“I guess so. Yeah.”
Rad pushes my shoulder. “Well, you should count your lucky stars.”
“Why?”
“That you’re a boring texter. Or you might not be going to RISD after all.”
She’s right. Rad and I must have sent each other more than ten thousand texts in the last five years, since we got our phones. But we saved our bitchiest talk for in person.
If only I’d been more boring when I was texting Palmer.
After a long silence, Rad whispers, “Anything from Jethro?”
I shake my head.
“Haven’s back,” she says. “Totally messed up about the Jethro thing. I think Haven might murder his dad.” Rad stares off down the hallway. “Maybe I should find him. Ask him to put me out of my misery instead.”
—
A mixture of acrylic, turpentine, clay, patchouli, and oddly inoffensive body odor is in the air as I walk inside the art lab. Mr. Touhey’s old-fashioned, paint-spattered stereo is playing a Jefferson Airplane CD. At least one person is refusing to be cowed or changed by the leaks.
“Anna. Welcome to the party,” he says.
I stare, confused. Party? He points toward the back of the room. A bunch of students are clustered around Kyle Cherski’s workstation. They’re laughing and pointing at his drawings with awe. No one is beating Kyle up. No, Mr. Too Marginal to Even Be on the Periphery is now the center of attention, apparently all thanks to the leak and the legion of new fans of his Instagram-bashing caricatures.
I do my best to block out the sounds of Kyle’s fans and focus on my self-portrait. Settling into my work space, I stare at the light-pink contours of my own lips, my too-square-for-a-girl jawline. I take a brush and try to add some shadow on my chin, but I’m rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.
My brush goes down. I close my eyes.
When I started this piece, it all made sense to me. I wanted a self-portrait that represented the central duality of my life: how I see myself versus how others see me. But now—after everything that’s happened—I’m not sure it’s that simple. Like, all of a sudden, I’m starting to wonder if I’m even capable of seeing myself accurately. Am I as warped as I think I am? Or does this selfie portrait not warp me enough?
Sure, a selfie portrait is obvious. But the flip side is that it couldn’t be more topical. So, in other words, whether it’s any good all depends on how well I paint it. It’s all in the execution. Will I be able to execute a portrait that communicates everything I want it to? Or will it execute me?
Obviously the latter. Who am I trying to kid?
“Anna?”
It’s Mr. Touhey’s voice calling me, but I don’t even want to open my eyes. I don’t want him to see how much I hate this stupid painting in front of me. The second an artist doubts her own work, everyone else will too.
“Anna?”
Finally I glance toward him. Mr. Touhey is standing with a woman I recognize from the front office. Motioning for me.
Blech.
—
I’m in the waiting area outside Nichols’s office, staring at a map of the D.C. metro area during the Civil War. Nichols was a history teacher before he became a headmaster, and he’s big on reminding us that Virginia fought on the wrong side. He says it at least twice a year in chapel. I wonder which side of this war he thinks he’s fighting on.
The door opens, spits out a tiny boy, then closes again. He’s no more than five foot two, and he looks like he might blow away in a high wind.
“Hey, wait a minute. You’re Timmy Tepper,” I say.
He snorts a little. Clearly enjoying his new infamy. “You’re Anna Soler, right?”
“Where do you get off talking such crap about everyone?” There’s something about his weaselly little face—specifically his big mouth and the despicable words that’ve been spewing out of it the past week—that’s bringing out my temper.
Timmy smiles. “My parents make me go to church every Sunday. Do you know what I prayed for all last year?”
“Puberty?”
“Proof He exists. And now I have it! And he has a wicked sense of humor too!”
I shake my head. “How will you feel when all your stuff gets leaked, asshole?”
“Believe me, Anna, if my stuff ever gets leaked, it’ll be great for ratings.” He stares at me silently for a few seconds. “I assume they called you in to ask you about Jethro Stephens?” he asks.
“I don’t even know.” I glower at him. “What are you doing here?”
Timmy glances at the closed door behind him. “Nichols is trying to suspend me on a technicality. He’s saying I left campus during a nonsanctioned period, even though I had it free, even though everyone else does it. He thinks he’s so clever, trying to shut down my show. We’ll see….”
—
“And you have absolutely no idea where he might be?”
“Hiding from the PTA and their pitchforks?” I laugh nervously.
“This is a serious matter, Ms. Soler.”
“Falsely accusing my friend of hurting all of us without any proof? Or the school app illegally recording all our data in the first place?”
Luckily, miraculously, I don’t cross whatever line would have gotten me into trouble with Headmaster Nichols today. I’m excused from the administration office after giving a promise to let them know if I find out anything about where he is.
Yeah, right.
I slump out of the office and head to lunch.
Nikki made me promise I’d sit with her, and I’m keeping my word despite the fact that a crowded dining hall is the last hell on earth I want to be in right now. There’s no wait at the salad bar, so I grab a tray, throw a couple of lettuce leaves on a plate, a few tomatoes and tofu chunks, then pour on blue-cheese dressing. I’m a huge eater, normally. Like, chocolate is terrified when it hears my footsteps huge.
I get a fork and a napkin and begin the long walk to the seating area through a cacophony of noise and arguments and gossip, half the room secretly looking at their phones. I watch a girl I don’t know dump a plate of food in a senior boy’s lap as he calls her a whore. Here’s a sophomore yelling at her friends about her supposed Oxy addiction and storming off. There’s a junior cackling and showing dirty selfies from one of the leaks to guys I barely know. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
How benign this place used to be—how ordered and controlled and quaint. How could it ever have scared me? Every group had its own table and section of the room. Each group might not have respected or liked every other group, but at least all the groups recognized one another’s right to physically exist and breathe Prep air.
Now the vibe is animalistic. In fact, I have a new understanding of the expression dog eat dog. The kids in this room seem to have gone in one of two directions, both canine: junkyard dog, frothing at the mouth, ready to rip out a throat; or abused rescue, cringing in the corner.
I spot Nikki.
She’s at a table in the back with Andrew. Like practically everyone else, they’re buried in their phones. Teachers aren’t bothering to even try to enforce the no-cell-phone rule anymore. They probably don’t have the energy to put up a fight.
As I sit with them, I see Rad ten feet away, holding her tray uncertainly. And I can tell from the angle of her head that she’s watching Nikki. Finally she takes a small step forward.
Nikki looks up from her iPhone. She places it on the table and slams her hands down to cover the chair Rad is hovering over. Like, physically blocks her from sitting down. “Do me a favor, Rad. Get out of my sight.”
Rad’s blinking rapidly, trying to keep the tears away.
Andrew intervenes. “Don’t be such a hard-ass, Nik. We’re all still friends here.”
Nikki, looking at Andrew but chucking a thumb in Rad’s direction, says, “She is not my friend. Friends don’t lie to friends about who they are.” I feel my stomach go watery as Nikki continues: “And, Andrew, you might be feeling all warm and fuzzy and special
right now because Rad let you touch her tits or whatever, and it looks like you’re the only guy who’s ever done that, but spare me, okay?”
Rad starts to say something. “Nik—”
But she’s cut off by the sound of Timmy Tepper’s voice: “Tepper here with Vanessa Eubanks to give you dish with your lunch.” His voice leaps out of Nikki’s cell phone speaker and the cell phone speakers of practically everyone else in the dining hall. Nikki stares at her phone, refusing to look at Rad.
Rad wipes the tears on her face and hurries away. It’s the first time I’ve seen her cry in years. I want to follow her, to drape my arm over her shoulder and remind her to breathe. I start to stand. But as I do, Nikki turns to me, anger in her eyes. An edge in her voice I’m not used to. “So, Anna. Who are you eating lunch with today?”
I drop back into my seat. This is a lose-lose situation.
That’s when I hear Vanessa’s voice coming through Nikki’s phone. “The saddest thing is that Palmer didn’t even sign yet. Maybe if he’d committed earlier they could sweep it under the rug. But what school in their right mind would want to sign him now?”
Then Timmy: “The steroids might not even show up in his system anymore.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Vanessa says cheerfully. “He’s damaged goods.”
“Can you, like, turn that off, please?” I snap. Nikki looks surprised. “Look,” I tell her, “I’m sorry, but I can’t take it anymore. First Jethro, now Palmer? No one deserves to be strung up like this, not even the dude who dumped me.”
Nikki leans in. “Have you talked to him?”
I sigh. “Yes. Whatever Palmer and I were before…he’s still my friend, and he’s in pain. And Vanessa has gotten away with too much of this shit.”
It’s then that I realize—against all my SAD instincts—I have to go talk to Vanessa.
It’s time to stop her.
I go to the senior lounge. And wait. Half an hour later Vanessa finally struts past, returning from whatever secret location she and Timmy are recording the live stream from off campus, and I quietly follow her to the first-floor bathroom. She doesn’t seem to see me, or she’s just completely ignoring me. She’s applying liquid eyeliner as I walk into one of the stalls and find a plunger, then walk back out and jam the wooden end tightly between the door bottom and the floor so no one can come in.
I know she knew I was here, but it takes this to get her to look at me.
“Here’s the deal,” I begin. “There’s a lot of messed-up stuff going around these days. The last thing Palmer needs right now is you out there saying crap about him,” I tell her. “Any chance he has to figure this out, you’re making it worse for him.”
Vanessa glances back at me in the mirror. “Don’t worry, it can’t get any worse. They’re saying he brought the drugs to school now. Like, kept them in his locker, so he might not even be able to graduate. You should just be glad I decided to leave that part out.”
“I thought you were his friend,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “Are you mad ’cause he doesn’t want you? Or are you just throwing Palmer under the bus so you can make everyone forget what you are?”
Vanessa works on her mascara. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“An attention whore? A cheerleader who thinks it matters? Or…how about a vulture, eating whatever piece of Instagram boy meat is freshest? How long did it take after we were done before you were all over Palmer?”
Finally Vanessa turns directly to me. “I think you’re still a little drunk on your fifteen minutes, Anna. Don’t worry, the hangover’s coming.”
“Just stop talking about him, Vanessa.”
“I’m pretty sure you should be talking about him and everything else,” she says. Now Vanessa crosses her arms and smiles. “To your therapist, that is. Maybe she can tell you how to avoid rebounding with a close friend.”
“What?”
“Or how about how to fix a friend breakup? Why don’t you start with not ditching all your friends?”
I’ve never gotten physically violent in my life. But right now Vanessa stares at me with a disgusted little smirk, and I want to punch her right in her overly whitened teeth. Shatter them Insurgent virtual reality–style.
“The worst part is,” Vanessa continues, “you think you and Palmer were actually boyfriend and girlfriend. It was so sad, really.”
Some defense mechanism goes off in my brain, and I can’t resist saying, “Really, Vanessa? ’Cause Palmer was at my house last night, trying to get back together with me.”
“I’m not talking about Palmer.”
I squint at her. “Think you might be the drunk one, Vanessa.”
Vanessa reaches back into her purse, pulls out a tube of lip gloss. “You were the one faking it. You ditched the people you belong with because you wanted Palmer to convince everyone else that you aren’t the freak you know you are inside. That’s what all you people do. You’re so desperate for one of us to smile at you! Then we do, and you forget about the fact that you never liked basketball or drinking at parties or any of the rest of it. You try to become someone else—someone people might mistake for interesting. And that’s why you sayonara’d your friends, Anna. Not because Palmer needed you to. You got rid of them because it’s a lot harder to sell yourself a lie about who you really are when people who’ve known you for years are still hanging around.”
“You’ve been a delusional bitch since sixth grade,” I spit. “No one cared about you before middle school, and no one will care about you after we leave high school.”
I slap the lip gloss from her hand.
Except I don’t.
My hand totally whiffs, and the momentum of my arm sends me in a quarter circle. I’m so dizzy that I just slapped the air.
“Wow, Soler,” Vanessa says, applying her lip gloss calmly. “Just…wow.”
I turn, remove the plunger from under the door, and throw it across the bathroom. I’m shaking from head to toe as I walk out of Ewing and onto the quad. It’s an unusually warm day. I think I hear birds chirping, but I’m in such a daze, I really can’t focus on what’s happening around me. I don’t know where I’m going, so eventually I stop. In front of me is Dwight Library. A couple of sophomore girls play Hacky Sack nearby.
As I try to regain my balance, a buzzer pierces my eardrums.
The school PA rings out across the quad. Nichols’s voice booms through it.
“Lunch is cut short. All students report to the nearest classroom, administrative office, or gymnasium immediately. We are on a schoolwide lockdown, and no one is coming in or out. This is not a drill.”
Out the library windows, we see two Alexandria Police patrol cars swerve off the street and onto campus. They come to a quick stop in front of the main administration building. Four cops hop out, and a female officer brings out a huge German shepherd from the backseat. If this were a drill, of which there are two each year, then these officers would not be in a rush. Already the hashtag #PrepLockdown is blowing up. I scan through Snapchat and see phrases like weapons threat called in and maniac on the loose.
As far as I know, this is the first time police have ever been on campus for something real. I’m still feeling dizzy.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see an arm waving furiously at me. It belongs to Haven, sitting at a table catty-corner from mine. I haven’t seen him since last night, before the Prep parents’ meeting. It’s the first time he’s been back at school this week. I walk over, relieved to see a friendly face, and kneel next to him.
“You okay?” I ask as he pulls out his earbuds.
“I mean, kinda. But I’m not the one to worry about.”
“Nothing from Jethro?”
He shakes his head somberly.
A librarian appears at my side—apparently I’ve overstepped the lockdown rules for a hair too long, and I’m escorted back to my seat. Haven rolls his eyes behind the librarian’s back and, waving bye to me, puts his earbuds back in. Others around the room are pullin
g headphones on too, I notice, and I know why.
A sophomore at the table behind mine is playing the live stream at a really low volume. As much as I want to say, Can you turn that garbage off? I sit still, listening.
“…Nichols got me on a technicality. That’s right, loyal listeners, suspended for one week, as of two minutes ago. You heard it here first.” Timmy sounds a little wounded. “What’s interesting is that a lot of student behavior—much of it covered in depth by this podcast—is grounds for a suspension, but none of those students have been punished by the Prep administration. Does anyone else smell a witch hunt? Well, I won’t be intimidated or bullied into silence.”
A few kids pump their fists in the air in support.
“There is a lot to cover today,” Timmy says, off and running, “including up-to-the-minute updates on the NCAA investigation into Palmer Meade’s steroid use. Apparently he is now being forced to submit to testing by every university interested in him. And the drugs he juiced with can stay in your system for up to forty days. Time to do some calendar math, people.”
As I focus on breathing calmly in my chair, I imagine throwing the iPad out the glass window, smashing that little weasel’s voice to bits.
“But before we get to that and other pressing items, we have a listener request. Radhika Mehta, pseudo sexual sophisticate and editor in chief of the Xandria, just sent an unusual one in.”
Huh?
Timmy clears his throat, then plays a drumroll sound effect. “Dear Nikki, Most of the people who’ve been exposed at Prep deserved it, one way or another. Let’s face it. But you are a genuinely nice person. Without a mean bone in your body.”
Timmy pauses, as if to let that sink in, then keeps going. “I want your trust back. The first step is this open letter to tell you and the whole school how badly I treated you and to beg for your forgiveness. You already know it, but so does everyone else now: I am a fake (like a lot of the other schmucks at Alexandria Prep), and, worse than that, I goaded you and lied to your face. But I love you, Nik. I wish I could take it all back, and I wish you could find a way to love me back again, despite the idiotic things I’ve done. Love, your hopefully bestie one day again, Radhika.”
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