#Scandal

by Sarah Ockler

  Steve looks from us to the pile of gear, back to Jayla’s chest, and taps his head. Eureka! “Didn’t you say you’re a teacher? I forgot to give you the educator discount.”

  Jayla bristles. “Teacher? I’m the—”

  “Best drama teacher at Lav-Oaks,” I finish. “Everybody loves her. She’s superdramatic.”

  Our total plummets two hundred bucks. The debit card works, and once he sets me up on the new phone—restoring the data from my old one by way of, ironically, the iCloud—we’re out of there.

  Jayla puts a hand to her forehead and feigns a swoon. “I’m famished! Cantina Blue?”

  “Don’t you have to call Macie?” I ask. “About your credit cards?”

  “Like I don’t carry enough cash for Tex-Mex? Come on.” Jayla stalks ahead toward the food court, pointing at her wrist. “Hey there, boys and girls! It’s margarita-o’clock!”

  • • •

  “And it’s, like, so stupid,” Jayla’s saying. “Steve doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know my bank account.” She downs her second margarita and flags the waitress for a third, and I’m pretty much definitely driving that Porsche home.

  I poke straw holes in my virgin strawberry daiquiri. “He saved you two hundred bucks, Jay.”

  “It’s the principle!” She’s wearing the pout that made her famous, and if she were a puppy, I’d totally pet her. “He assumed I have, like, financial problems. He didn’t even recognize me. He felt sorry for me.”

  “Maybe he felt sorry for me because I have such a pain in the ass for a sister.”

  Jayla huffs. “It’s not too late to return that Sephora stuff.”

  “Touch it and die.”

  “You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “A fly, no. A sister, yes.” I wield my slush-covered straw like a blade. “I’m a highly trained zombie fighter. Don’t mess with me.”

  Jayla laughs, deep and genuine, and by the time the waitress brings our Mile High Nachos and Sizzlin’ Veggie Fajita Rollups, I’m glad she dragged me to the mall. However temporary, my sister’s back. Not Jayla, but Janey, and we’re snarfing too much Tex-Mex and groovin’ to the ranchera music and ordering more margs and then she gets that determined gleam in her eye that means our south-of-the-border soiree is about to head, well, slightly more south.

  “Lucy! Lucy! Ohmygod!” Jayla stumbles out of the booth and grabs my hand. “They have a mechanical bull! Come on!”

  I try to hold her back, to bribe her with the promise of fried ice cream and coffee, but when Jayla Heart sets her mind to public disaster, nothing can stand in her way.

  Eight seconds later, I’m shoving quarters into a metal box, praying to the God of Tourist Attractions that my sister has decent medical coverage and that Cantina Blue is void, at present, of Jayla Heart fanboys, CelebStyle paparazzi, my Lav-Oaks classmates, and—just to be safe— anyone with a mobile Internet connection.

  “Let’s do this, Toro! Yee-haw!” Jayla squeals as the bull jerks and grinds to life. The quarters get her five minutes and an “authentic” cowgirl hat for the ride, which she’s currently pressing to her head with one hand, the other gripping the saddle horn.

  A half-dozen men and little kids gather, everyone encouraging her from the sidelines to “hang on” and “ride hard” and “get ’er done, darlin’!” After three minutes, convinced she’s got both Toro and her audience entranced, Jayla whoops, tossing her hat in the air. “Go, cowgirl, go—ohh!”

  In a tangle of arms and legs and flip-flops, my sister is on the safety mat, laughing as the bull clinks to a stop above her.

  “Screw you, Toro. Screw all you . . . stupid . . . bulls.” Flat on her back, Jayla’s flipping off the bull, laughing, and a few more curious heads pop up from the surrounding booths. One of the busboys has his phone out, thumbs working the screen, probably uploading video to Blue Cantina’s Drunken Cowgirl Wall of Shame. Behind me a mother hushes her child, calls for their waitress to bring the bill.

  We’re about one customer complaint away from an “Everything all right here, ladies?” visit from the manager.

  I kneel on the mat beside her. “Time to go, Jayla.”

  “Call me Cowgirl!” She grabs the discarded hat and flings her arms out, two limp noodles around my neck.

  “Time to go, Cowgirl. Lose the hat.” I get her on her feet and lead her back to the booth. Aware that we’re still being watched and possibly filmed, I slap a wad of Jayla’s cash on the table and hastily collect our things. We’re almost to the exit, me balancing our shopping bags and purses on one arm, my sister on the other, when Jayla goes boneless.

  “Lucy! It’s horrible!” she wails, a blond puddle on the fake tile floor. “I’m a terrible parent!”

  “You’re not a parent.”

  “I’m not setting a good example,” she says. “I’m fiscally irrespicable. Sponsible.”

  With tired eyes, I take in the pile of Jayla, the salsa stain on her thigh, the cowgirl hat–shaped lump inside her hoodie. “Oh, you’re an awesome example.”

  “If Ms. Zeff saw me, she’d call social services. They should lock me up and throw away the keys! Do prisons still use keys, or is it, like, electronic? Do you think social services will send me to jail? I’m awful!”

  More waterworks.

  “Jesus, Jay. How the fuck did you get so wasted?” I set down the bags and loop my arms around her waist. “Help me out here, Cowgirl. I can’t—”

  “Lucy? Last name Vacarro?”

  I stand and turn around slowly, plastering on a festive smile. “Marceau! Hey! I’m . . . um . . . my sister’s contact lens . . . Have you been here long?”

  Jayla moans from the floor.

  Marceau’s eyes are warm and kind, and with no more judgment than a playfully raised eyebrow, he says, “Let me help, chéri.”

  He grunts as he hauls Jayla to her feet, letting her use him as a human kickstand while I scoop up the bags. “I’m here with my host mom,” he tells me. “She says I’m not allowed to leave Colorado without trying the Miles High nachos.”

  “Mile High,” I say. “Just the one.”

  “Nacho?”

  “Mile. It’s the altitude,” I explain.

  “Welcome to Denver!” Jayla blurts out. “One mile above the sea.”

  Marceau smiles. It’s basically award-winning. “At home we would say ‘one point six kilometers high nachos.’ ”

  Guilt needles the back of my neck. I can’t believe he’s so sweet. I probably ruined his official prom experience, and now I’m screwing up his official nacho experience, and he’s still helping me drag my drunk cowgirl sister to the car without complaint.

  “You smell really really good,” Jayla says, leaning into Marceau’s neck. “My sister should totally hook up with you.”

  “Aren’t you a funny little lamb,” I say. “Now be quiet, okay?” I turn back to Marceau. “I know this is . . . crazy. But do you think you could, like, not say anything about this at school? My sister’s kind of—”

  “I’m famous!” she slurs. “Bulls bow to me!”

  Marceau’s still smiling. “I can understand why.”

  I fumble for an explanation, but I’m pretty sure Jayla just passed out, and Marceau doesn’t press. It’s likely that he doesn’t recognize her—unless his host mom’s a fan, he’s probably never seen Danger’s Little Darling.

  “So, our secret?” I ask.

  He nods once. “My older brother, he is like this one. Party all the time.”

  We’re at the car now, Jayla draped around Marceau like a scarf, me digging through her purse for the keys. Once I’ve situated the packages in the trunk and myself in the driver’s seat, he gently lowers Jayla to the passenger seat, tossing the stolen cowgirl hat into the back. He leans across her to buckle the seat belt just as I move to do the same. Our cheeks brush, his long hair silky against my jaw. Our eyes lock.

  Damn. He does smell really really good.

  Why can’t I just like a boy who’s not connected to my b
est friend?

  With a sigh, I thank him and start the car, and Marceau tucks Jayla’s floppy arms against her body and shuts the door. He watches as I reverse out of the spot, the slump of his shoulders the only trace of regret at what just can’t happen between us.

  Or maybe he’s really missing on those nachos.

  Dear Suckers: To my Lavender Oaks classmates:

  Even though it totally wasn’t my fault, I’m hella very deeply sorry about the photographs that appeared through no fault of my own on Facebook over the weekend after some jackoff stole my phone and hacked into my account.

  I understand that the photographs are inappropriate for posting publicly because unlike aforementioned jackoff, I’m not a perv, and I sincerely regret any embarrassment, pain, or trouble they may have caused especially the ones that are ruining my own life at this very moment. I assure you that the original photos have been deleted from my profile. I’ve also deactivated and replaced my old phone, on which the photos were taken. The replacement phone contains neither compromising photographs nor stored social network passwords. So don’t even think about it, ass-vampires.

  I’d like to encourage other students to follow my example in flipping you all the double-Fs deleting any remaining shared or tagged photos from your profiles. Especially you, Miss Demeanor, you gossipmongering nitwit. It’s kind of your fault this whole thing got started. Scandal of the Month? Who does that?

  Social networking can be a fun and valuable communication tool, especially for those who don’t know how to have actual, real-life communications, but only if we all decide agree commit to treating one another with respect and dignity, online and offline.

  Sincerely,

  Lucy Vacarro

  P.S. Zeff is making me write this.

  P.P.S. My sister says SUCK IT.

  With Jayla conked out in my bed, I revise the fake apology a dozen times. When I finally post it on Facebook, I tag a bunch of people who were tagged in the original photos, bases covered.

  I’m such a spineless jellyfish that I can’t believe my jellyfish tentacles have the strength to type, but Zeff’s right—this needs to go away.

  Mission accomplished, I change into Cole’s bear shirt and do a breath check on Jayla. She’s alive, out cold, definitely not moving tonight. I shimmy off her jeans and tuck the blanket around her shoulders. She’s a little girl lost beneath the bedding, and I crawl in next to her and fold myself around the empty spaces, knowing she won’t be here when I wake up.

  WHEN THERE’S NO MORE ROOM IN HELL, THE DEAD WILL WALK TO THE HORSE BARN

  Rule number one.” A whisper from behind sends chills across my scalp. “Never apologize to the masses.”

  I skipped coffee this morning on account of Black & Brew being dead to me and I’m not prepared for an (e)VIL assault. Yet Asher Hollowell isn’t aware of my non-caff status, so here he is, all hush-hush from his wheelchair command post like we’re on a code name basis.

  “Cool out, Black Ops.” I close my locker and turn to face him. “That letter was a direct order from Zeff. In case you haven’t noticed, I need to get off her radar.”

  “What if I said I could help?”

  Suspicion engaged. “I’d update my status from ‘majorly annoyed’ to ‘mildly intrigued, but cautious.’ So. Who’s the artist?”

  Ash fidgets with a manila folder in his lap, forehead creased. “Wait. Is that all part of your status update, or just the intrigued part?”

  Right before I got sucked into this Twilight Zone convo, I found another flyer stuffed into my locker, and now I drop it into his lap. “Who’s in charge of these?”

  LOG OUT AND WAKE UP!

  IS LUCY VACARRO REALLY A SENIOR AT LAVENDER OAKS HIGH? OR IS SHE AN ANDROID CREATED BY THE NSA TO COLLECT DATA ON OUR WHEREABOUTS? OUR CONVERSATIONS? OUR UNHEALTHY SNACKING HABITS? OUR PARTIES? DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU’RE TOLD! QUESTIONING AUTHORITY ISN’T UNPATRIOTIC—IT’S YOUR PATRIOTIC RESPONSIBILITY!

  SHOW US YOUR BIRTH CERTIFICATE, MISS VACARRO!

  On the back is another Lucy drawing, still with the poufy dress, only now there’s antennae sprouting from my head and dials across my chest.

  Ash presses a hand to his standard-issue black T-shirt. “I refuse to apologize for being a true patriot.”

  “In that case, oh-say-can-you-see your ass outta my way? I’m not getting a tardy on your account.”

  Ash has impressive instincts, blocking my forward motion with a one-armed spin of his wheels. “I really can help,” he says. “But I need something from you.”

  “You’re not getting my birth certificate.”

  “Forget that. It’s . . .” Ash taps the folder. The sound seems to ignite his passion. “Join us! Together we can fight this thing! Strength in numbers—something we’re seriously lacking. Uh, numbers, not strength.”

  I slip the new iPhone from my pocket and wriggle it before him. “Sorry. Automatic disqualifier.”

  “We have a program for that.”

  “Program?”

  With just a few minutes before homeroom, the halls are filling up, and Asher rolls in tight to avoid the foot traffic. “Like AA for device addicts,” he says. “Except it’s not actually anonymous.” Asher laughs. “The regime is tracking your cell calls—how could it be?”

  “There’s a cell-tracking regime?”

  He nods solemnly. “Knowledge is power, Miss Vacarro.”

  “Skank alert! Woop-woop!” Quinn and Haley, Olivia’s prom-night sprites, howl at me as they pass. A few nearby students laugh.

  “Don’t associate with Juicy Lucy, Asher,” Quinn says. “You’ll end up on a government watch list.”

  Haley hums the X-Files theme song, both girls erupting into giggles as they disappear into the early-morning mob.

  “Did she call me Juicy Lucy?” I say.

  Asher’s eyes are full of fresh sympathy. “See? Who better than you to speak out about the dangers of social networking? Of online trials in a world where ‘like’ is a noun and sentencing is passed with the click of a mouse?”

  There’s a headache creeping in behind my eyes and its name is Asher Hollowell. Also, Asher Hollowell has a point.

  Maybe I do have some allies in this. Maybe the Lucy illustrations are supposed to be ironic.

  Then again, one time Jayla gave an interview to #TRENDZ, this entertainment rag that had posted pics of her doing the walk of shame from her studio intern’s place the week before. They promised her a chance to clear things up, but all they did was take her quotes out of context and amp up the scandal.

  “I should get to homeroom,” I say.

  “Then you leave me no choice.” Ash opens his folder, revealing an impressively crazy collection: website printouts, handwritten notes on napkins, color-coded Post-its, CIA-style photographs.

  “If you don’t believe in technology,” I say, “how do you even know about my scandal? And where did you get all the stuff in your little folder?”

  “It’s a dossier.” He leans in close, lowering his voice. “Know thine enemy, Miss Vacarro. We have people on the inside. Counterintelligence on the vast machine.”

  “Machine? I thought it was a regime. See, there’s your recruiting problem—too many codes and buzzwords. It intimidates people.”

  He bows his head, procuring with great ceremony a two-page color printout. I recognize the Facebook logo, and when I see the fan page title, my mouth goes dry.

  Juicy Lucy: Give Her a Squeeze!

  I tap the URL into my phone’s browser. The pictures of me and Cole are just thumbnails on my tiny screen, but the fan numbers are a megaphone of suckage. The page just launched this morning, and it already has more than two hundred likes.

  “For the record,” Ash says, “no one on my team liked it.”

  “No one on your team has Facebook.”

  “Technicality.” He slips the printout back into his dossier, tapping all the loose papers into place. “Our flyer drawings are meant to be shocking—a recruiting technique. The
fan page is just cruel. We want to help you, Lucy.”

  I lean against the lockers. There’s a small voice in my head telling me that Ash, unlike #TRENDZ, is good people. A little out there, maybe, but not conniving. Not paparazzi.

  “Can I trust you?” I ask.

  “Is Elvis alive and well in El Segundo under Witness Protection as an FBI drug informant?”

  Blink. Blink.

  “It means yes,” he whispers. “You can trust us.”

  “What about Kiara?”

  He looks at the floor, blood rushing to his face. “Probation. You don’t have to worry about her.”

  “I’m not worried. I want her reinstated. I only took that picture for her because her mom wanted it.”

  “Kiara knew the rules when she signed up,” he says.

  “It’s a rite of passage, Ash. You can’t deny moms that kind of stuff.”

  He rubs his chin, weighing my argument. “Is that the extent of your conditions?”

  “Will you put an end to the drawings, too?”

  He meets my eyes, hesitates only a moment to let a group of vampire bros pass. Unlike the girls, they don’t stop to howl, but they’re definitely looking at us, definitely bro-ing it up with a few lewd gestures.

  “Fine,” Ash says. “Kiara’s in, drawings are out. Consider it done.”

  “Good. Consider it . . . considered.” What does one say in these situations? Affirmative? Roger? Rock on? “Um, thanks. I’ll—”

  A familiar sight at the other end of the corridor hijacks my brain-train: Griffin has entered the building.

  With Ellie.

  “You guys! Wait!” I ditch Asher and motor through the crowd to catch up, breathless when I reach them. “You . . . you’re back.”

  “Yeah. Hey.” Ellie won’t look at me. “I’m not on there, you know. The Juicy page? I think it’s awful.”

  “Of course not.” My eyes fill with tears at the defeated sound of her voice, the still-rumpled knot of her hair. “I’m sorry if I pushed you yesterday . . . with the tarts? I just wanted to talk, and . . .”