by Rowan Maness
“Shane called me autistic,” I said under my breath. “And inhuman.”
Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Want me to beat him up?”
“No,” I said.
“The word I’d use is ‘sociopath.’ ” Dylan smiled.
I punched him hard in the arm.
“Should I ask how Shane is involved in all this?”
“Absolutely not.”
Later, when my mom came home, we went swimming, all three of us, until we were wrinkly from the salt water. When we got out, Dylan made dinner, and he and my mom didn’t revive their ritual argument over his future. They let me be quiet, and I listened to them talk about nothing very important.
I kept checking my phone for messages from Believer, but none came. I’d hidden the proof from myself, but Believer’s sudden silence was enough to let me know the coyote was right. I did this to myself, for a reason. I needed to stop, and now that I had, maybe I’d stop seeing things too. I could take what Mary-Kate said to heart and try to see things differently. Try to be more generous, less judgmental.
I answered everyone who sent me questions, admitted I wasn’t who I said I was, and typed the words “I’m sorry” more than I’d ever typed them before.
Kit texted me, wanting to know if I was okay.
Kit: Did Shane find you?
Me: Yeah, just a miscommunication
Me: How’d you know where I was?
Kit: I recognized the pic you posted. The painted rocks at Papago? That’s my meditation spot
I told him that he’d been right when he’d said I was hiding something, being dishonest with him. And I told him I was done with it. He didn’t say Great, be my girlfriend; I’m coming over, but he said Cool, and invited me to see his band play that Friday night.
I wanted to text Mary-Kate and Rhiannon. I needed to hear their voices and tell them about Shane. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to start, how far back to go, or if they would even care.
The weekend passed like that. Watching TV with my mom and Dylan, my phone on silent until everyone was dealt with and the messages died down. At some point I realized I hadn’t gotten an e-mail or text in more than an hour, which was the longest I’d ever gone without some sort of communication.
On Sunday night the storm clouds that had been hovering over the western mountains all week finally rumbled overhead and broke. I took a bowl of ice cream out to the patio and sat in the dark watching the rain and lightning.
CHAPTER 22
Going back to school was a loss. I showed up moping, with a headache gnawing at my temples as I said good-bye to my mom.
It was still raining on and off, but the morning was dismally hot. When I arrived at Xavier, girls lounged like sloths in the yard, drooped over wet picnic benches, heaped beneath roof overhangs. Uniforms were already dingy and untucked. Nobody had bothered to do their hair or put on makeup.
I scouted around for signs of Mary-Kate or Rhiannon and saw none, then sat at the base of a palm tree. The grass around me was littered with dropped fronds and weird yellow fruit.
A few feet away, eight tiny aloe vera plants were growing in an evenly spaced two-by-four plot. Each plant had four or five pale tentacles. They were reaching out to one another, trying to touch. Like some plants grow toward the sun, they were growing toward one another. They were aware I was looking at them.
The presence of a boy on the Xavier side of the parking lot was usually enough to get a telepathic wave going, alerting all girls in the vicinity. I felt it, looked up, and was surprised to see Shane across the yard, talking with Leah Leary.
I tried to hide in plain sight by staying really still and communing with the pattern in the palm tree’s bark, but Shane rolled his head away from Leah Leary and caught me. He looked away as soon as he recognized my face, but in that fraction of a second I saw that he was miserable.
It was going to be hard to keep hating him.
• • •
Miles: It’s true.
Me: I don’t believe you.
Me: A crumpet?
Miles: An evil crumpet.
Me: Proof, please
Mr. Lauren claimed he almost cut his thumb off trying to butter his morning crumpet, and the photo he sent seemed to support his claim. His entire left hand was wrapped in white gauze; shirtless, he stared into the phone’s camera, dark circles beneath his eyes.
The classroom was empty—I’d arrived early and texted him when he wasn’t there waiting for me, like I thought he would be.
Me: Who’s our sub? Do you know?
Miles: They’ll probably have Campos do it.
I moved from my seat in the front to a table in the back of the classroom. Senora Campos, usually the Spanish teacher, was not a friendly.
Miles: Are we ever going to talk about . . .
Mae Castillo sat down next to me. A few more girls came in after her, taking their seats, chattering. My ears perked up when I heard the name “Rhiannon,” but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
“What are you doing back here?” Mae asked.
“We have Campos today. I don’t want to sit too close to the front or I’ll pass out from perfume stink.”
“But she smells so good. She smells like my auntie Patricia.”
I wanted to ask Mae what she was doing, talking to me. Why she was even bothering, after what I’d said during field day.
“Mary-Kate’s coming,” Mae said. “Just so you know.”
“Yeah, I assumed,” I said.
“What happened to Mr. Lauren?”
Without thinking, I flashed my phone’s screen at her. “He’s home sick. He cut himself and had to go to the hospital.”
If she realized I’d been texting him, she didn’t seem surprised.
“I bet it was a botched suicide attempt. That guy is grim.”
I was about to do it—just come out and ask what Mary-Kate’s friendship meant to her. I wanted to know if they were dating, as I suspected, or moving toward it. I was going to ask if she knew how to best go about trying to get Mary-Kate back. I was done lying online, and now I needed to translate that resolution into real life. I would present myself exactly as I was, unafraid of what people might see or think.
Then I noticed the other girls in the room. Every one with a phone in her hand, looking down, thumb scrolling. Mouths open in shock. The perking up of whispers. I turned to Mae.
She was staring at her phone too.
“What—” I began.
She shoved her phone in my hand, her face an unrecognizable shade of horror and disbelief.
“Someone posted a link on the school Facebook,” she explained, as I saw what she’d been looking at. What they were all looking at.
The Tumblr.
With new entries.
The photos I’d taken in the bath and sent to Mr. Lauren. Excerpts from the text exchange we’d had that night. The name “Miles” bold and highlighted.
VICTIM #21—MILES
And there was more. My body. A gallery of hundreds of nudes. Most faceless, but then—in some, I stared into the laptop webcam, the phone. Some were straight from my computer, never sent to anyone.
The videos I’d sent to James. Downloadable as an MP4 file, for anyone to take and save.
The girls around me, whispering.
Oh my God. This is so sad.
Is that Rhiannon?!
Look at all these guys.
She must be freaking out.
James’s face. Victim #22. Even though I knew he wasn’t there to receive an anonymous e-mail, seeing the face I loved lined up with all the other tawdry Tumblr items made me want to reach out and grab him, turn his face away.
Not only is JOSS WYATT an uncontrollable LIAR, a HOMEWRECKER, and an unrepentant MURDERER, but she is also a CRAZY SLUT.
SHE NEEDS TO BE MEDICATED.
Her PSYCHIATRIST is Dr. Gillian Judson and she has been diagnosed with DELUSIONAL DISORDER.
A picture of a piece of paper I’d never seen be
fore. Not from Dr. Judson, from the first doctor, with the diagnosis. A note to “Mr. and Mrs. Wyatt.”
Her DAD had a HEART ATTACK AND DIED when he learned about her LIES.
VICTIMS #23–25—HER OWN FAMILY
My dad’s obituary.
When I saw his face, I swallowed a crying-out.
This was not my doing. I’d last checked the Tumblr while I was sitting under the palm tree before school, and none of the new stuff was there. I could have scheduled the posts to auto publish, but I knew even in a blackout, plagued by guilt and masochistic feelings, I would never have gone this far.
Believer was still out there. He wasn’t finished fucking with me. I’d deleted everything and been doubly punished by the revelation of Shane as James. I’d apologized to the faceless horde for nothing.
On Mae’s phone, with the girls around now openly staring, waiting for me to do something, say something, I navigated back to the Xavier Facebook page. The Tumblr link was posted there by Believer X, along with a helpful thumbnail of a topless Joss Wyatt, available for all 1,162 members to click and follow.
I watched as likes and comments flooded the post. Names I recognized—girls I had freshman gym class with, girls who graduated last year, the girl sitting in front of me in the classroom.
Tessa Clark OMG
Phoebe Monk ^ WOAH
Fallon Pedersen nice
Marina Aguilar no is this a joke or what @Brady Nix look at this
Someone shared the post, and I knew it was now on Brophy’s wall. My phone started buzzing nonstop when someone tagged me.
Brady Nix BOOBS! @Sparks Holman, @Julien Rocha, @Hassan Mendes
Carmen Farrow omg @Joss Wyatt
Brady Nix I knew she was a freak @Cairo Crombez @Evan Fairbanks @Fletcher Riggs @Jeremy Hoyer @Cody Majors
Jeremy Hoyer this is like nudes Christmas
My insides were dry, scraped out. The floor of the classroom was swaying, and from somewhere in the hallway came the coyote’s dreadful howling laugh.
I looked down at my phone. Missed calls from my mom. I knew she’d gotten an e-mail too. Seen everything.
There was nowhere to hide anymore.
I ran out of the classroom, colliding with Mary-Kate as she walked through the door.
Then I was outside, holding my uniform skirt down because the wind was blowing from the ground up.
I was thirsty; that’s what brought me back. For the first time ever I was glad that my untrustworthy mind was trapped inside a human body and required water to keep working. A simple, basic need that I could understand. Fake personalities don’t need water. Figments don’t get dry mouth.
I walked a bit, staggering into the nearest 7-Eleven, realizing I wasn’t carrying any money. I wandered the empty aisles, listening to an ad for the state lottery.
I was reminded of a conversation I’d had with Peter once, when he was on his way home from work. He’d stopped at a convenience store and texted Amelia about being unable to choose what kind of canned soup to buy for dinner. There were too many choices—he’d been in jail for ten years; everything seemed foreign and overwhelming to him.
My stomach lurched. Unlike the other men, I’d seen Peter in person. I’d looked into his eyes as he tried to comprehend a teenage girl standing where he thought the love of his life would be. I’d never had to answer for any of it.
The cashier was eyeing me suspiciously, so I went back outside. I looked at my phone, ready to throw it into traffic.
Mr. Lauren’s latest texts.
Miles: Are we ever going to talk about . . .
Miles: What happened between us?
I could never go back to school. That seemed obvious. I couldn’t go back home, either. Believer was tracking my every move. He was probably aware I was at the 7-Eleven. Maybe he’d known that’s where I’d flee, even before it happened.
Why isn’t Mr. Lauren freaking out?
I texted him back.
Me: Can you pick me up at the 7-Eleven on Indian School & 7th Ave?
Me: Don’t ask why, just come
Miles: There in 10
On the sidewalk across the busy street, a guy holding a gigantic arrow-shaped sign was staring at me. He threw the arrow in the air, spun around on one foot, and caught it behind his back, dancing to whatever music was playing through his headphones. He looked familiar. Like one of my victims.
He was pointing the sign at me. Every time he caught it, the tip of the arrow was aimed right at me. I moved from one side of the parking lot to the other and hid behind a plaster column. I wanted to yell.
What are you doing? Do you work for him? Tell me who he is!
Then Mr. Lauren pulled up in his little red car, his injured hand resting on top of the steering wheel in a permanent thumbs-up. I jumped into the car before he even came to a complete stop.
My phone was ringing nonstop, my mom and Dylan taking turns calling. There were already two hundred comments on the Facebook post, and I had unread texts from Mary-Kate, Rhiannon, and Kit.
As we turned onto the street, the guy with the sign pivoted and looked right at me. I slouched down as far as I could, but he caught my gaze and smiled, throwing the arrow again. When it came back down I could read the text on the other side:
MATTRESS LIQUIDATION 75% OFF & MORE!!!!!
I turned my phone off and closed my eyes.
• • •
At first Mr. Lauren clearly thought I asked him to pick me up so we could have sex again. But as I told him what turns to make, he realized that something was seriously wrong. I was near tears, now fetal in the passenger seat, gripping my legs to my chest, white-knuckled, wincing at every red light because I was sure Believer was watching through the windows.
“Is this your—therapist?” he asked, idling in front of Dr. Judson’s office, squinting his eyes through his glasses to read the sign on the front door.
“Yes,” I said, looking around, checking for coyotes, ghosts, Believers.
“Are you going to go in?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You want me to wait?”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
“Where were you born? What’s your birthday?” I asked instead.
“I was born in Yorkshire,” he stuttered. “On April tenth.”
“What are your parents named?”
“John and Helen. Why are you asking?”
“Have you ever been married?”
He sighed and scratched at the skin beneath his bandage.
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
“Susannah.”
“What happened to her?”
“She left me. She moved here. It was either stay in England and see our child once a year, or follow her.”
“Child?”
“Rufus. He’s eight.”
“Okay,” I said, blowing out a deep breath. “Okay. Thanks.”
“It feels good to tell you all that,” he said, smiling.
“I didn’t ask because I care,” I said. “I don’t care.”
“Oh. Well, that’s nice—” he said, and I realized how callous I sounded.
“I just needed to make you real for a second. I needed proof.”
“Proof?”
“Proof that you’re not a manifestation.”
I tried to explain.
“Sometimes I can make things happen just by thinking about them. I thought about you—I obsessed over this car. I obsessed over all your mysteries. And then I made you want me. I can do that. I can do it better online, but I can do it in real life, too, I guess. Um—
“Things are weird right now,” I went on. “Unsteady. I asked you those questions so you could tell me something I’d never thought of before—something true, that I couldn’t have made up.”
Some of the color in Mr. Lauren’s face paled and faded, paled and faded.
“If it helps,” he started. “I wanted you. All on my own. Not as a—”
“Manifestation,”
I mumbled.
“Not as part of a manifestation. I think I’d know, if that were the case.”
I nodded.
“And, look, I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. It wasn’t me,” I said.
He looked confused.
“Check your phone,” I told him, moving to leave the car.
He reached into his pocket with his good hand.
I shoved the jammed door with all my weight and stepped out, quickly scanning all directions for signs of Believer before sprinting into Dr. Judson’s office.
CHAPTER 23
The coyote’s skin, its covering, is chameleonic not only in the way it changes color but in the way it changes texture. Lizard scales for direct sunlight, silvery gills for swimming in a mirage, and his standard tough brown fur for nighttime creeping.
He’d trailed me into Dr. Judson’s office, reversing our usual roles of followed and follower, and now he was curled up tight in the corner, watching me talk. He was not his usual thin, rangy self. A bit of exposed belly gave him the air of a well-fed pup.
She knows about me?
She knows.
When I’d walked in from Mr. Lauren’s car, I’d tracked muddy footprints across the grey carpet in the waiting room. The receptionist rushed out to stop me, and I started crying, blurting out everything that happened at school. She sat me down, and two minutes later Dr. Judson was there. I overheard her apologizing to someone, ushering them out the back door before coming to meet me.
“What do you think your options are?”
“I don’t know. Dying? Running away? Burning down the Internet?”
“I can tell you, after we’re finished here, I am obligated to bring this to the authorities. The nude photographs alone constitute child pornography. And the implication of your teacher, the inclusion of my name—these are extremely problematic.”
The first thing I ever told Dr. Judson was that I judged her for having a collection of ceramic angel figurines arranged on one of her office bookshelves. She explained they were inherited from a family member and had sentimental value. They weren’t really her personal style.
Now they stared at me, full of secret knowledge.
“I should have told you about Believer before,” I said. “But—you see why I was being so paranoid? It wasn’t based on nothing.”