“Thanks, BethAnn,” I say. “That means more to me than you can imagine.”
“Actually, I can imagine,” she says with a grin. “You’ll get through this. It’s going to be brutal for a while, but don’t worry. Sooner or later, the world will move on to the next thing.”
“Roll on, next thing,” I say. “I’m soooo ready for the world to move on.”
It’s kind of crazy-making when you walk into class and can’t figure out if people are looking at you because they’ve read your innermost thoughts or if they just happen to be glancing in that direction or if they just hate your guts anyway or if maybe they just like the outfit you happen to have on that day. If I see two people whispering, I wonder if they’ve read my journal and they’re saying I’m a nerd or I’m crazy or I’m awful for trash-talking other kids at school or criticizing my friends. Or maybe they’re saying how messed up it is that I didn’t even know my own mom had cancer until Tanika and Mackenzie told me in the girls’ bathroom.
Or maybe they’re not even talking about me at all and I’m just being paranoid, or thinking that I’m more important than I really am, because why would anyone care?
When I finally see Rosa, though, I know from the lack of greeting that she has read and she does care. She is so not happy.
“I’ve been texting you,” I say, not really sure what else to say.
“I know,” she responds.
I wait for her to tell me why she hasn’t been texting me back, or she’s sorry to hear about Mom’s cancer, but … nothing. So I plow on. “I’m sorry about the stuff I wrote, Rosa. Really. I never thought anyone would see it.”
“And that’s supposed to make it better?” Rosa asks. “You think it’s okay to say stuff like that just because no one will see it?”
“No!” Well, maybe, I admit to myself. “But … c’mon, Rosa, are you telling me that every single thought you’ve had about me in the history of our friendship has been glitter and unicorns? That you’ve never ever thought or said a bad thing about me ever?”
“No, I’m not saying that, but—”
“All I did was write them down for me and someone else stole them and posted them online. It’s not like I wanted the world to see those thoughts. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have said those things to your face. But they were just frustrations. You’re my best friend. I would never go out of my way to be a jerk to you.”
“And now everyone knows what you think of your supposedly best friends. If you talk like that about Margo and me when you like us, what kinds of things do you think and say about the people you don’t like?”
“You know me. And you know what I say about people I don’t like, because we’ve been talking about the same people for years.”
“But I never thought you talked about me, Sammy. Not like that. Not the way you wrote in your journal.”
“I don’t talk about you like that. You just admitted you thought things. The only difference is that I wrote them down and got hacked,” I point out.
But Rosa remains stony faced.
“Come on, Rosa. Things are beyond awful right now. I need my best friend.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that before you wrote about how bad I smell and that it’s a cultural thing,” Rosa says before turning her back on me and walking away.
Oh. I forgot about that. Shame roils over me and I let her go. Because what can I say other than sorry?
It’s impossible to find anything positive after I watch her back retreat down the hall. Other friends may have come and gone, but Rosa has been a constant, the North Star in my constellation of friendships. Do these people, these faceless hackers who’ve exposed my life to the world, do they have any idea how much harm they’ve caused, how many people they’ve hurt? My hands are clenched into tight fists as I walk to the media center, wishing I could use them on whoever decided it was okay to post my journal for everyone to read. What did I ever do to deserve being Public Enemy Number One of Brooklawne High?
I wish I could take Sammy of a few weeks ago who was so freaked out about exams and prom and shake her by the shoulders and say, “Really, Samantha? You think this is something to stress about? Get a grip, girl, ’cause you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”
I wonder if that Sammy would listen to me. I wonder if she’d do anything different.
Probably not. Real now problems are always more pressing than theoretical future ones, even if they are smaller and less important.
Or else maybe it’s that people aren’t good at listening.
Maybe I’m just not good at listening.
Maybe I need to try listening more.
Maybe then I’ll hear what’s actually going on in my own house so I don’t have to learn it from hackers.
Noah looks up from the screen and calls my name when I get to the media center for my open. I’d planned to avoid him, because I’m so mortified that he’s read about my ridiculous unrequited lusting over Jamie Moss and seen how well that turned out for me. I can’t even imagine what he must think of me. Actually, I can. He must think I’m the World’s Biggest Idiot.
I go over, waiting for him to say something to that effect. “Hey, Noah. What’s up?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I was wondering if I should feel offended.”
“Why would you feel offended?” I ask, confused. I’m sure I didn’t say anything bad about him in my journal. I don’t even think I wrote anything about him at all. At least not the part that went public.
“Because I don’t feature much in your diary.”
I stare at him, wondering if he’s lost his marbles. “Why would you want to be in my diary?”
“Because if I was in your diary, it would mean that I actually registered on your radar,” Noah explains with a wry grin. “And since I wasn’t, maybe I’m nothing more than a butler to you.”
His words are like a gut punch, for two reasons.
Because he’s read my diary. Total. Mortification.
Because he’s right.
Not that he was invisible, exactly, but he’s floated around on the fringes of my life until skipping out together the day of the first data dump brought us closer together.
Maybe becoming better friends with Noah is an example of finding an “opportunity in my difficulty.”
“You were never invisible. We’ve shared classes since middle school,” I tell him. “I guess maybe I can just see you better now. Maybe I should have had my eyes checked.”
It’s hard to admit that I’ve been walking around so wrapped up and blind to things, but Noah’s answering smile makes it worth it. I’m also relieved that he doesn’t offer an opinion on my poor choice in potential prom dates.
Until he says: “So … I gather you’re not a big fan of the promposal, huh?”
I hide my face behind a curtain of curls. “Can we not talk about prom?” I beg. “That’s pretty much my least favorite topic right now—besides hackers and cancer.”
“Sammy, I’m so sorry” he says. “Is … your mom going to be okay?”
I shift my hair and look into his eyes, which seem to show genuine concern, not just a quest for the latest gossip.
“I don’t know for sure,” I whisper. “That’s the most awful part of this. Even worse than the hackers and the humiliation. And I’m supposed to try to be positive for my mom’s sake, but it’s not easy when my friends won’t talk to me and it feels like everyone can see in my head.”
“I’ll bet,” Noah says. “Well … my head’s a pretty freaky place. I wouldn’t want everyone to see what’s there. Isn’t that why you choose what to show people?”
“I didn’t choose this,” I correct him. “Now everyone hates me or thinks I’m a moron.”
“Not everyone hates you and thinks you’re a moron, Sammy,” Noah says. “For example, me.”
“Yay! You make one!” I observe. “And BethAnn Jackson doesn’t. That makes a grand total of two people in a school of fifteen hundred kids who don’t hate me or
think I’m an idiot! Woo-hoo!”
“There are more, Sammy,” Noah says. “It’s just the haters are always louder.”
“I guess,” I admit. “If it weren’t for the hackers, BethAnn wouldn’t have known that I hated what Gary did to her.”
“I hate what the hackers have done to you,” Noah says.
“But you read my journal anyway,” I point out. “You could have chosen not to. Couldn’t you have left me with a few shreds of dignity?”
He looks away, and a flush tints his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I knew I shouldn’t. It’s just …” He looks me straight in the eye. “It gave me a chance to know you better, and I couldn’t help myself from taking it.”
His face turns another shade redder with this admission.
“How is that fair?” I ask. “Now you’ve seen the inside of my head, but yours is still a mystery to me. Do you know what it feels like to walk around feeling like everyone knows everything?”
“Awful,” he says. “Unbearable.”
“Yeah, and that’s when it’s people you don’t even know who are judging you. It’s even worse when it’s your friends.”
“I’m not judging you, Sammy,” Noah says. “In fact, I …” He hesitates, and looks down at his hands.
“In fact, you what?”
“I was hoping that you’d want to see into my head as much as I wanted to see into yours. Because … I really like you. And, um …” He looks up and gives me a shy smile. “I was wondering if you wanted to go to prom with me.”
I’m surprised into speechlessness. Just when I thought today was the worst day of my life, a spark of hope and awesomeness blossoms inside as I picture being at prom with Noah.
Unfortunately, Noah takes my stunned silence the wrong way.
“I know I’m not Jamie Moss, and he’s the guy you really wanted to go with,” he says, getting redder in the face than I thought was possible unless you were a lobster in a pot, being prepared for dinner. “But I figured maybe I could be a halfway decent runner-up … you know, if you want to go, that is. But if you don’t, it’s okay, I’ll understand. I mean—”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yes,” I repeat.
“Really?” he asks, an adorable smile slowly spreading across his face.
“Well, there is a slight catch.”
The smile dims a bit. “There always is,” he says.
“I’m grounded,” I confess.
“That’s more than slight,” Noah says.
“But my dad said I could maybe earn my way back into going,” I tell him. “If I stop breaking all the rules.”
“Can you do it, Sammy?” he teases. “Can you stop breaking the rules? For me?”
I laugh. “I said yes, didn’t I? And it’s not like I was such a rebel before all this happened. I messed up once—okay, like three times now that I skipped out with you the other day and then cut school the day after they dumped my journal. But my mom agreed to count that as a mental health day. I think I can handle being good for a few weeks.”
“Even with school being … not so great?”
“Like Sir Winston Churchill said …” I put on my best Winnie imitation, which is nowhere as good as my dad’s. “ ‘We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival.’ ”
Noah slow-claps. “Impressive,” he says. His face has gone back to its natural hue and he’s smiling as if he’s just snagged the prize in the cereal box. “So I guess I’ve got a date. Maybe.”
“Definitely maybe,” I agree.
In fairy tales, this is where the story would fade to black. All’s well that ends well, because I finally have a date with the handsome, if somewhat shy and geeky, prince. But clearly, my life is no fairy tale. Instead, the only thing that’s changing slightly is the way I’m trying to look at the situation I’m in. It’s not just because of Noah and the prom date. It’s just as much because BethAnn made me realize that the hackers exposing my journal made her feel less alone.
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m still pissed about the hacking and my mom’s cancer and the crash-and-burn of my social life. But at least I’m able to see there are some silver linings in this very dark cloud, even though I’m still stuck in the middle of it. I just have to keep looking for them.
#InspirationAndSurvival, yeah?
April 14
Everyone dreads Monday morning, and the thought of going back to school tomorrow is making me feel physically ill. It’s so not helping that every day, the news has another story about New Territories Bank because of something else the hackers have revealed. How long is it going to be this way?
I actually found myself wishing for a huge natural disaster somewhere else that would wipe this off the front page. But then I realize how awful and selfish that is, because innocent people would be injured and die, and I don’t want that to happen just to make my life better.
So I’ve been trying to think about the good things. Like a hot prom date, even though I’m grounded, so going is still up in the air. What’s weird about it is how excited I am about going with Noah—and I didn’t even have to survive the awkwardness of being promposed to in front of the whole school. It just happened.
And while people I thought were my best friends, Margo and Rosa, ditched me, others who I wouldn’t have expected to be supportive, are. Like on Friday, I was sitting by myself at lunch because Margo and Rosa aren’t talking to me. They weren’t even sitting with each other. I think Rosa is pissed at Margo now that she knows Margo let her mom think Rosa had been drinking the night of the Einstein’s Encounter concert. But I can’t be sure, because she’s not talking to me.
Anyway, I was sitting by myself, feeling miserable and mad. Mad because even though I know I wrote some things I shouldn’t have in my PRIVATE journal, you’d think that maybe my friends might have given me a break when they found out my mom has cancer. Or at least stopped giving me the cold shoulder long enough to ask how she is and how I’m handling that on top of everything else.
Nope. They’re just pretending I don’t exist.
I know, I know. Pity party, table for one.
But then BethAnn came over and asked me if I wanted to sit with her and her friends.
“Are you sure you want to risk being seen with me?” I asked her. “I’m Public Enemy Number One right now.”
“Been there, done that, got the Wanted poster,” she said. “Come on, join us.”
So I took my lunch and went to sit with BethAnn and her friends. No one mentioned the news stories about my dad. But Omar Karim asked me how my mom was doing and Valerie Chen asked me how I was holding up. There was a lump in my throat that had nothing to do with my sandwich.
Maybe it’s moments like that where I’m supposed to find the inspiration at the heart of my suffering. Kindness and friendship when you least expect it.
“So, are you excited?” BethAnn asks me at lunch. “Today’s D-Day!”
“If I pass that is,” I say.
“I passed,” Omar points out. “And I was so nervous that I thought my shaking foot wouldn’t be able to press on the brake pedal.”
“I did, too,” Valerie says. “And I had the meanest examiner ever.”
“Don’t tell me that,” I beg her. “I’m nervous about taking my driving test without the thought of mean examiners!”
“Come on, guys, stop freaking her out,” BethAnn says. “Don’t worry, Sammy. You’ll be fine.”
“I need to pass my test,” I tell them. “Before, it was just about freedom and independence. But now … I have to be able to drive to help out when my mom …” I don’t finish.
“You’ll pass,” Valerie says. “It’ll be okay.”
I wish I believed her. I have to force myself to get out of bed and go to school every day. It’s hard to believe that anything is going to be okay again, ever.
“So did you guys get your prom tickets yet?” Omar asks, looking over where they’ve been
selling tickets every lunch period. He’s obviously trying to change the subject.
“Ugh!” BethAnn exclaims. “Don’t even talk to me about prom.”
“Well, I got asked, but I’m not sure I can go because I’m grounded,” I admit.
“Whaaaat? Who?!” Valerie exclaims. “When was the promposal?”
“No fancy promposal,” I say. “Just a simple ask.”
“But who?” BethAnn says.
“Noah,” I say.
“Noah Woods?” Omar asks.
I nod shyly.
“Cool,” he says.
“But like I said, I’m not sure if I can even go,” I say. “I have to earn back the privilege.”
“It’s a lot of money,” Omar says. “Especially for someone like me, who would rather be put in a tank with a hungry great white shark than go on a dance floor. I mean you have to buy the tickets, rent a tux, get a limo, buy the pictures …”
“You forgot the corsage,” BethAnn reminds him.
“Oh yeah, that,” Omar groans. “I forgot about that.”
“And the girl has to buy a boutonniere. And a dress,” Valerie points out.
“I don’t even want to go to prom after how everyone treated me like a pariah when I told Gary Harvey I wasn’t going with him,” BethAnn says. “I hate the whole thing now.”
The idea hits me suddenly. “What if we had our own prom?”
They all stare at me.
“What do you mean?” Valerie asks.
“I mean we could have our own mini prom,” I explain, making it up as I go along. “Like we could call it … Faux Prom. For when the real prom is too fake.”
BethAnn laughs. “Now, that sounds like a plan with a capital P.”
“We could make it as understated as the real prom is overstated,” I say. “Like we’d agree: no renting tuxes, get your dresses and jackets at Goodwill—”
“No limos!” Omar says.
“No corsages or boutonnieres,” Valerie suggests. “What’s the point of wearing a bunch of flowers on your wrist?”
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