PRICELESS AT PREP
Suddenly a slide show like the kind people make for birthday parties or weddings begins. Wallace Reid seems to be the star. In a selfie, he shows off that ridiculous, blinding gold chain he wears around his neck. In the next shot, he’s got Vanessa and Jocelyn on either arm, but it’s really about the bling: he’s awkwardly turned sideways, showing off his True Religion jeans and his Yeezy 750 Boosts.
People in the stands start laughing. Cheering. What is this?
Speaking of Yeezy, whoever made this slideshow is doing a damn good job syncing the images with Kanye’s lyrics about a living spree and how the best things in life aren’t free at all.
Did Wallace do this himself?
He’s staring up at the LCD, confused. Now he looks to some of his teammates. More looks toward the tech guys in the sound-and-light booth.
Now on the LCD: a Snapchat video that Wallace appears to have shot with a selfie stick while driving around the Prep parking lot in his Mercedes-Benz CLA250 coupe—custom matte-black paint job—the day before school, freestyling: “The Bulldogs are the baddest of the mad, the maddest of the bad, we dominate, berate, captivate, elevate,” and, “I’m livin’ large, the ladies know I’m in charge,” and so on.
From the blank, gaping looks around the court, it’s clear nobody knows what the hell this is or why it’s playing now.
“You make a PSA for yourself, Wallace?” Dylan shouts out.
Wallace shrugs, but he’s enjoying himself—smiling, owning the fact that all eyes are on him. Always quick to follow a trend, Vanessa snaps a couple of cheerleaders into gear, getting them singing and dancing along. A couple of Instas in the stands follow suit.
Not surprisingly, the St. Andrew’s players and fans are less enthusiastic. Heads shake and eyes roll. Cries to turn it off come from their side.
The sequence ends with a Vine of Wallace putting on an Alexander McQueen leather-and-python jacket in Neiman Marcus. The Vine loops over and over again, Wallace smirking as his shoulders bulge under the tight leather. Now another headline pops up on the screen in big, bold letters:
ANNUAL SCHOLARSHIP TO PREP FOR “UNDERPRIVILEGED” ATHLETE: $45K
Wallace definitely did not do this. Someone’s mocking the fact that Wallace is technically on financial aid but clearly doesn’t need it.
Someone is fighting dirty.
Up comes a new screenshot now. It takes me a second, but soon I understand it’s a blown-up series of text messages from the phones of various boys on the basketball team. They detail a plan to haze the JV players, make them run a mile around the track at midnight next Wednesday, naked, the slowest guy having to do shots of barbecue sauce.
The look on Wallace’s face as he turns to look at Palmer says it all: Wtf? But soon it’s clear this show isn’t over, and what comes next is a shocker: a series of text messages between Wallace and Ms. Sozio, Prep’s dance teacher, including such poetic verse as, Okay, schoolboy, you ready to start learning? And, I don’t have an apple for you, teacher. But you like bananas better anyway, don’t you?
Now it’s clear to everyone what’s happening.
Wallace’s cell phone has been hacked. In a big way.
Another headline appears:
MULTIPLE HOTEL RENDEZVOUS WITH A PREP TEACHER: $1K
Oh, wait. Is this like those MasterCard commercials?
Jaws around the gym drop in my peripheral vision. There’s a collective holy shit in the crowd. My own face is burning red. And none of this has anything to do with me.
Wallace shakes his head, trying to deny it. But Kanye continues:
Welcome to the good life.
And up comes another screenshot: Wallace’s dad forwarded him an email from Mrs. O’Brien, of Prep’s financial aid office, which confirms that Wallace has received another year of a full scholarship to Prep. On a financial hardship basis.
Then the last headline:
GETTING PAID TO PLAY FOR PREP WHILE LIVING LARGE AND FUCKING A TEACHER:
PRICELESS
Suddenly the screen goes blank.
Ms. Sozio, who until now has been invisible in the stands, becomes the center of attention as more and more people stare at her. People call her name, and those around her start to step away. She tries to stand strong, ballerina posture in full effect, but it’s no match for all the judging eyes, and she quickly slumps.
A Prep mother shouts, “Shame on you!” and one of the gym teachers shuttles Ms. Sozio out of the gym.
Now all eyes are back on Wallace. “What? I’m eighteen!” he calls out. But a few of his Prep teammates, evidently shocked, start to put more space between them and him. People in the stands are starting to shout stuff at him, some congratulatory, some ugly.
Wallace breathes heavily, shoulders rising and falling. Anger, shame, and fear swirl on his face. Palmer is talking to him, trying to calm him down, but, like a wild animal cornered, Wallace reacts instinctively. Suddenly he’s tearing through the stands, leaping over benches, not caring if he knocks into people or steps on them.
Soon everyone realizes who he’s after: Haven.
I point my camera to get a better look. Rad’s already staring at me, wide-eyed, desperately trying to communicate something. I finally get it—her lips and arm motions are saying: You better be catching this!
I start clicking away.
Haven’s laughing louder than anybody, literally shaking with laughter.
Of course: this is Haven’s style.
When Wallace reaches him, he cocks back his fist. Haven doesn’t flinch or put up his hands to defend himself. He just keeps laughing, evidently too stoned to be concerned. It will be tough to sustain that laugh while spitting out broken teeth.
Andrew launches himself in front of Haven just in time, and the three guys tumble and roll into the aisle, Haven and Andrew coming out on top, Haven sitting on Wallace’s chest, Andrew pinning Wallace’s arms. The crowd really starts to go nuts, seeing Wallace brought down by a techie and a stoner-jock. Palmer leaps up into the stands and tries to break it up. To pull Wallace back down onto the court.
But suddenly everyone freezes as a mechanical voice roars throughout the gym: “If you want to see all of Wallace Reid and more, visit Prepfortruth.com.”
“It’s so crazy,” I say, lying on Rad’s bed an hour later. “His whole life is just out here for everyone to see.”
“Don’t waste your sympathy,” Rad says, handing me a cup of freshly brewed tea. “He probably uses the same password for everything, and that password is probably one-two-three-four or his birthday or the name of his pet gerbil or something.”
“You think?” I say uncertainly, then: “Mmm, this tea rules.”
“Dad makes killer chai. Anyway, Wallace will come out of this fine. I’m sure his buds are just bursting with pride that he was sleeping with hot little Ms. Sozio.”
For the rest of the night, we’ll be doing what every other kid at Prep is doing: violating Wallace’s privacy. I never realized what a great distraction from my own problems violating someone else’s privacy could be. It’s pretty twisted, actually. But it gets worse too: I’d love to tell you that I cared about the inner workings of Wallace Reid. But the honest, ugly truth is, Wallace isn’t who I want to know more about.
I need to know WTF Wallace was talking about the other night when he said those things about Palmer. I’m hoping the answers lie somewhere on Prepfortruth.com.
I can’t shake his mysterious words. Wallace called me cool. Too cool. He even brushed off Vanessa. I may have been a sheet or two to the wind at that point, but no amount of beer could make that conversation seem normal. As grateful as I am to be on the road to recovery with my friends, back where I belong, there’s this annoying itch at the back of my brain that I need to scratch like a mother. I need some kind of closure.
Rad has already changed into her ancient Hannah Montana crop top and her flannel PJ bottoms and popped in her Invisalign retainer. Suddenly she starts laughing so hard, it
sounds like she’s wheezing.
“What?”
“Wallace must take two dozen shirtless selfies a day. And he sends the same ones to Jocelyn as he does to Ms. Sozio. He doesn’t even customize.” Rad makes a tsk-tsk sound. “Wallace, you’re not just cheesy, you’re lazy too. Bad combo.” She swivels the screen around to show me a shot of Wallace flexing in front of a mirror, sucking in his cheeks to accentuate his jawline and pouting Kylie Jenner–style. She swivels the screen back. “And whenever he goes to the mall, he sends his mother pictures of his clothes from the dressing room. That’s who he was sending that ridiculous snap of himself trying on that python-leather jacket to?”
“We do that too, Rad,” I point out.
“We’re not dudes.”
“How long do you think it’s going to take for Wallace’s parents’ lawyers to get this thing taken down?”
Rad’s eyes scan the screen. “Who knows? This is freaking endless. So much to parse. His entire iPhone must’ve just gotten dumped. There’s stuff going back almost a year. Do you think we can print any of it in the Xandria?”
“Probably not.”
Her face, glowing from the unhealthy distance it is from the screen, falls a little. I nuzzle up to her to see the screen. Whether she can print it or not, the amount of Wallace’s stuff that’s been dumped here is overwhelming. My eyes start randomly picking out lines in which I recognize other names, mostly Instagrams.
A text exchange between Wallace and Jack Connolly, another senior:
Wallace: Who’s hotter Kate Upton or Hannah Davis?
Jack: Upton.
Wallace: Right answer.
Or this, with Meg Clare, a senior, midpyramid spirit squadder:
Wallace: Joss told me you have the geo tests from last year?
Meg: Sorry, threw ’em out
Wallace: Damn!
Wallace: What r u doing tonight? Come help me study.
Palmer’s name jumps out at me everywhere, of course. I’m trying to play it cool right now with Rad—to not even let her sense what my real curiosity is about. But I can’t keep my eyes from focusing anywhere else.
From a few weekends ago:
Palmer: Yo Wally come play Madden. My mom’s gonna order pizza.
Wallace: Yo I’ll CUM over if I can be your moms pizza boy. Tell her I deliver!
Palmer: Don’t, dude. Seriously.
From the beginning of the basketball season:
Wallace: That game was ratchet! Get these underclass hos to the gym pronto.
I notice, relieved, that Palmer never replied to this.
“Amazing how little guys talk when they talk,” Rad says, shaking her head.
“You’re so right…,” I agree. “Almost nothing about how anyone feels.”
“Oh my God!” Rad exclaims. “Except for these.” She points to the screen.
Wallace: Dude Jocelyn takes so long to finish I don’t think I’ll ever get this crick out of my neck! I’ve gotta stay away from her before game nights! Jump shot’s gonna be off!
And:
Wallace: Ms S likes me to wear her undies when I’m in her class. #pussywhipped.
We spiral into a giggle fit, Rad bent into the fetal position, clutching her stomach.
“This is the most I’ve worked out in years!” she hoots.
I wipe at the tears streaming from my eyes. When I sober up from wheeze-laughing, I say, “Can we look for stuff about Palmer? About Palmer and me.”
“That’s clearly an awful, self-destructive idea…but fine.” Rad rips the laptop away and types my name into the search box. Then she starts summarizing Palmer’s texts in which my name comes up:
“You and Palmer are going to a movie, so you can’t hang out with Wallace. Neither you nor Jocelyn has seen any of the Mission: Impossible movies, and Wallace just can’t believe how chicks have no appreciation for fine action cinema. Blah, blah, blah. How did you choose these snoozefest losers over moi, Anna? I’ll never understand….”
Rad scrolls faster. “Okay, what’s Palmer’s cell number? Let’s just search it and put you out of your misery.”
I give it to her. Rad’s fingers fly across the keyboard. “Bingo!”
A messenger thread from late September:
Wallace: Hey man, sick moves at practice today. You gotta help me with my fade this weekend. Still down to shoot? We can roll to Vanessa’s together after. Dude, that girl wants you bad. No foreplay necessary, if you know what I mean…
Palmer: Hey. Definitely down to ball. You can come to my place, we got a half court out back. Gonna pass on the party, though. Anna and I are seeing a movie….A little foreplay necessary ;)
Wallace: Anna? That weirdo art girl?? Does she even know how to talk? Not that talking matters. Dude, Vanessa’s a SURE THING. #Readyandwaiting.
Now Rad finds a text exchange from right after Christmas:
Palmer: You around? I’m bored af.
Wallace: Thought you’d be with Anna. She away?
Palmer: Nah.. Just getting tired of that.
Wallace: Aww yeaahh wore out that pony?
Palmer: lol u could say that
Palmer: Don’t wanna worry about it anymore
Rad tenses next to me as we finish reading it aloud. “Wow,” she says. “What an asshole. You okay?”
I nod, breathing deeply through my nose. Maybe that’s all I was to him. A weird girl he thought he could get with, but couldn’t, so he moved on. Maybe this is the closure I was looking for. I just wish it felt a little better.
“Guys are dicks—” But now Rad stops short.
“What?”
“Anna…”
“What?”
“You see this?” Rad asks. Her tone is serious, the same one she uses for newspaper meetings and when talking to her father. It snaps me from anxious to attentive. I lean in close to the screen with her, almost cheek to cheek. “Whoa.”
She points me to a group text from November that hopped between Wallace, Palmer, and Dylan Johnson.
Wallace: Got Juice brahh?
Palmer: Man, I’m struggling hard.
Dylan: Your knee bothering you still?
Palmer: Kind of…idk it’s weird. I just don’t feel
Wallace: You need some of D’s holy water
Palmer: ?
Dylan: ha I like that
Wallace: lol that beyonce song would be your theme
Wallace: I NEED YOUR HALO HALO HALOOOO
Palmer: seriously ?????
Dylan: If you need a boost I can help u out.
Palmer: Ohh okay. I’ll call you later
Rad already has another tab open, diligently researching, while my stomach has wound itself into the tightest of knots. But I already know what they’re saying.
Know that sinking feeling that comes right before someone tells you something awful, that split second when you see the look in their eyes and your stomach turns to pins and needles? Could this be what Wallace was talking about?
Are they taking steroids?
We non-Instas may joke about the reigning clique, suggesting their teenage superstardom doesn’t come naturally—and don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of sweet-sixteen boob jobs and bottle blondes to provide the seeds for those rumors—but to have actual evidence, black-and-white text damning three of our starting basketball players as cheaters…well, that sinking feeling pretty much sums it up.
“This is huge,” Rad says. “Like, Lance Armstrong huge.”
Now she’s clicking and typing like mad, in full journalist mode. Halo is another slangish term for a certain steroid, Rad relays, and seconds later she’s on a page outlining the NCAA bylaws. I close my eyes, breathe.
“Does it say they actually took them anywhere?” I ask finally.
Rad pauses, biting her lip, then sighs. “Well…no. Wallace might be dumb as rocks, but Palmer was smart enough to do business over the phone or in person.”
“If he even did—”
“Seriously, Anna? You’re gonna de
fend him right now?”
Her words are sharp, but I push past them. “We can’t know for sure. You just said there isn’t evidence—”
“This isn’t an episode of Suits. What more do you need?”
“Even if this isn’t true, Palmer could lose scholarships, not get into college, ruin his life over nothing. Nobody deserves that,” I say, surprised by my own persistence.
Rad leans back. “Like how you threw away your social life? Over a dumb jock?”
I think she might start shouting, but she can see I’m upset, and suddenly now, she softens. “Palmer got in your head last semester, but this has to be obvious to you now. He’s a dick. Don’t give him the benefit of anything.”
I love her for feeling protective of me, even after I’ve been such a bad friend. Yet, against all the good judgment in the world, I want to text Palmer. Part of me is trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. Innocent until proven guilty, right? Maybe part of me can’t believe I threw my friends away for someone who was lying to me the whole time and who told his friend he was tired of me. Last but not least: did I screw everything up with Jethro by letting him believe I might still like this guy?
Rad yawns and (as if reading my manic thoughts) adds, “If you hadn’t pulled a Gone Girl on your real friends, we would’ve been there to point out the warning signs. Maybe even saved Christmas, Cindy Lou Who–style.”
Slipping under the covers, I tell her I’ve got a headache from staring at the screen for so long. “Okay, okay. Enough for now.”
She snaps out the light and gets under the covers with me.
“Hey, Rad?” I say into the dark.
“Yeah?”
“You know I love you, right?”
Silence. “Show, don’t tell,” she says.
At least I’m not alone right now.
Monday morning.
Thirty-six hours since Wallace’s phone was hacked. Going on seventy-two since I’ve seen or heard from Jethro.
By last night, the court of Prep opinion had already ruled that Palmer, Dylan, and Wallace must be juicing. Some people think the basketball season should be canceled entirely. Some think the guys should be suspended. No one cares that there isn’t any proof. Or that they’re all denying it completely. Saying it was a joke.
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