Clea’s sitting on one of the benches near the driver. She has her face buried in a geometry textbook. It’s a useless shield. I’ve studied the same book, and I’m pretty sure it has killed far more people than it’s saved. Two girls drop into the seats on either side of Clea. Kayla and the fourth crony stand with their shins pressed against their captive’s knees. I brush past them and choose a spot in the middle of the bus. I know just how far away I’ll need to be to fit all five girls in my camera’s frame. As soon as the bus makes its first lurch forward, I pull out my phone and hit record.
I pretend to be texting, but the ruse is unnecessary. Since the day NEMESIS went live, no one has ever suspected that I might be the one who’s behind it. Vigilantes aren’t cute. They’re angry bitches in black leather pants who curse, chain-smoke, and design their own dragon tattoos. Imagine the opposite, and you’ll have a pretty clear picture of me. My mother says I’m dainty. My father still calls me Princess. I like my hair to look glossy and my nails to be polished. My clothes are expensive, and they’re always perfectly pressed. I don’t look like a vigilante, but I wouldn’t pass for a victim, either. Not anymore.
I prefer to watch the camera screen instead of the action. It helps me keep an emotional distance. But it doesn’t always prevent me from feeling ill. The first time I filmed a confrontation, I finally understood why everyone else looked away. It’s hard to see a fellow human be destroyed. You find yourself needing to believe the victim earned her punishment. You want to think that an innocent girl would never be tortured, and that the world couldn’t possibly be so cruel. When I started my site, I used to ask my clients what made them targets. Most of the kids were a lot like Clea—they just didn’t know.
Kayla has a filthy mouth and an impressive imagination. She’s called Clea a pervert, a stalker, and a spy. Those are only the slurs I’m willing to repeat. She’s accused Clea of watching her friends undress before gym class. This poor kid who’s afraid to take her eyes off her textbook has been branded a peeping tom. It’s so ridiculous—such an obvious lie—that I don’t know whether to laugh or vomit. Then one of the lackeys slaps Clea’s book to the ground, and the girl stares at the empty space left behind. Harassing a mute must not be much fun, so Kayla reaches over and yanks Clea’s braid hard enough to uproot a few strands of hair. The girl yelps with pain, and her cry feeds the frenzy. The insults grow louder, until Kayla is shouting obscenities three inches from Clea’s face. I’ve got it all on tape. It’s among the most disturbing footage I’ve ever recorded.
• • •
STEP TWO is the calling card. Ordinarily I’d wait a few days and try to get a bit more on tape. But I’m not sure Clea can hold out that long. She said in the e-mail she’s scared for her safety, and everything I’ve witnessed tells me she should be. When bullies begin to get physical, the situation will often escalate quickly. It’s up to me to put an end to it. No one else will. The bus driver has been watching the whole scene in his rearview mirror. He could have stopped the bus and forced Kayla and her friends to get off and walk. But he won’t get involved. They never do. I’m sure this guy has a perfectly good reason for staying on the sidelines. I wish I could tell him where to shove his perfectly good reason.
Clea lives on One Hundred and Twenty-Seventh. We must be nearing her stop. I have enough footage to work with, so I slip my phone into my backpack and pull out my cards. I purchase blank business cards from Staples and stamp them with the NEMESIS logo—a single, unblinking eye. I used to add the name of my website as well. But I’ve been doing this for two years now, and every kid in New York knows the URL. Most people want their businesses to succeed, but I find it frustrating that mine has lasted so long. I used to hope that the more videos I posted, the fewer cases I’d have. In the beginning, I’d get six e-mails a month. Now I get twice that every day.
I head to the front of the bus and grab a pole just across the aisle from Kayla. I slip one card into her handbag and another into a backpack that belongs to the girl standing beside her. The bus stops and Clea pushes past her captors and hurls herself toward the exit. As the last two bullies brush against me on their way out the door, I deliver a card to each of them. Then I watch from the window as the four beasts stalk their victim. I silently pray for Clea’s safety, but I won’t intervene. My work demands anonymity. I can’t risk blowing my cover for one kid when there are thousands more to be saved.
The next time the bus stops, I jump off and take the subway downtown. I live on the opposite end of the island, and I’m anxious to get home and get started on Step Three. Now that NEMESIS is the talk of the town, my calling cards scare off the bullies in about half of my cases. But I’m not sure a piece of paper’s going to cut it this time.
• • •
“Hello! I’m home!” I shout as I enter my dark apartment. It’s a little joke I share with myself. No one is ever here. Sometimes I don’t hear my parents arrive until after I’m already tucked into bed. They both work seventy-hour weeks in order to give me a beautiful home, a first-class education, fancy clothes, and all the computer equipment a girl could desire. It’s a huge sacrifice, I’ve been told.
I had a nanny until the end of eighth grade. She was a stout Swedish woman named Emelie who made my dinner, taught me French, and loved me like her very own daughter. Before she left each evening, she’d pack my lunch for the following day. On Thursday nights she and I always baked cupcakes. The next afternoon, one would be waiting for me in my lunchbox. Emelie decorated each Friday cupcake with sprinkles before writing “E ♥ G” in red icing on top. It was a bit silly, but by eighth grade it had become a time-honored tradition. I never imagined that a pink frosted cupcake would mark the beginning of the worst year of my life.
I was wearing one of my baggiest blouses that Friday. It was the first week of eighth grade, and I was still recovering from the embarrassment I’d endured the day school began. I’d made the mistake of wearing a form-fitting T-shirt, and the chest I’d learned to live with at summer camp had taken everyone else by surprise. By third period, I’d covered up with my jacket, but I was still drawing eyes. Including those of a boy named Eli.
Back then, I spent most of my time with three girls I’d known since our preschool days. Josie was my best friend. Morgan and Olivia were more Josie’s friends than mine. And I’d always been a bit wary of Olivia. When she was in a good mood she sparkled like a pixie, but when she got mad, that magic felt malevolent. Olivia had spent the entire seventh grade swooning over Eli, but he had always been blind to her charms. Unfortunately, his eyesight improved dramatically whenever my new boobs were around. The second Olivia caught her beloved ogling my chest, I became her mortal enemy.
Of course, I was still convinced we were friends. For four days, I remained blissfully unaware of the rage that was building inside her. Then I sat next to her at lunch and pulled out my Friday cupcake. Olivia took one look at “E ♥ G,” and the anger finally erupted. She knew that E was for Emelie. Over the years, she’d spent more time with my nanny than she had with most members of her very own family. So I was confused when Olivia grabbed the cupcake and held it up for the whole lunch room to see.
“Look who Gaby loves!” she shouted.
It was the first time an entire room ever shared a laugh at my expense. My face must have been as red as the icing when I exclaimed, “It stands for Emelie!”
The second round of laughter was worse.
Within a week, I was the school pariah. An eighth grade slut engaged in a torrid lesbian affair with a Swedish servant. I tried to argue, but they wouldn’t listen to reason. I tried to fight back with words, but my tongue always betrayed me. I tried to ignore them, but the insults only got uglier. I tried to hide, but Olivia always managed to find me.
I didn’t cry until the day Josie called me a “carpet-muncher.” I didn’t even know what it meant. Or how stupid and offensive the word was. I just saw the hatred on my best friend’s face, and I crumbled. Over the following months, Josie did
her best to destroy what little was left of me. But through it all, I refused to ask Emelie to stop making those cupcakes. Every Friday afternoon, I’d sit all alone in the cafeteria and make a show of swallowing every last bite.
I never uttered a word to my parents. But they must have gotten wind of something, because one day in March, my mother announced that I was too old for a nanny. I cried for three weeks after Emelie was fired. I didn’t think I’d survive. I could have made it with one person behind me. When Emelie left, I had no one.
After we graduated from eighth grade, my classmates all enrolled in Manhattan high schools. I chose a school in Brooklyn and started my freshman year expecting my reputation to follow me. Thankfully the rumors never made it across the East River. Now that I’m a junior, my classmates would probably say that I’m popular. When I’m not working, I do all the things people my age tend to do. But I’m not like them. I watched the whole world desert me. And once you know you’re alone, you can never, ever forget.
Still, in a strange way, I’m almost grateful. I spent a year stumbling through the darkness at the bottom of a hole. When I emerged, I discovered I’d been granted special powers in exchange for my suffering. Now I can see things others won’t. I can withstand pain that would break most people. I possess a determination that’s practically superhuman and the wrath of a fearsome goddess. I am the avenger. The punisher. The dispenser of dues. I’m the seventeen-year-old girl known throughout New York City as NEMESIS.
• • •
STEP THREE is really just a formality. I post new video footage on a private page of my website. I hunt down any e-mail addresses that my clients weren’t able to provide. Then I send links to the bullies, their parents, and their principals. When I first started, I never intended to go any further. But Step Three rarely changes anything. Depending on which part of the city they hail from, the parents either threaten to beat me or sue my pretty little pants off. The principals never respond. They probably think that what happens off school grounds is none of their business. I’ve heard that the bullies like to share the footage with their friends.
I upload my new video and send out my e-mails. I make it clear that should anything happen to Clea, we’ll go straight to Step Four.
• • •
STEP FOUR is payback. That’s when I move the footage to the public part of my website. I make sure to provide the bullies’ full names, schools, and addresses. NEMESIS gets more traffic than the New York Post. And my videos almost always go viral. Sometimes it takes a while for the full impact to be felt. Eventually my dimmest “stars” realize what’s happened. My video will follow them for the rest of their lives. Their families, their friends’ families, their teachers—even their priests, pastors, and rabbis will see it. Every potential employer, boyfriend, and in-law will watch it. It will be discovered by admission committees when they apply to colleges. It will still be around when their own children are born.
It won’t be long before they find out just how many of us have suffered at a bully’s hands.
We’ll ruin their careers, friendships, and love lives. We’ll have our revenge. And we’ll teach them all that payback is hell.
• • •
I’m waiting across the street from Clea’s school. My phone keeps vibrating in my pocket. New cases never stop coming in. But I won’t accept a new one while an old one is still pending. I need to be sure that Clea is safe. I hear bells ring, then just like yesterday, she’s the first one out of the building. Nothing appears to have changed. She still seems harried and miserable. That doesn’t mean much. She’ll wear that look for a while. But this time she makes it to the bus. It pulls away just as the school’s doors are thrown open again.
I spot Clea’s tormentors among the crowd that spills out. They’re looking around, only this time they’re searching for someone holding a camera. Their eyes pass right over me. If Clea says the day went well, tonight Kayla and her cronies will all get an e-mail. I’ll commend them on the wise decision they’ve made, and warn them that I’ll always be watching. The threat is essential. These girls aren’t going to change. They’ll never see the error of their ways. But they’ll realize that their actions have consequences. And I’ll make sure they know just how bad those consequences can be.
I hit the subway. As soon as I’m home, I check my e-mail. There are five new pleas. Another two or three will probably arrive before bedtime. I scan through the first four. They’re all more of the same. But it’s the fifth that really gets my blood rushing. The letter is signed Olivia. I try to keep my hopes in check while I click on the photo that the girl has enclosed. You can’t spit in Manhattan without hitting a kid my age named Olivia. But when the picture finally flashes up on my screen, I know the heavens have answered my prayers.
I’ve dreamed of this moment. I’ve spent two years fantasizing about it. But I never imagined my day would come.
I laugh all the way through Olivia’s note.
• • •
Olivia’s school is the one my parents always hoped I’d attend. They were mortified when I informed them that I’d deposited the application (and several more like it) in a trash can instead of a mail box. A high school in Brooklyn was the only institution in town that received the paperwork my father’s secretary had kindly prepared. Some people might call me a coward for giving my enemies Manhattan island, but I’ve never regretted that decision and I certainly don’t regret it now. The girls filing into Olivia’s school look like they’re strutting down an invisible runway. Their clothes are designer, their diamonds are real—and most of their noses are not. Olivia should consider herself lucky. Violence is rare at ritzy schools, and the principals are terrified of bad publicity. Whenever I take a case on the Upper East Side, it’s usually the clients who end up posing the problems. They don’t understand that I can stop the bullying—but I’ll never make their snooty classmates accept them.
I skipped school so I could be here this morning when Olivia arrives. I have my hair pulled back, and dark sunglasses hide half my face. I doubt the disguise will be necessary, though. I’ve grown up a lot since Olivia and I last crossed paths. When I see her coming down the block, I realize that she hasn’t grown at all. Back in the eighth grade, Olivia was the same height as the rest of us. That must have been the end of her growth spurt. She’s still five foot one, flat chested, and scrawny. She doesn’t look like a pixie anymore. She looks like a little girl.
No one so much as glances in Olivia’s direction as she heads toward the building. Too many parents on the street, I suppose, most delivering their precious spawn to the grade schools nearby. According to Olivia’s e-mail, a group of older girls ambushes her during lunch hour, when juniors and seniors are allowed to leave campus. Olivia claims the abuse has gotten so bad that she now eats her PB&Js while hiding in one of the school’s less-frequented girls’ rooms. I wonder if she got the idea from me. I guess her bullies don’t waste their time ransacking the whole building. The way Olivia used to.
I snap a picture right before Olivia disappears into her school. It keeps me smiling for the next four hours.
At noon, I’m sitting in a café on the Upper East Side. Olivia said she’d be here just after the hour, and she’s certain the bullies will follow. As soon as I see them, I’ll hide in the narrow hall that leads to the ladies’ room. Once Olivia and her companions have settled, I’ll make my grand appearance and grab a good seat for the show. I won’t be wearing a disguise. I want to watch everything that goes down today, and I want Olivia to know that I’ve seen it. And before I leave, I’ll make sure she knows that no one is ever going to come to her rescue.
When I spot Olivia crossing the avenue, I let the waitress know I’m heading to the ladies’. I don’t want her to think I’ve skipped out on the bill. Then I slink around the corner to wait. Olivia chooses a table close to mine. I hear the waitress inquire if she’ll be dining alone. The voice that answers doesn’t belong to Olivia.
“We need three more menu
s. The four of us are together.”
I hear the waitress’s footsteps fade away. “Hello, hobbit,” the same girl sneers. “Who said you could crawl out from under your rock?” I have to clap a hand over my mouth to muffle my giggle.
I peek around the corner and see three girls have joined Olivia at her table. She seems so tiny sitting next to them. She stays silent and still. Like a porcelain doll taking part in a make-believe tea party.
“They shouldn’t let you eat in restaurants. No one will be able to keep their food down if they’re forced to look at you,” a second adds.
The third girl just snickers. There’s always one dunce in the bunch.
“Please. I just want to have lunch,” Olivia pleads. She sounds so numb and exhausted. I’m enjoying this far less than I should.
“It doesn’t matter how much you eat. You’ll always be a short, hairy little hobbit.”
“I heard your mother has to buy your clothes from Children’s Place. Is it true?”
“Her parents are too cheap for Children’s Place. I bet they go to secondhand shops. That sweater looks just like something my nine-year-old sister wore last year.”
The second girl gasps. “Oh my God, do you think they’ve been going through your trash?!”
• • •
I’m not taping this. My phone hasn’t left my bag. I’m not watching a screen. The faces I see are all life-size, and their expressions are easy to read. The snarl on the leader’s lips. The glee in her lackeys’ eyes. The pain twisting Olivia’s features, and the effort she’s making to hold back her tears.
She deserves this. She deserves an entire year of it. I want Olivia to suffer, but I no longer have any desire to watch. I step back around the corner and stare at the wall of the corridor. I wish there was a rear exit, some way to escape. Then I hear a commotion in the café. A glass shatters, and Olivia squeals. Someone has knocked over her water. I don’t need to look to know that Olivia must be soaked.
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