The Takedown

by Corrie Wang

  It was the video someone had recorded from the blank FaceAlert window on my room screen the first night after the Mr. E. video posted. Now it was linked to the photos as a related video on YurTube. The whole world could see me with my hair in a topknot, my retainer in, telling myself I could fix this, that it would all be okay. I sounded all-caps GUILTY, like the caller had caught me as I was flicking through the photos in the middle of a huge freak-out. Then my terrified face when I realized they were recording me. And, fine, normally I might have laughed at the almost-fell-over part, if the video had been of anyone else but me.

  The video still exists. You can search it. Last time I checked it had 350,000 views. The pics-vid combo was my belated Christmas gift from AnyLies. She’d titled everything “Kisses.”

  My Doc and profile were blowing up again. The whole school felt as buzzy as on the day the video dropped. At least I knew one thing: AnyLies drove a yellow Hydrogen Coop. And I guess if AnyLies was in the car, that couldn’t have been Jessie on the train. Though it couldn’t have been Jessie in either place. She was in Istanbul, right?

  Dr. Graff took a decorative pen from a holder on her desk and clicked it, unblinkingly waiting for my response.

  “Mr. E. and I were brainstorming who might have done this to us,” I said.

  Or at least I was. Mr. E. was mainly cleaning and acting like a disgruntled child, but I didn’t think telling Dr. Graff that would help my case any.

  “Kyle.” Dr. Graff frowned. “As noble as your reasons were for being there, you must see how much more indelicate this makes an already extremely indelicate situation. I feel that we are working against each other. We need to be on the same side.”

  “I’m sorry to disagree, Dr. Graff,” I said carefully. “But in my view, the most unseemly thing is that I am repeatedly being bullied literally, or well, virtually, on the boards of my school, and my school is doing nothing about it. Why are these pics even still posted?” I cleared my throat. “Doctor…Ma’am.”

  Dr. Graff flicked the holoscreen away and kept clicking the pen.

  “Yes, about that,” she said. “I conferred with the head of the board of trustees this morning. He spoke with the other board members and they all think it would be in the best interests of everyone involved if you were to stay home from school for the rest of the week. You can restart fresh in the new year. By then things should have calmed down.”

  She said it so gently that the words took a click to sink in. When they did, I blurted out, “You’re suspending me?”

  Never mind my perfect attendance. My whole Park Prep career would be negated. A suspension would go on my record. Every college would see it. Plus, it quite simply was not warranted.

  Graff cleared her throat. “It’s not a suspension, per se, as much as a small leave of absence. Mr. Rosenthal and the rest believe a little time away from school will lessen the disruption this incident is causing—”

  “Mr. Rosenthal? As in Jessie’s dad? Dr. Graff, I’m not entirely sure it isn’t Jessie who’s masterminding this whole thing. And now her father wants me suspended?”

  “Jessie’s father is the head of a multibillion-dollar company. I’m sure he has more important things to do than involve himself with his daughter’s school rivalries or take down one of her classmates.”

  My eyes grew wide. Only through a strong sense of self-preservation did I stop myself from blurting out, Can you hear yourself right now? I mean, when had a multibillion-dollar company ever cheated? Only all-caps ALL THE TIME. Park Prep always claimed it prepared you for the real world. Welcome to it, Kyla.

  “Besides, between you and me, he has already spoken to Jessie about the flash-mob gag in the hallway and the video of your tiff with Ms. Cyr.”

  “He did? What did Jessie say?”

  Graff puckered her lips. “She said she had nothing to do with either of those things.”

  I threw up my hands. “Except they posted from @JessieRosenthal! Dr. Graff, can we conference her right now and clear up this whole situation? I wouldn’t have to go anywhere.”

  “Kyle,” Dr. Graff sighed. “The Rosenthals are in Europe through the new year, on vacation. He sent these missives through one of his assistants. Now please, let’s shift your focus a bit. A lot of parents in the community are very upset. Many are questioning the integrity of the school. Some have threatened to pull their children out and place them in institutions of what one father called ‘higher moral standing.’ While I don’t necessarily agree with the board’s decision, I do see how it calms the greatest number of people. And it is a final decision.”

  “Meaning I have no choice.”

  Instead of figuring out who did this to me, Parkside Prep was going to remove me and hope this all went away so that they wouldn’t lose enrollment.

  “My mom is going to be very upset when she hears about this.”

  It was clear from the set of her features that Graff didn’t like this any better than I did. It was also clear that she was going to enforce it.

  “I haven’t said you’re expelled.” The yet went unsaid, but we both heard it. “What we’re mainly discussing here, Kyla, is a few sick days. Might I remind you that when you enrolled at Parkside Preparatory, you signed an honor code?” The holoimage of it now hovered in the air in front of me. “And I quote, ‘I, Kyla Cheng, affirm that I will uphold the highest principles of honesty and integrity in my endeavors at Parkside Preparatory.’”

  “Which is exactly what I’m trying to do.”

  “I see,” she said. “On a related note, the attendance and security sensor wasn’t solely installed to extend class time by eliminating homeroom. It was meant to allow our faculty and funds a higher focus than babysitting the student body. Don’t think it makes us naïve. If I catch you or any of your friends using another unapproved pass, the suspension won’t be a suggestion, Ms. Cheng.”

  So if I didn’t go quietly, they’d find a way to force me to stay out of school. Dr. Graff, infamous for her stare, now wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “I leave it up to you, Ms. Cheng—a week of sickness or one of suspension? You may finish out your day here and then message me this afternoon with your decision. That will be all.”

  Out in the hall, people flowed around me in one big dinging, buzzing, swiping, avat-voice-messaging Monday morning mass. All the Christian-affiliated were harassing the Jewish- and Muslim- and otherwise-affiliated with pics of favorite Christmas gift items, meals they ate, things they had to return. Disruption? Considering the wide swath everyone cut around me, the only life not carrying on as usual was mine.

  “What did Graff say?”

  Fawn. I dropped my bag and put my head on her shoulder. Her curls tickled my cheek.

  “Ooh, loving. Gimme it,” Fawn said, wrapping me in a hug. “You okay, mama?”

  Before I could answer, Sharma ran up. It looked like she’d pulled an all-nighter. Her hair was in the exact same topknot she’d worn yesterday when she came over for pancakes, but now it was surrounded by a thousand breakaway frizzes.

  “Four,” she said, grinning like the time her code had worked for unlimited credits in the Apocalypsa Fashionista game on her Doc. “Four girls.”

  “Sharma, full sentences,” Fawn said.

  “Other girls who suffered similar life crashes at the hands of a hater? Answer: Y-E-S. Four. From all over the US: Kansas City girl caught with teach in gym after hours. Cali girl making out with teach in a bar. Florida girl with teach skinny-dipping. Michigan girl and teach, um, cavorting in snowstorm. Plus Trina and you, so six in total. Sent you all the students’ and teachers’ names. And, wincing face, haven’t told you the weirdest part. Kyle, all the girls look just like you.”

  Stunned was starting to feel like my permanent state of being.

  “There’s more,” Sharma sputtered. “Hope you don’t mind, but reached out to the new four last night using your CB account. They responded quick. Swore it wasn’t them. Two know the exact Woofer footage the hater used to make
their vid. Other two will try finding it today.”

  “What about all the teachers’ CB accounts?”

  Sharma shook her head. “All suspended or deleted.”

  “Can you access deleted accounts?” I asked.

  “Not easily.” That was the closest Sharma would come to saying no. “Not that it matters—ConnectBook security is so tight, you can’t even run a mutual-connections filter on multiple accounts.”

  “Know anyone that can?” I asked.

  Sharma pushed up her glasses. “Other than ConnectBook?”

  We grinned at each other.

  It wasn’t just me and Trina. There were other girls who had suffered through this. And despite what everyone said, there might be a way to crack it. I could glimpse a future in which searching my mom’s company didn’t bring up her daughter’s sex video. A future in which I didn’t have to precede job applications with As I’m sure you’ve noticed…Where I could make a difference, and not in spite of what happened to me.

  Fawn looked back and forth between us.

  “Wait,” she said, breathless. “Why are we smiling? You lost me at six total sex videos.”

  Giddily, I quickly explained. “So far—thanks to Sharma—we know that half of the footage that was used to make these fake sex videos was stolen from Woofer. In order to access Woofer footage, you first have to have a CB account and second have to be ‘connected’ to the person in the footage. Which means, as we speak, the hater is somewhere in here”—I wiggled my Doc—“as one of my CB connections. If we get CB’s help to compare multiple accounts and possibly access the deleted teachers’ info…”

  “We can weed out your hater,” Sharma finished.

  “Oh my God, my friends are so brilliant,” Fawn squealed, and threw her arms around us.

  “Do you know if any of the other girls are txting the hater?”

  “Uh, no.” Sharma eyes narrowed with displeasure. “They didn’t mention it. Why? Are you?”

  “No, of course not,” I lied.

  “So what are you going to message ConnectBook?” Fawn asked as roles reversed and for the first time ever I avoided Sharma’s gaze.

  “I’m not going to message them. I’m paying them a visit.”

  “Like in person?” Sharma said, glasses sliding down her nose.

  “People do still do things face-to-face, Sharmie. Let them try and not help me.”

  Maybe it was egotistical (I mean, surprise, surprise), but right from the start I’d assumed this was about something I’d done. It had to be, as what stranger would ever hold this big a grudge? But knowing there were five other victims changed everything. What was it AnyLies had originally told me? That she “despised me from afar.” Maybe Graff was right. I needed to shift my focus. This whole time I’d been assuming I was dealing with someone I encountered physically on a daily basis—Jessie, Ailey, Ellie, or (sorry, pookie) Audra—because our txts felt personal. Not like some random girl in Duluth hated me, but like someone very near to me in Brooklyn did. But what did distance matter anymore?

  Why couldn’t it be someone I’d pissed off online? I was a regular commenter on at least half a dozen political sites. And, I mean, what was more divisive than politics? Although, come to think of it, that answer equaled commenting online at all. Period. I left reviews on every book I ever read, and let’s be honest, it wasn’t due to “this generation’s lack of attention span” that I rarely got through half of them. I was an avid poster on all things nightcore and possibly one of the only fans of Snap Cinco, a group of tiny Guatemalan girls who thought they were fly as SHT and everyone loved to hate on. I left honest (negative) reviews for shirts I bought and returned, bad food or service at restaurants I would never set foot in again, and a whole thread of angry missives on the Unicorn Wars feed when they tried to swap out a main actress for an entirely different actress without even a minor acknowledgment in the dialogue.

  I mean, how hard would a You don’t seem like yourself today, Starborn have been?

  Never mind that Mac had me listed as his Main Squeeze on ConnectBook and Mac had over a thousand connects, half of whom I’m sure would have loved to see me choke on my breakfast. Actually, mental note, that wasn’t a bad investigative thread to follow.

  As the girls went to class, I went in the opposite direction and rushed up Ankle Breaker straight to three.

  The main entrance security sensor had already marked me present, so I wasn’t worried about ruining my attendance record. But if Graff caught me sneaking out, there wouldn’t be a choice between sick or suspended. Especially after I’d received her don’t-mess-with-the-security-sensor lecture less than ten minutes ago. I could think of only one salvation.

  “Kyle!” Ms. Tompkins said when I barged into the library. “Did you hear Brittany got puked on at the holiday party?”

  “What? No!”

  Ms. Tompkins was sitting behind a narrow counter next to a few measly shelves of fiction, one window, and two computers. Park Prep could at least try to keep her relevant. She shoved out a stool next to her.

  “Yep,” she said. “In like the first ten minutes. Mrs. Claus was forced to make a quick exit. After that only Santa circulated.”

  “That’s so not terrible. Did everyone else have a good time?”

  “You should have seen all the moms’ faces when they unwrapped the Docs. It was the best party yet, minus one of the most important elements. How you holding up?”

  “I’m good,” I said. “In fact, I’m about to go to the ConnectBook offices to figure out who’s hating on me. The only thing is…”

  Without a click of hesitation, Ms. Tompkins swiped at her Doc. “You’d probably need an off-grounds pass for that, wouldn’t you?”

  Off-grounds passes were something Dr. Graff created. Considering our location in Brooklyn and our proximity to Manhattan, she thought a Park Prep senior could, on occasion, be better educated outside the mansion’s walls than within them—be it at a gallery opening, a ballet performance, a lecture. All we needed was parent and faculty permission.

  As Ms. Tompkins swiped to the correct screen, I txted Mac. Regardless of how we defined ourselves, he was the first and only person who came to mind. I didn’t want to be around anyone else for this.

  moi Feel like an off-grounds field trip? Hater within reach.

  At the end of the day, Mac was still the person I trusted the most. Ironic, considering I’d always thought the biggest reasons I had for not dating him involved lack of trust.

  mac Just off train. Nothing sounds better.

  Perfect. Today his lateness worked in my favor.

  moi You’ll get detention for skipping.

  mac What’s one more?

  We agreed to meet at my house because WhereYouAt couldn’t find you if you left your Doc at home. My bulky school tablet blipped. On-screen, a bar-coded note said Ms. Tompkins had excused me from all my morning and afternoon classes to do research on Internet safety and protection at the ConnectBook offices. I txted a copy to my Dad. He immediately responded with his e-signature.

  “You have no idea how much this means to me,” I said.

  “Happy to be of use.” She winked.

  “Hey, Ms. Tompkins.” I turned back at the door. “You and Mr. E. never dated, did you?”

  “Nope.” She stuck out her tongue, making a gross face. “Just friends. I have a girlfriend. And hey, Kyle, when you do figure out who did this to you, let me know. I intend to level some serious overdue fines on them.”

  Without our Docs, Mac and I got turned around getting off the train in the city and walked east instead of west. Mac thought being Doc-free was fun. I felt like I was missing my central nervous system. I had no idea what time it was. I didn’t understand a word anyone was saying if it wasn’t in English. And there were at least three shirts I saw in window displays that I couldn’t add to my Watch List. Not to mention, I hadn’t told anyone what I was thinking in at least forty minutes. In lieu of this, I kept audio txting Mac all my observati
ons.

  “Txt Mac: It’s too quiet.”

  A bus stopped beside us. Across the street a cabbie laid on his horn. But there was no dinging, buzzing, or alerts. My hand kept reaching into my bag, coming up empty.

  “You’re like a malfunctioning windup toy.” Mac laughed. “Whose messages are you afraid you’re missing, anyway? The girls will still be there an hour from now.”

  “It’s not them.”

  “Found yourself an unskanky novio already?” He tried to keep his voice light.

  As if I were the one who would immediately date other people.

  “Nooo.” I linked arms with him. “I got into a txt argument with AnyLies last night and I still haven’t heard from her today.”

  “Wait. Please tell me, por favor, that you haven’t been txting your hater.”

  “I keep thinking if she knows me well enough, she’ll take down the video.”

  I didn’t tell Mac it was up to about five hundred txts a day, that I found her constancy comforting. That I’d been kind of crutching on her like she was an Audra replacement. I mean, I’m pretty; I’m not stupid. I knew how crazy it would sound.

  “Kyla, that sounds incredibly…”

  “Dumb, I know.”

  “I was going to say dangerous. You have no idea who this person is. You think it’s a she? What if it’s some fifty-year-old pedophile you’re sharing your secrets with? You remember this is all their fault, sí?”

  “Of course.”

  Though what if some of it was mine, too?

  “Promise me you won’t txt them anymore.”

  Mac took his arm away from me and turned me so I was looking at him.

  “Sure, okay. Promise. Look, Macky. I think we’re here.”

  The ConnectBook headquarters looked like an oasis on the High Line. As opposed to all the red and gray brick buildings around it, the CB offices were entirely fitted with reflective solar-paneled windows that were a rainbow assortment of shiny blues, greens, and pinks. Just visible from the ground were the long grasses that made up the roof garden and the building’s huge water-filtration system. When it was first built, the ConnectBook HQ was lauded, and then deplored, by the energy companies for being the first building in Manhattan that functioned entirely off the grid.