Antisocial

by Jillian Blake

  Jethro sighs and tips his head back. “There’s nothing to figure out, Anna.”

  “Of course there is. We’ll prove you had nothing to do with this.”

  “That’s the problem,” Jethro says. “I did.”

  —

  We sit on the hard cement stoop in silence. I have a million questions, but I’m going to let him do the talking. Haven went back inside with Garrett after Jethro asked him to give us a few minutes in private. Jethro pulls out a cigarette he must have gotten from Garrett or Pete—I’ve never seen him smoke before. He cups his hand and protects the flame of his lighter against the wind coming in off the harbor, then takes a long drag.

  “A couple days after Christmas,” he says finally, “I was at Wiseguy Pizza, picking up a pie for me and mom. Palmer and Wallace walk in the door and get in line behind me. I had my hood up, and I guess Palmer didn’t see me standing there. Anyway, I heard Palmer telling Wallace that you and he were done.”

  I have no idea why, but something about the way this story is starting makes me run cold. I cross my arms across my chest. Once upon a time Jethro would have wrapped an arm around me. Not today.

  “So,” he says finally. “The Torpedo Factory was what—less than a week later? And, like I told you, Anna, it was the best night of my life.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know I—”

  “Wait,” he interrupts, his voice a little harsh. “Don’t say you’re sorry to me. You can’t do that. That’s not what this is. And I don’t deserve it.” He takes another drag off the cigarette. “Anyway. After you and I talked the next day…my head wasn’t on straight. When you told me you might still be in love with him, I lost my shit.”

  I stare at him, in shock, barely able to process the words.

  Jethro continues. “That night I was staring at the leaked search terms. Probably trying to figure out which ones were his. I don’t know. But I realized something, and I went digging. If search terms were being recorded by the app, I thought maybe everything was being recorded. Including anything Palmer wrote to you or anyone else on his phone. At first it was just my morbid curiosity. I had to see if you guys were talking again. If he wanted you back too. Or if he was being enough of a dick to you that you’d change your mind.”

  My body feels frozen. Jethro takes one more puff on the cigarette and then puts it out. I try to keep my breath steady and not to look away from the spot in the concrete that my eyes have arbitrarily fixated on. If I do, I might spiral somewhere I don’t want to go. A couple of what I assume are Johns Hopkins sorority girls walk by, laughing and blowing out cold winter air. They look happy, and right now I wish I were going wherever they are—headed off to get loaded at a sorority party or to watch foreign movies or whatever college kids here do.

  “It’s sad how easy it was to get access,” Jethro continues. “A little code plus some social engineering on the network admins, and I saw everything that the Prep for Today app recorded from our phones. An hour later I could see everything anyone had written about Palmer, and everything he typed on his phone.” He swallows hard. “So, it turns out there wasn’t anything that said you two were gonna get back together. I didn’t look at your stuff—but everything in his data told the same story: it was over between you two.”

  “So you were spying on me? Why did you leak Wallace’s stuff?”

  Jethro takes a long breath. “Anna, I know that what I’m telling you is pretty messed up….I remembered the way they were talking at Wiseguy’s, so I went into Wallace’s stuff too. If I leaked Palmer’s information, people would figure out it was me, once they knew about…what happened with us. So I dumped Wallace’s stuff instead.”

  “Wow…Jethro.” I feel like I might throw up.

  “It was stupid, Anna. So stupid. But when I saw all the stuff about Palmer using steroids, I just did it without thinking about what could happen. I wanted to hurt him because you loved him. And I needed you to know he isn’t who he says he is. Not that I even know what that is anymore. Whatever it was you saw in Palmer—how big-time he is, his looks, whatever it was—I needed you to see that some part of him was bullshit. And I thought when you did, it would be over for good.”

  The craziest part about all this is, I still haven’t told Jethro what I planned to say this morning, when we finally sat down face to face: That I’m through with Palmer. That Jethro and I should give it a go. That I’m in love with him. I was going to tell him that we can take the Greyhound bus back and forth from Providence to Boston next year. Now I don’t know what to think.

  “It just got out of my control,” Jethro says. “My leak must’ve gotten other people digging. Someone figured out how to get in like I did and saw the cache of files, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I opened Pandora’s box, and they copycatted me. I’m not asking for you to forgive me, Anna—I know no one ever will. But I would never have intentionally hurt any of our friends like that. I hope you know that.”

  “I don’t know anything,” I sputter.

  Jethro stands, walks down the stairs to the bottom. Lights another cigarette. The sun’s completely set now, and the only light is coming from a flickering street lamp. It’s not just that I’ve been stunned into silence; I’ve been stunned into motionlessness too. And I am only beginning to process my own role in all of this.

  My phone vibrates. A text.

  Searching for any escape route, I check. Only a few people text me, and they’re all my lifelines. What will I tell them? Rad or Nikki or Andrew? With all their lives and friendships in shambles because of what Jethro set in motion, what could I tell them?

  Anna, it’s Vanessa. Tell me if you can talk. We need to talk.

  I stare at the screen. Vanessa—asking if I can talk? Is there anyone on earth less likely to be texting me? Anyone I’d rather talk to less right now?

  But Vanessa—true to her fashion—waits for no one.

  My phone vibrates again. This time, a call. Same number she texted me from.

  I answer. “Vanessa, whatever you want from me, I’m not in the mood—”

  Only, now I hear sounds on the other end of the line. They cut me short. The sound of sobs. From a girl no one even knew had a heart anymore.

  Jethro squints at me from the bottom of the stairs, as confused as I am.

  Vanessa can barely get words out. “Anna…don’t hang up….Palmer is dead.”

  We met in an unlikely place, at least, unlikely for Palmer: the stairwell in front of the art lab. It was the day before the official first day of the school year. I was there at the request of Mr. Touhey to help him and other art faculty members finish a giant Welcome to Prep mural to greet new students. There were a few teachers and staff on campus, but it was otherwise empty. Blissfully empty.

  Which is why it was so improbable that a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy would crash into me as I stepped out of the art lab with an open, freshly stirred half-gallon can of red acrylic paint in hand. There was no time to react when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him flying down the steps and into my left elbow, sending a stream of thick, red paint splashing across the second-floor landing.

  We looked at each other, stunned. I recognized Palmer immediately, of course. Even though I didn’t pay much attention to our basketball team then, he was obviously one of the most talked-about students at Prep. Everyone knew Palmer Meade.

  “Oh shit” was all he said.

  I was surprised my nerves weren’t flaring more. He was the popular, beautiful boy at school, and we’d just had a really awkward introduction. But a summer of Silver Pines had increased my confidence and stability, I guess. Also, the fact that he didn’t say he was sorry immediately really pissed me off.

  “Uh, I guess I’ll say I was trying out a new Jackson Pollock–esque technique and I…missed?” I said, annoyed.

  Palmer still didn’t say anything, not sorry or anything else. He just stood there with a blank look like he could do no wrong.

  Typical Insta guy.

 
; I hurried through the art lab and ran into the supply closet, from which I grabbed a handful of rags, a rusty can of Klean Strip, and a small trash can. When I got back, I was surprised to find Palmer still leaning against the wall. And now I saw what I hadn’t before. He was breathing very heavily.

  “Sorry,” Palmer said quietly. “I’m super sorry.”

  “Uh. It’s okay.”

  I handed a few rags to him, and we got down on our hands and knees, side by side, and started to sop up the mess. “I’m Anna. Anna Soler,” I said after a few moments.

  “I know,” he said between breaths. “Palmer. So…sorry.”

  That’s when I realized that something was wrong—that his heavy breathing wasn’t just some pregame technique for taking in more oxygen. Now I could see that his hands were shaking a little, and his face was too red. Even if I didn’t know the feeling so intimately myself, I could have seen he was having some kind of panic attack.

  He leaned down with his head close to the linoleum floor, trying to steady himself, but it wasn’t working.

  “Palmer, focus on the sound of my voice, okay?” I said. “Take a deep breath. You’re okay. Nice big breath. Now think of the most beautiful, most relaxing place you’ve ever been in your life.”

  It took a second, but Palmer leaned up and finally sucked a big gulp of air into his lungs. I could see the sweat beading at his temples.

  “Good,” I said. “Now let it out slowly. That’s it. OK, once more.”

  By the time the scarlet in Palmer’s cheeks and neck faded, we were both sitting on the floor, smack in the middle of the stairwell landing, me cross-legged, him with his long legs splayed out in front of him.

  “Better?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he sighed, finally lifting his head to meet my eyes.

  And it was when we made eye contact that I felt my pulse quicken. “It’s no big deal—paint is always getting spilled around here,” I managed.

  He laughed a little. “We have a preseason game in half an hour. I was trying to find a private bathroom, someplace…uh…”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, not wanting to press him on whatever he was unsure about saying.

  “Before games,” he said, “I get…nervous. I’m a total pregame puker.”

  “I can’t even imagine,” I say. “I mean, I can.”

  “How’d you know about the breathing thing?” he asked.

  “Let’s just say this isn’t my first panic rodeo.”

  “Gotcha.” His deep-blue eyes searched my face, but he didn’t press.

  “Oh no,” he said, looking at the floor. “It looks like a freaking murder scene.”

  I handed him one of my rags.

  He smiled again, and our fingers grazed. The first time our hands had touched.

  There was a game I used to play at Six Flags: the guy running the booth gives you a metal loop, and you try to guide it along the curve of a wire without touching the wire. Only I was young, and I couldn’t do it well, so when the loop and wire connected by accident, an electric shock—small but sharp—went through my entire body.

  —

  According to my laptop, five days have passed.

  I haven’t left my room since Wednesday night except to see Dr. Bechdel and occasionally sit with my parents at the dinner table. Dad tries to talk about RISD and how bright the future is. Mom’s been trying to feed me, but I’ve eaten a sum total of less than two chicken legs. The shades on my windows are pulled down as far as they’ll go, and I’m sleeping in two- to three-hour bursts when the mood strikes, which isn’t very often. I definitely haven’t been showering. Haven’t seen the point.

  When Vanessa told me Palmer accelerated his car into a telephone pole on Braddock Road, I blacked out or went into some kind of fugue state or something. Jethro cried when he heard, I think. Like, actually wept. I don’t remember where Jethro went then, but Haven (I hear) got me back home to my parents somehow. Apparently I was out of control, crying so hard, wailing. I remember almost none of this, but bits and pieces have been coming back or told to me. I guess once I got home, my mom basically pinned me down and gave me a Xanax from my emergency supply. The “just in case” supply.

  Every time I close my eyes, I see Palmer. I think of what I could have done. I should have asked him about his family more. I should have said something that time I heard his dad laying into him, or encouraged him to take it easy after the injury, told him a thousand times more that I cared about him for who he was, not what he did. I should have dragged him to therapy kicking and screaming. And, no matter how many times Dr. Bechdel and other soothing voices tell me this was all a terrible tragedy—that it was no one’s fault—I feel I share the responsibility.

  Even though I haven’t set foot on Prep’s campus in nearly a week, I’m not out of the loop. My laptop and phone are always in bed with me. My eyes are sore from staring so long. I’m reading through all my feeds, even watching live stuff at school via Facebook Live and Periscope. Timmy Tepper’s podcast drones in my room like white noise. Like I said, I don’t actually care. I just kind of scroll and listen blindly, like I’m looking for something specific or interesting, only I don’t know what that is, exactly.

  Mostly it keeps me from thinking too much.

  From what I hear, the scene at Prep hasn’t gotten any better. You might think it’s a good thing that the old cliques have broken down. That the Instagrams and the Future Leaders of America and the Thesbos have been replaced by We don’t have anything in common but at least you didn’t stab me in the back and Misery loves company and I’ve lost all my friends groups. But it’s not. It’s total chaos.

  There have been dozens of new leaks, and the existing ones have grown and twisted and spread like a disease. Every day another signed Auto-Tune remix pops up on Vimeo or YouTube and sweeps the school, reminding everyone of your eating disorder or your best friend you don’t trust or how you once asked eHow about gender reassignment surgery. A couple of freshmen have tried to one-up Timmy Tepper and are vlogging about the best ones every night. And people don’t even care about staying anonymous anymore. Instead of posting on Yik Yak or Reddit, kids are taking credit for their work.

  It’s like now that our dark sides have been exposed, the dark side seems to be all anyone at Prep wants.

  At least…that’s what it seems like from inside my bedroom.

  My friends have texted, DM’d, called, and even stopped by. My mom’s not even bothering to ask me if I want to see or talk to anyone anymore. She just tells Nikki or Rad or Andrew or Haven that I need more time.

  Mr. Touhey wrote me an actual letter, on the back of a postcard, on the front of which was an old black-and-white photo, by someone named Jacques Henri Lartigue, of a fancy-looking Frenchwoman in furs and a big hat walking two tiny dogs.

  Hey there, kiddo. I know the last couple of weeks have been rough. But I hope you’ll still be able to submit your piece for the show. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Always do what you are afraid to do.” Not bad advice. Advanced Art is counting on you!

  I tore the postcard in half and tossed it in my wastebasket. I retrieved it a few hours later and taped it back together and put it on my nightstand and stared at it for what must have been hours while tears soaked my pillowcase. (There’s been a lot of pillow flipping these days. Cry into one side, flip, cry into other side, flip.)

  The one person I have talked to a little is Haven. A couple of days ago, I asked my personal tech Svengali to retrieve and send me back all my texts and chats with Palmer. All the cruel messages I had tried to delete to save myself. I wound up saving nobody.

  Haven filled me in on what’s happening with Jethro, as much as I could bear to listen to. Jethro confessed to the school and police over email that he was responsible for the initial Wallace leak, but he was still staying away. The police are investigating the leaks, trying to determine whether blame is to be shared. This was a group effort, after all. The school scheduling app recording everything, Jethro thro
wing open the doors, and everyone else feeding on the information, spreading the misery. Nichols and the administration are holding a hearing this week to determine Jethro’s fate.

  I cut Haven off before he could say anything else.

  Thinking about what’ll happen to Jethro is the only thing worse than replaying what already happened between us over and over again in my mind. He made his choices, and I don’t know if we can ever speak again, but I don’t want him to suffer more.

  Worse yet, I miss him so badly.

  —

  Through the door I hear Mom’s voice. “Anna, I’m heading over to the church to pay my respects to Palmer’s family. I thought you might have changed your mind. There’s still time.” She pauses. “Sweetheart, I think you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

  I should go to Palmer’s memorial service. I’ll feel bad if I don’t go. But I can’t go and squeeze into a crowded pew and face all those swarms of people around me who barely knew him saying they’re sorry to me. Or talking to me at all. Memorial service. Just thinking about it makes my head swim, makes it hard to breathe or see.

  “I’ll see you later,” I tell Mom.

  An hour later I’m watching Palmer’s memorial service.

  The Prep administration made the decision to suspend classes for the day, so it appears as if every single student and teacher at Prep is gathered inside the Capitol Hill United Methodist Church. My guess is that a quarter of the kids are filming. Their Periscope and Facebook Live feeds allow me to cut back and forth between various angles, to see everything that’s happening without having to be there.

  It takes a couple of minutes, but eventually I see Nikki, sitting with Andrew (who did show up at Mattie Eizenberg’s house to beat him up but found out that Mattie’s parents had already shipped him off to finish the year at some ruthless military school).

  Finally I see Rad. She’s sitting in the back with Wallace, believe it or not. Rad’s got a hand on his shoulder. I don’t know how they have become friends in the past five days. Strange bedfellows, maybe. Or, in Rad’s case, I guess, anywhere but the bed.