is gone. “You were storming out and I . . . I just didn’t know what to say. Not my shining moment as a sister—I get it.”

  The weight of those memories presses on my lungs, squeezing the air into a sigh. “Jayla, you just—”

  “Let me make it up to you,” she whispers. “Pick out a phone.”

  • • •

  Steve assembles our gear, including cases and accessories and AppleCare plans, and cheerfully swipes Jayla’s credit card.

  His iPad lets out two short chirps.

  “Let’s try that again,” he says. He reswipes the card twice, no luck.

  “Is there a problem?” Jayla asks.

  Steve blows on the card, then gives it one more go. Chirp-chirp!

  He looks sheepish when he tells her the card’s been declined. “It’s probably a bank error.”

  I switch my overloaded shopping bags from one shoulder to the other. “It’s probably ready to melt.”

  “My assistant must’ve forgotten to let them know I’d be traveling,” Jayla says dismissively. “They must think it’s stolen. I’ll call her later and get it straightened out.” She fishes another card from her wallet, then changes her mind and swaps it again. “You take debit, right?”