Screenshot

by Donna Cooner

  “What’s up, buttercups?” she asks me and Asha, walking toward us. She pulls a Burt’s Bees lip balm out of her lime-green book bag and slathers her lips with clear gloss.

  “Are you limping?” Asha asks Emma, looking down at her buckled, studded ankle boots.

  “These boots give me blisters,” Emma explains. “I haven’t worn them in, like, forever.”

  “Why did you stop wearing them in the first place?” Asha asks.

  “Because they hurt my feet. And cause blisters,” Emma says.

  Duh.

  Holding out one foot for us to see, she adds, “But they’re really cute.”

  Asha shakes her head in frustration. “Seriously?”

  “Anyway,” Emma says, ignoring Asha’s scorn. “Not even blisters can bring me down. My pitch for my screenplay got approved!”

  “That’s great,” I say, meaning it.

  “Is this the Rear Window idea?” Asha asks, and Emma nods. I feel a flash of jealousy, that Asha knows more about Emma’s project than I do. I guess I’ve been slightly distracted lately.

  “What’s Rear Window about?” I ask.

  Emma narrows her blue eyes at me. “You’ve never seen Rear Window?”

  I shake my head. So many things on my mind, but definitely not Emma’s films.

  “It’s about this guy who is stuck in his apartment because he has a broken leg.” She’s talking so fast I can hardly keep up. “His window looks out over this courtyard and he can see in everybody’s windows.”

  “So he spies on people?” I ask. “Sounds kind of creepy to me.”

  Emma shrugs. “It’s Hitchcock. It’s supposed to be creepy.”

  I pull out my math book and slam the locker door. I remember how I thought of the internet as a building where you can open your windows for other people to look in.

  The screenshot. It’s like someone just hit me between the eyes with a hammer. The idea that someone has the potential to share my life without my permission is horrifying. I rub my fist against my forehead, closing my eyes.

  “Skye?” Emma asks me, touching my shoulder. “What’s wrong? You’ve seemed weird lately.”

  I wish I could tell her. Instead, I close my locker, turn around, and say, “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s perfect.”

  Because maybe it will be, right? Maybe the whole stupid thing is over and I’ll never hear from my blackmailer again. Maybe I’ll never even know who did it.

  But this can’t be all of it. They have to be building up to something else. What? The thought hums inside my head like a constant buzzing I can’t swat away.

  Asha goes back to her books and Emma scrolls through her phone. I watch as kids pass by in the hallway. Friends. Classmates.

  I make eye contact with Lily Eklund. Could it be her making me do these crazy things? Threatening me? We once had a competition in algebra over who had the highest semester average, but that was a long time ago. I can’t believe she would still hold a grudge. I nod at her and she gives me a wave as she passes with a gaggle of her friends. Her smile seems the same as always.

  Then there’s Griffey Caro, working the visitor sign-in desk at the entrance. I can’t forget the bitterness in her voice after I won the runoff election and the way she gave Luke all the credit for my win. Could she be the one behind this? I think of what Harmony said about enemies. If I had to pick one, Griffey might be the answer. Maybe nobody makes it all the way through high school without making at least one enemy.

  I take a deep breath. I’m driving myself crazy with all this speculation. It’s like a clock is ticking inside my brain until the explosion goes off and I don’t know which wire to cut to make it stop counting down to annihilation.

  Then I see Ryan across the hall, getting books from his locker, and I feel slightly better.

  He lifts his chin at me. “Hey, Skye.”

  “Hi,” I say, smiling back at him. I watch him close his locker and walk off toward the science hall.

  “Who’s that?” Asha asks me with interest, finally looking up from her textbooks.

  “Ryan de la Cruz. I work with him. He just moved here from California last semester.”

  She glances back and forth between me and Ryan’s retreating form. Then she puts her hand over her heart and squeals.

  “Oooh,” Asha says. “Looks like someone has a crush.”

  I feel my face go hot. She’s baiting me, I know, but I feel like we’re back in middle school and she’s making me write a note to Jamie Cho asking if he likes me—circle yes or no. He said no, so Asha told everyone he stole her favorite notebook. When the teacher found it inside his book bag, I was never sure Asha didn’t put it there herself.

  I can’t stand that smirk. I say, “He’s just a friend.”

  Asha peers up at me, her brown eyes fierce with curiosity. “Maybe I should tell Luke about this friend?”

  “Shut up, Asha,” I say grimly.

  She just makes kissy noises.

  Emma says, “Stop teasing her, Asha.”

  “Whatever,” Asha says, rolling her eyes.

  When we were freshmen, Asha and I were put on opposite teams for dodgeball. Mrs. Peabody, the gym teacher, escalated dodgeball into a major contact sport before some parents complained. Asha quickly developed a formidable reputation for being completely ruthless. She could throw faster and harder than any other girl in class. Some were better than others at dodging, but most kids eventually got beaned by Asha’s ball slamming into various parts of their bodies. She didn’t care how pretty someone was or how popular, if she hated you or liked you. Where Asha was concerned, everyone was a target.

  Even me.

  At first I just hung out near the back line, letting other, braver girls stand in front. I was just waiting to be a victim. The only thing I didn’t know for sure was how it much it was going to hurt. It all depended on whether it was a direct hit or a glancing blow.

  But one day, for some reason I can’t remember now, I changed things up. Surprised, everyone gratefully moved aside to let me step to the front of the cowering mass. Maybe they thought Asha wouldn’t hit her best friend as hard as everyone else. They were wrong. But when Asha threw the ball directly at me with lightning-fast speed, I caught it. She was out. It surprised me more than anyone, but that day changed the way I played dodgeball. I never threw a ball, but I could catch one—no matter how hard it came at me.

  I look at Asha now, sitting there as if she is a queen and the hallway her throne. She might be able to dish it out, but I can take it.

  “Listen,” I snap, jabbing a finger in Asha’s face. “Stay out of my business.”

  Asha leans away from me in shock. Even Emma’s mouth falls open.

  The bell rings then, and I turn away from my friends and walk off. But I don’t head to class. I hurry into the girls’ bathroom. Within seconds, I’m in a stall sucking in air like I’ve just been pulled under the water in a riptide. I can’t believe I lashed out at Asha like that, but maybe it was a long time coming. Maybe it’s because I’m certain she’s the one who took the screenshot.

  Why would Asha do this to me?

  But what if I’m all wrong and it’s someone else? Then I must be hugely horrible, thinking my best friend might be such an awful person. And if it isn’t Asha playing some warped joke, the person could be some kind of creepy stalker.

  It has to be Asha.

  I look up. On the back of the stall door is a scrawled message in black Sharpie about Jill Valencia.

  Jill.

  I shiver. I remember what happened with Jill. Her boyfriend shared her private pictures with all his friends last year. The boy was suspended, but it’s not his name scrawled on every bathroom wall in the school. It’s Jill’s—with horrible messages and obscene tags attached.

  “She shouldn’t have taken those pictures in the first place.”

  “That’s just the kind of girl she is.”

  This tag reads: “Clap your hands if you’ve seen Jill’s pix!!”


  Jill Valencia ended up transferring to another school, but her name is still here. Everywhere.

  That could be me.

  My phone buzzes.

  I don’t want to look at it. I figure it’s Asha saying she’s sorry. No, Asha wouldn’t admit she’s wrong—not now, maybe not ever. It must be Emma.

  After forcing in a few more deep breaths and trying to calm my pounding heart, I look at the screen. It’s a new ChitChat message. I freeze.

  TELLTALE♥: YOU LOOKED LOVELY AT YOUR INTERVIEW YESTERDAY

  The dingy white stall full of scrawled messages suddenly seems like a tiny cage. The Lysol smell makes me feel sick. My breath is coming in shallow gasps. I feel the fear fluttering in my heart.

  Were you watching me? I want to ask. Are you watching me now?

  I slide the lock open on the door and step out to the sink area, glancing around. The bathroom is empty. All the doors to the stalls are open. No one else is here.

  Carefully, I put my phone on the countertop and turn on the faucet, letting the water run into the sink. There are tears pooling in my eyes and I splash some water on my face to wash them away. My mascara makes dark smudges under my eyes and, almost automatically, I reach for a paper towel to wipe it off. There are so many other things to think about right now, but I’m worried about what I look like? But if I didn’t, none of this would be happening.

  When I finish wiping my eyes, I glance back into the mirror. For a minute, I think someone else is standing there in front of me and she looks terrified. But no. It’s me.

  I look back at my screen—there is nothing more there—then back up at the pale face in the mirror. The girl in the mirror has no answers for me. The phone buzzes again.

  TELLTALE♥: ONE MORE THING

  My fingers tighten into a fist.

  The door of the bathroom swings open and Harmony walks in. She nods at me, then stands at the sink beside me, pulling a hairbrush out of her backpack.

  “How’s it going?” Harmony asks, brushing her hair back into a ponytail.

  “Fine,” I say distractedly. I feel a strange waiting stillness inside even though my heart is pounding. Whatever they want, I’ll do it, and all of this will be over. I don’t care that I’m already late to class. All I care about is waiting for the words to pop up on that tiny screen in my hand.

  When they finally do, I reach out to grab the counter for support.

  TELLTALE♥: BREAK UP WITH LUKE

  With those four words, this horrible game changes. It’s no longer about dresses and nail polish. Now it’s about people. The ones in my life who matter. My eyes start to blur. It doesn’t make sense. None of this does. Asha’s always liked Luke and me together. Hasn’t she? So maybe it isn’t Asha. But who?

  My hands shake as I type the same response that I whisper out loud.

  ME: NO

  “Are you okay?” Harmony asks me. Her voice sounds very far away.

  This can’t be real. I’m in a nightmare and can’t wake up. Harmony is still waiting for an answer, her face crinkled in concern.

  “Yeah.” I stumble toward the door, my phone in hand. “I’ll see you later.”

  The next message hits my phone before I even get out into the hall.

  TELLTALE♥: END IT OR ELSE …

  Then the screenshot pops up on my screen—the chubby girl in the tiny, Asha-sized nightie acting like she doesn’t care if anybody sees her.

  As if I didn’t remember what the stakes are.

  RYAN: I SHOULD HAVE TOLD HER ABOUT THE PHOTO.

  HARMONY: THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH IT. SHE LOOKS GREAT.

  RYAN: BUT SHE DOESN’T KNOW.

  HARMONY: YOU’LL TELL HER.

  …

  HARMONY: EVENTUALLY

  Alleycat is a coffee shop tucked behind the major storefronts on College Avenue. You go up a flight of wooden stairs, and the café takes up the whole top floor of the old building. The ceiling has oak beams and brightly painted tiles, with red walls and lime-green ceiling fans.

  A tall guy with a curly ponytail and a hummingbird tattoo on his wrist is behind the bar pouring steamed milk into a large ceramic cup. He nods and smiles at me when I come through the door. I breathe in the smell of coffee and muffins.

  I spot Ryan at a table by the windows, where he’s reading a book and eating a blueberry scone. We’re both off work this evening, so when I texted him to meet me here, he agreed right away. Normally, I might feel a little guilty about not hanging out with Luke instead, but Luke has soccer practice. Plus, I remind myself that I can’t exactly go to Luke for advice about this latest demand.

  “Hi,” I say to Ryan, walking over.

  Ryan looks up from his book. “Hi,” he says, quickly closing the book and pushing it into his backpack under the table, but not before I see the title.

  “Tocqueville’s Democracy in America?” I’m surprised.

  He pulls the book out again, his cheeks turning a little red. “I saw you recommended it online. Thought I’d check it out.”

  He’s reading Tocqueville because of me?

  “Are you stalking me?” I joke.

  He laughs. “It’s on social media, so it’s not exactly a secret.”

  I take off my coat and brush back my hair from my face, sitting down in the chair across from Ryan. “The wind is crazy out there.”

  “Haven’t you heard, March comes in like a lion? You need something to warm you up. Mike’s making me a vanilla latte.” He gestures to the barista with the ponytail behind the counter. “You want one, too?”

  “Sure,” I say, still thinking about the book. Ryan gets up to grab us the coffees. When he comes back with two steaming cups, I thank him and then have to ask, “So what do you think about the book?” I try to sound nonchalant.

  “It’s slow going for me, but interesting.”

  I nod and take a sip of the hot drink. “Did you know that Tocqueville was sent to America from France to study the prison system, but he used his official business to study society instead?”

  “To be honest, I haven’t gotten very far,” Ryan says with a smile. He sips his latte, too. “Promise you won’t be disappointed in me if I don’t finish it?”

  I cross my heart. “I promise. I’m a total nerd for loving this stuff.” But I am happy to hear that Ryan is at least interested in it all.

  Ryan pushes the book across the table. “Enlighten me. What do you find so fascinating about his observations?”

  If it’s a challenge, I accept it. I pick up the book and flip the pages until I get to the section I want to read out loud. “This is what Tocqueville said about American women … ‘She thinks for herself, speaks with freedom, and acts on her own impulse.… She is full of reliance on her own strength.… It is rare that an American woman, at any age, displays childish timidity or ignorance.… I have been frequently surprised and almost frightened at the singular address and happy boldness with which young women in America continue to manage their thoughts.… an American woman is always mistress of herself.’ ”

  Ryan grins. “Pretty smart for a French aristocrat living in the 1800s.”

  I think about how appropriate the words are to my current situation. It’s like Tocqueville is standing there whispering in my ear.

  Am I truly thinking for myself? Or is the person with the screenshot thinking for me?

  I close the book and push it back across the table. I’m about to tell Ryan about the latest demand from my blackmailer, but then he asks me another question.

  “Why do you want to get involved in politics?” He studies me, sipping his drink.

  I give myself a minute to consider. “Because … it impacts everything I can see from this chair.” I spread my arms out, trying to show the scope. I feel the passion rise in my voice. “From the drink prices listed on the menu to the wages the guy makes behind the counter.”

  I break off and look out the window, down toward the parking lot below. “Like that woman out there walking with the little boy. Maybe
she needs dependable childcare so she can work and support her family. Maybe she’s walking because there isn’t a good system of transportation in our city.” I pause and turn in my chair. “And that guy over by the door?” I add in a low voice.

  “The one in the red sweater with the bad cough?” Ryan cocks his head to one side.

  I nod. “Maybe he needs to go to a doctor, but can’t afford it,” I say earnestly. “The government touches everything we do. And being in government can create real change. I want to be a part of it.”

  Ryan smiles. “You want to save the world?”

  “Maybe not that,” I say. “But I do want to make a difference.”

  “So I see why getting that summer internship is a really big deal to you.”

  “Yeah. I want to learn everything I can this summer, and next year I’d like to run for student body president.”

  Ryan looks impressed. “Sounds like you have it all planned out.”

  If someone doesn’t ruin it for me.

  I shove my hands into my hair, avoiding Ryan’s eyes. Expectation is a funny thing. It can make you want to try really hard to reach that bar just over your head, or make you want to give up completely, daunted by the impossibility of it all. Right now my dreams seem like they are dangling just outside my reach and someone else keeps moving the bar higher and higher.

  I return my focus to the latte in front of me and take a long sip. Suddenly, Harmony appears, sliding into the empty chair beside Ryan, with a mug of coffee in her hands. When she takes off her battered wool coat, she’s wearing a black ribbed tank top. It’s in stark contrast to her pale white skin, but it does show off the impressive definition of her upper arms.

  “I thought you were working today,” I say, surprised to see her. But I’m also surprised to not feel annoyed by her presence. I don’t mind that she’s here.

  Harmony grimaces. “Mr. King let me go early, because I worked a double shift last night. I had to do all the price changes in Hardware before I left, though. Who knew cutting twenty-three cents off paintbrushes could be so difficult?”