#Scandal

by Sarah Ockler

  “Look alive, partner.” Franklin points his half-full water bottle center stage. “Showtime.”

  Lav-Oaks administrators learned long ago that teacher speeches kill the pep rally buzz faster than cops at a party. After a blissfully short welcome and a useless reminder about switching off cell phones, Principal Zeff tells us to put our hands together for Vanitas.

  The crowd roars as Cole, John, and Spence take center stage. Cole settles in behind the drum set, spins his sticks, beams at the audience. It’s the pregame warm-up I’ve seen at every gig, every garage practice. But now, when he smiles at the crowd, I let myself dream—for one forbidden moment—he’s smiling at me. For me.

  He taps the snare to usher in John’s opening guitar riff, and my heart rattles, aches, rattles, aches.

  They play a five-song set—three covers and two originals. Every one of my senses is trained on him, eyes tracking the rapid fling-bang of the drumsticks, the bob of his shaggy head. Ears picking out the drumbeat above all other sounds. I feel it inside me, a deep metallic thud against my rib cage. And when I close my eyes, I feel his lips pressed to mine, taste his breath on my tongue, soft and warm and utterly unforgettable.

  At the end of the last song, the crowd is on their feet. Bleachers rumble and shake, but I stay seated, my heart clinging to a memory that shouldn’t belong to me, wishing like hell I could slip inside of it and live there forever.

  Franklin touches my arm, spell broken. “All right, love?”

  I’m still staring at Cole, and he’s staring back at me too. Franklin must notice it, because he leans close and offers a supportive smile.

  “You can’t help who you love,” he says, “even if the timing is horrendous.”

  “Even if people you care about get hurt?” I ask. I don’t really mean for him to answer, but he does.

  “It’s not like you can switch off your feelings. Repression never helped anyone.”

  “That needs to be on a bumper sticker.”

  “You’re in love with him,” Franklin says matter-of-factly. “Don’t try to outrun it. You can’t.” His eyes are full of regret, and I wonder how he came to know this particular wisdom, this hurt. I’ve been counting the days till graduation since freshman year, but now, for a moment, I wish I had more time. More time to know Franklin. Asher. Kiara. More time to be with Ellie and Cole and Griff. More time to be honest, to be me.

  To figure out what that even means.

  From behind his drums, Cole’s still watching me, his gaze fiery and direct, and I know that Franklin’s right: Not even with all the zombie survivalist cardio in the world could I ever outrun this. Could I ever want to.

  It’s a gruesome thought, love seeping into the chest, devouring the heart from within. But the image of it floods me, sends a current through every nerve. I almost rise out of the seat, rush down to the floor, fall into Cole’s arms.

  Love. Devouring. Heart . . .

  The commotion at the side door distracts me, and the moment explodes, my nerves fizzling back to normal, heart pounding but still intact.

  Saunters. That’s the only word for my sister’s approach, and I sink into my seat as the crowd erupts in a mostly mock cheer.

  Jayla’s smile is plastered on, beautiful and synthetic. If she senses the mockery in the air, she either doesn’t care, or she’s gotten really good at repression.

  The phone buzzes my hip.

  Griff: check out olivia 2 rows down from me. closet angie-d fangirl, whut?

  I scope out the section of seats in front of Griff and Ellie. Olivia’s on her feet, fist pumping, a solo standing O. Haley and Quinn flank her, but they’re sitting down, laughing, shooting Jayla with their phones. They’ve perfected their fake fangirl squeals. Olivia, on the other hand, looks like she means it.

  Me: that’s . . . unexpected.

  Griff: only 1 being sincere for sis. told u she’s shady as eff. I’m on her & team sprite like angie on a mattress.

  Me: :-) good work, agent colanzi. vacarro out.

  When the noise finally fades, half the crowd buried in their devices, Jayla launches into a dramatic monologue of a scene from last weekend’s episode. Only she reads all the parts, not just Angelica’s, and despite her attempt at different voices, it makes no sense. The crowd goes crazy with laughter and more fake cheers, and my cheeks burn, and I’m pretty sure if Franklin didn’t offer me his water, I’d burst into flames.

  Official critique? My sister is one hundred percent, straight-up mortifying.

  “Angelica Darling,” she bellows across the gym, “takes a lot of things lying down. But treachery is not one of them, Mikayla McBride. You were supposed to be my confidante. But now you’ll be telling your secrets to the devil . . . in hell!” Jayla lunges forward, pantomiming an uppercut to an invisible opponent. Or possibly she’s reenacting a knife fight, or maybe a hug. But before she can complete the scene, the lights flicker, followed by the unmistakable hiss of rubber wheels and the chirp of sneakers on the polished wood floor.

  “We! Are! The point-zero-five percent!” Asher’s got the megaphone again, and his minions—up from two to three today, Kiara included—form a line across the center of the gym. They’ve traded in the whites for blacks, each megaphoned and sunglassed.

  The teachers are seated in the front row, and a few of them stand as if to put an end to the disruption. Zeff, smiling and curious, holds her arm out to stop them, her other hand raised in a pause: Hold on. Give them a moment.

  Without missing a beat, Kiara steps forward with her megaphone, tall and proud after her brief suspension. “We are the few. The few who say no to Face-frack. No to perpetuating cruel celebrity gossip. No to electronic vanities. No to social-network brain rot and the government’s plan to control us through personal-data acquisition and consumerist messaging.”

  That night with Prince Freckles at the prom, she was so nervous, decked out in her mermaid finery, sneaking a photo for her mother. But here, center of attention for a cause she wholeheartedly believes in, she shines.

  “Think for yourselves.” Asher rolls forward when Kiara steps back. “The founding fathers never intended for things to go down like this. The Constitution? They rocked it. We wrecked it.”

  “They rocked it,” the others repeat. “We wrecked it.”

  “So honor our fab founding fathers. Unplug. Engage. And . . .” Ash lowers the megaphone and looks around. Kiara shrugs. He raises the megaphone again. “Where is Roman?”

  “Guess he didn’t get the memo about the time change,” Kiara says.

  “Are you sure we can’t have cell phones?” Stephie asks. The whole conversation is unfolding via megaphones. “Hard to coordinate last-minute flash mob changes on handwritten notes.”

  “Texting would be easier,” Kiara concurs.

  “You guys are missing the whole point!” Asher shouts. Still with the megaphones. The crowd has gone silent—teachers exchanging confused glances, waiting for Zeff to shut this down—and suddenly Ash seems to realize that all eyes are on him. He clears his throat into the megaphone and, with his free hand, points toward me and Franklin. “Lucy Vacarro is not a perpetrator. She’s a victim. All of you—the plugged in, the updaters, the uploaders—are victims. Only Face-frack is to blame.”

  “Lucy Vacarro is a slut!” someone shouts from a few rows behind me.

  Jayla, who’d been stunned into silence by (e)VIL, whips her head toward the direction of my eloquent name caller. Still miked up from her monologue, she shouts, “Angelica does not approve of slut-shamers, you filthy little maggot!”

  “Narc!” someone else shouts.

  “Slut!” Pretty sure that was one of the vampire bros.

  The chant’s about to start; the anticipation of its arrival fills the room like a balloon ready to burst. Franklin grabs my hand, squeezes gently. “Shall we make a run for it, then?”

  “The truth is out there, people!” Ash booms into the megaphone, hijacking the full force of the chant before it gets off the ground. �
��Open your eyes! Get off social media and on social reality! Friends don’t trend! Friends don’t trend!”

  “Friends don’t trend!” the minions chant. What they lack in number, they make up for in enthusiasm. “Friends don’t trend! Friends don’t trend!”

  “Who are you, the hashtag police?” Jayla marches up behind Asher, spins his chair around so they’re facing each other. The mock cheers are deafening, but Asher is positively star-struck. “Do you know what Angelica Darling says about that?”

  That’s my cue. Agent Vacarro out.

  Franklin’s still holding my hand. I return his squeeze and nod toward the exit.

  “I don’t particularly like police,” Jayla says as Franklin and I weave through the crowd. “Especially ones with megaphones. Do you know what they say about little boys with big voices? They have teeny tiny—”

  “And that’s a wrap! Thank you, Jayla Heart.” Ms. Zeff is on the scene, finally jolted into action. She takes Asher’s megaphone and waves the group back to their seats. “Thank you, evil children, for that important reminder about balancing imagination with real life, online and off. Speaking of balancing . . . please join me in welcoming your Swordfish cheerleaders and the routine that made them famous for copyright violation on YouTube, ‘Who Let the Fish Out (Woof Woof Woof Woof Woof)!’ ”

  • • •

  In the relative peace of the computer lab, I drop into a rolling chair and pull out my phone—it started buzzing with texts the second Franklin and I left the gym.

  Griff: are we dreaming this?

  Griff: wait, where r u going?

  Cole: wtf w/ evil? hollowell’s insane! kind of awesome.

  Cole: wait, where u going w/ FM? u ok?

  Griff: zeff is all, wtf w/ this wtfery. so much for rah-rah civic engagement.

  Griff: omg olivia asking ellie where u went. right now! she’s like y did lucy just leave?

  Griff: ellie goes, lucy’s allergic 2 cheer routines. LOL! *dies*

  Griff: reply, girly!!!! hello!!!

  Cole: :-( come back :-(

  I send a quick text to both of them: bailed b4 things got more whacky. already in enough trouble w/ Zeff—time 2 lie low! @ comp lab. in good hands w/ our lead investigator.

  “Is (e)VIL trying to get me suspended?” I ask Franklin. He’s in the chair next to me, for once not taking notes. “Or whatever it’s called when you’re about to graduate and they can’t really suspend you?”

  “I’m quite certain they’re trying to help,” Franklin says. “Their presentation against social media . . . it’s as if they’re trying to force a confession through group intimidation. A classic strategy, low-tech but impressive.”

  “So they’re just pretending to interrupt Jayla Heart’s show? Calling me out in front of the entire class?”

  “More like going undercover to make a statement,” Franklin says. “But yes, I suppose so.”

  “I just thought of something,” I say. “Asher seemed pretty smitten with Jayla.”

  “I noticed that too,” he says. “So?”

  “What if Miss D isn’t one person, but a group? And what if that group is (e)VIL, and they’re, like, her secret force for social justice? What if they’re the conspiracy? No one would ever suspect it.” I spin around in the chair and stop to meet his gaze. “Think about it, Keith. It’s the perfect crime.”

  Franklin’s laughing at me, but his eyes light up so much when he laughs that I can’t be offended. “Reel it in, Veronica. In case her name didn’t give it away, Miss Demeanor isn’t a force for social justice. Her column—and I use that term quite loosely—is largely responsible for your scandal.”

  “Sure, but it’s not like she told people to go out and frame someone. They brought the scandal to her and . . . wait. What did I just say?”

  “They brought the scandal to her?”

  “Yes, that! Exactly!” I dig the iPad out of my bag and pull up Miss D’s page. “You said if we identified Miss D, we might be able to ask her who posted the pics, to see if they got in touch with her or whatever.”

  “I think it’s a good lead, yes,” he says. “Potentially.”

  “Why not go straight to the source?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Give me five minutes.” While Franklin sits quietly, I type another missive to our favorite gossip hound. Satisfied with the wording, I hit the send button, then pass the iPad to Franklin to show him the note. “Bask in the brilliance, Keith.”

  From: Lucy Vacarro

  Dear Miss Demeanor:

  Thank you for your Wednesday Words of Wisdom about the prom party photo scandal and the great framing of our time. Though I haven’t been in touch since, I’d like you to know that your advice has given me both comfort and strength.

  This might be asking too much, but I’m trying to be all bright side about this, so I’m sharing the idea anyway. Since you hold sway over the Lav-Oaks masses, and you haven’t yet selected a photo for the #scandal contest, I’m hoping you’ll consider this write-in suggestion:

  Prince Freckles partying it up at the cabin in all his glittery glory.

  Before you scoff at the idea of bestowing the great honor of Miss Demeanor page immortalization on a nonhuman, allow me to explain (and partially beg).

  Though your advice to investigate the situation was intended for the wronged party, as the alleged wronger I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands (with help from a few loyal friends). Of primary import to our ongoing investigation, we aim to identify the individual who posted and tagged the party pics from my account. If you select the Prince Freckles shot as your winner, perhaps the proud photographer will step forward to claim her moment in the spotlight. It’s a long shot, but sometimes even the most intelligent among us is wooed by the temptation of fame and glory—however fleeting—and my hope is that this person will be so blinded by the spotlight that she’ll inadvertently out herself as the perp.

  I appreciate your consideration and support.

  Yours truly,

  Harassed Yet Hopeful

  “You’re not basking,” I say when he hands back the device. I can’t read his poker face. “I thought there’d be more basking.”

  “I’m all for solving this mystery,” he says, “and maybe you’re on to something with the Prince Freckles idea. But . . . Do you really trust this woman? Girl? Whoever she is?”

  “Think about it,” I say. “She gives legit advice, couched in sarcasm. And yeah, she’s all about the drama, but she doesn’t attack anyone. Miss D isn’t the one doubting me—my own friends are. Ellie. What does that say?”

  Franklin points a pen at me. “Maybe Miss D is one of your friends.”

  “Back to conspiracy theory? You know, Lav-Oaks has a club for that.”

  The two of us laugh, but his idea isn’t that crazy—it’s crossed my mind. But Ellie’s too serious to pull off Miss D’s brand of snark, and Griffin isn’t that sneaky.

  “So maybe Miss D isn’t one of your mates,” Franklin concedes. “But she’s still capricious. Someone that desperate for attention? Bit mental, no?”

  “I like her. Officially.”

  Franklin sighs through his nose. “I still think the best way to deal with this is to put something in the Explorer. Get your side out there, take a stand on the issue.”

  “Here we go.”

  “No, listen! You won’t help (e)VIL. You won’t tell Zeff about the posters on your locker. You won’t state your case.” He rolls his chair closer. “You think this’ll just vanish?”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  He holds out his hands, like, Work with me here!

  “You’re like them,” I say. “Everyone who pretends to fangirl Jayla Heart. All the stupid tabloids. The Juicy Lucy people. (e)VIL. It’s all the same—everyone just wants a piece of drama pie.”

  “I hope you don’t really believe that.”

  I lean back in the chair, close my eyes. “No, I guess not. I’m just . . . I’m spent.”
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  The pep rally was a bust. My name’s back on Zeff’s radar for sure. Griff’s still chumming around with Ellie, who’s still ignoring me. Olivia . . . who knows what Olivia is, but she’s definitely not on my side.

  And no matter how hard I try to convince myself that it’s wrong, that I have to let it go, I can’t stop falling in love with Cole, again and again, each time harder than the last.

  LOWDOWN DIRTY LOVE

  No one ever accused Night of the Living Dog of being normal.

  Sunday night, a thunderstorm rumbles in the not-so-distant sky, and Night paws frantically at the door—international dog lingo for Walk me or you’ll live to regret it.

  I put on Jayla’s Broncos hoodie and hook up the leash, let him trot me out to the woods behind the house. “Colorado is a top-ten state for death by lightning. Know that, dude?”

  Night ignores me, snuffles along the trail to his favorite tree just as the first raindrops plink onto the leaves. This is his spot—our spot—quiet, far enough from the surrounding houses that we’re almost always alone. Despite the rain, I’m grateful for the escape.

  Jayla’s been pretty mellow all weekend, a forced smile that I shared tonight as we made a gourmet meal out of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, hot fudge, and crumbled pretzels. Pictures of her pep rally altercation with Asher leaked to CelebStyle, and even though it was all an act, and Asher was thrilled to go along with it, yesterday’s headlines tell a different story.

  JAY-HEART LOVES HER FANS, AS LONG AS THEY’RE “ABLE” TO LOVE HER BACK; ALTERCATION AT HOMETOWN HIGH SCHOOL REVEALS CELEB’S TRUE COLORS.

  Since the story broke, she’s been ignoring her phone, deleting nasty messages from her fan page.

  After orbiting different suns for years, my sister and I suddenly have a lot in common.

  I unhook Night’s leash to let him explore, and beneath a canopy of aspen and ponderosa, I climb up on my favorite boulder, perfect for contemplating. As Night slops around in the mud, my thoughts drift from Jayla and Ash to Ms. Zeff, from Ellie and Griff to Olivia, but inside the brain of Lucy, all roads lead to Cole. Cole’s sad-face text messages. Cole’s drum solo. Cole’s kiss . . .