#scandal (7 page)

“Are you
trying
to make everyone hate you? Or is this, like, a call for help?” She squints at the pictures loading on my page. There’s one of a girl in a pink lace bra, dress pooled around her waist. She’s kneeling on the floor, arc-ing backward and drinking from a Mike’s Hard Lemonade bottle that’s stuck between her boobs.

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Caption:
Sweet little Olivia puts the HARD in Mike’s Hard
Lemonade! #scandal

Dread fills my insides. “Is that on my profile?”

“Not cool. People don’t like their drunken shame spread all over the Internet.” Jayla’s voice is machete-sharp.

“Trust me.”

“Move.” I bump her out of the chair and slide closer to the computer. Olivia’s acrobatics are part of a whole new album on my profile, created two hours ago. “PROMiscu-ity
,
” it’s called.

Someone must’ve gotten into my account, but how? My password is supercomplicated, and I’ve never given it to anyone, never signed in at school or at anyone else’s house.

I’m hardly ever on Facebook anymore. The only way someone could upload photos to my account is by hacking it, or by uploading directly from—

Oh shit. My phone!

I didn’t
forget
my phone—someone swiped it last night.

And whoever did it snapped a bunch of drunken shots and uploaded them to my Facebook profile, tagging them so they’d show up on Miss Demeanor’s page for the #scandal contest.

It’s one thing for people to post their own dumb stunts.

But whoever did this made it look like
I
posted them, and Jayla’s right. It’s not cool.

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I click through the photos with shaking hands. Funnel-ing? Strip poker? The vampire bros smoking out of a . . .

What
is
that contraption? Who the hell let Prince Freckles into the living room, and why is Margo Hennessy making out with him?

The album has already been shared and reposted dozens of times. Hundreds, maybe, everything tagged to Miss Demeanor’s page, the damning shots mixed in with pictures from earlier in the night—ones I
do
remember: John in the pond. The blinged-out gym. Group poses in front of the party Hummer. Cole nervously pinning my corsage the first time. Paul sucking on Griff’s earlobe in my front yard, one hand creeping on her boob. My parents sitting in the party Hummer, just for fun.

And then my heart sinks.

Kiara, posing with Prince Freckles.

See no (e)VIL, photograph no (e)VIL! What Kiara’s friends
don’t know won’t hurt them . . . but it might get the little traitor
kicked out of her favorite club! #scandal
I promised her I wouldn’t say anything, and now it looks like I broadcast it to the whole school.

“Explains why you’re all death-warmed-over tonight,” Jayla says.

I click to the next incriminating shot. Me and Marceau on the deck.

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“Yum.” Jayla raises her brows, suddenly more impressed than accusatory. “Well played, little sister.”
Doing my best to maintain international relations, ooh-la-la!

Despite this passionate embrace, Marceau’s lips were no match for
my date, Cole Foster! #scandal

I blink back tears, my throat tight and dry, fingers trembling.

Click.

Worst fears.

Confirmed.

Me and Cole, standing beneath the stars, lips locked in a half-second, totally accidental, three-hundred-percent mistake of a kiss.

Click.

Ellie’s black cherries dress draped over the end of Cole’s bed, pink wings casually tossed on top.

Click.

A bare foot. Two. Four. My hair spilled across the pillow. And Cole’s arms wrapped around me tight, our bodies an indiscernible tangle beneath a knot of dark green sheets.

Who needs costumes to create such magical, mythical memories? #scandal

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FRECKL ES Pll E ADS THE FIF TH

MISS DEMEANOR

2,742 likes
C

601 talking about this

Monday, April 28

Good Monday morning, fishies! How y’all feeling?

Here’s a tip: water. Lots of it. Your still-throbbing heads will thank me!

In the time-honored tradition of prom-goers since humans first crawled out of the pond with the dinosaurs (and/or appeared on the earth exactly seven days after it came into existence four thousand years ago, give or 74

take, depending on your beliefs, all of which I publicly support while whispering about you behind closed laptops), many of you undoubtedly engaged in a few rites of passage this weekend. Before we continue, please join me in a moment of silence to mourn the collective loss of innocence.

. . .

Bee-tee-dubs, two thumbs up on keeping your names out of the police blotter, kids! Always a proud moment when my esteemed Lav-Oaks colleagues avoid embarrassing legal trouble (and associated fees). Trust me on this little nugget: The last thing Mommy and Daddy want to do is dip into your college fund for bail money. Awkward for everyone, please pass the hard lemonade!

While we’re on the not-entirely-unrelated topics of hard lemonade and awkward shit your parents don’t know about, thanks for oversharing those delectable prom and party pics! We have our work cut out for us as we try to determine the most #scandal–worthy moments.

The girls lacrosse team dancing in their underwear and dragon wings at Red Rocks? The entire prom court 75

tossing their collective cookies on the steps of the state capitol building? Ms. Zeff, out-jousted by the physics club president? Like I always say, ladies. When it comes to dueling lances, it’s not the shape or the size that matters, but the velocity of the projectile and the angle of the trajectory!

As for the bash at that undisclosed mountain locale, wowza. Someone’s putting Angelica Darling to shame! Good God (and by God I mean inclusively God, Goddess, Buddha, All ah, Mother Earth, Zeus, universal force, and any and all past, present, and yet-to-be discovered deities), tell me there’s more to this tale than meets the bloodshot eye. Despite intense bribery of the sugar cube nature, Prince Freckles isn’t saying a word.

Start talking, peeps. Miss Demeanor is always listening.

xo ~
Ciao!
~ xo

Mis Demeanor

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HOW MANY TARTS DO ES IT TAK E?

P
lay dumb, Lucy. You never even saw those pictures.

So goes the strategy my self-appointed publicist devised last night. She wouldn’t even let me change my Facebook password or delete any photos. “You’ll just look more guilty,” she said, like, straight from her
How to Duck-and-Cover in a Shit Storm
manual.

Of course, this morning’s
CelebStyle
features a close-up of Jayla in the Denver airport terminal, all Louis Vuitton bags and angry middle fingers and white leather napkin trying not quite hard enough to be a dress.

J-HEART’S HIGH TIMES IN THE MILE HIGH!

So much for duck-and-cover.

I snatch up the remaining copies from the newsstand at Black & Brew while the barista bags my order. Ellie might 77

be ignoring my desperate e-mails, but no way can she stay all deep freezy if I show up on her doorstep with coffee and Tarts of Apology.

Doubt is a hard lump in my throat, but I swallow it down, pay for the breakfast and tabloids, and make my way to Ellie’s neighborhood on foot. I timed my arrival for after Ellie’s moms left for work, but as I step onto her front porch and press the doorbell, my body vibrates with fear. Maybe it would’ve been better to have witnesses. . . .

“What do you want?” The main door was already open, and now Ellie’s face appears behind the screen. Her eyes are red and puffy, her chocolate-brown hair wrapped in a messy topknot.

My words bail, and I shove the carton of coffees and paper bag forward, hoping they convey everything.
I’m
sorry. Can we talk? Don’t hate me. Tart? Coffee? Still friends?

She scrutinizes the bag.

“Chocolate raspberry,” I manage. “And white chocolate kiwi?” The last part comes out uncertain.

“You must be
really
sorry.” She opens the screen door and steps out, blocking my entrance into the place I’ve considered a second home for six years. “Again. What do you want?”

“I just . . . I thought we could talk and . . . Can we go 78

inside?” I maneuver the coffees and pastries and inch closer to the doorway. She doesn’t budge.

“I trusted you.” Her voice breaks on the last word.

I open my mouth to answer, but everything in my head twists and tangles.

I didn’t mean to. I care about him. We were drinking. I totally
meant to. I’ve loved him forever. I didn’t want to go to prom. I’m
glad I went to prom. I hope you still want to do our summer road
trip. And college. And you lied to me . . .

“You should probably just get to school,” Ellie says.

“What about you?”

“I’m staying home to enjoy a delicious breakfast.” Ellie grabs the bag and the carton with both coffees, and before I can choke out another word, the door slams shut.

“So not how it looks,” I whisper, but my best friend is already gone.

With twenty minutes to go before homeroom, the sprawling Lavender Oaks campus is a ghost town, save for a small knot of students gathered on the front steps.

Absent Kiara, the now four-membered (e)lectronic Vanities Intervention League marches in a circle around their leader in his wheelchair, wordlessly pumping their poster board signs.

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MAKE LOVE, NOT STATUS UPDATES!

REAL FRIENDS DON’T NEED BATTERIES!

GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF THE CLOUD!

Franklin Margolis, valedictorian and editor of the school newspaper, lurks behind them. With a pen, he pokes at his curly moptop, observing the protest a moment before scribbling something onto a yellow pad. Not sure why he bothers with the journalism gig—everyone ditched the

Lavender Oaks Explorer
when Miss Demeanor hit the scene last year—but if his unwavering dedication to the fashion disaster of jeans plus sport coat is any indication, Franklin is a determined trend-bucker.

The group disperses as I approach, reassembling at the far end of the parking lot to greet the incoming cars.

I dig deep for some enthusiasm and call out a “thanks!” across the quad. (e)VIll might be whackadoo, but they get it. Facebook is out of control, and though my account exposed Kiara’s fling with technology, maybe—in a secret-handshake-on-the-grassy-knoll kind of way—they’re on my side.

Unlike Griffin, who’s suddenly yanking me through the school’s front doorway.

“What the hell, Lucy?” she says. “I’ve been calling and texting all weekend. I thought you were dead.” 80

Play dumb play dumb play dumb . . .

“I saw the pictures,” she says, forcing me to meet her eyes. Confusion battles rage on her face, barely concealed, and I cringe at the memory of her Paul-maul pics. “Where’s Cole?” she demands. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I didn’t . . . I didn’t post that stuff.”

“It’s your Facebook.” She’s wearing the baby veal face again. “You were flirting with Cole all night, and—”

“Griffin. Why would I post pictures like that on my own page? Like, totally busting myself? That makes no sense.”

She snorts. “Unlike making out with Cole and spending the night in his bed? After you made out with Marceau, who by the way was sniffing around your locker earlier, all starry-eyed and ‘where is Lucy Vacarro?’
That
makes sense?”

“I’m just saying I didn’t upload the pictures.”

“Sorry, Luce, but the evidence is kind of stacked.”

“Someone swiped my phone,” I say, and Griff’s scowl is like,
Yeah right.
“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

Franklin and his nosy yellow pad pass through the doorway, eyeing us with detached politeness.

Griff crosses her arms and presses her back to the maroon lockers, waiting. When Franklin’s gone, she says dryly, “Okay, prove.”

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I don’t deserve her trust, but the sudden lack of it stings.

“Don’t go all blackout on me now,” she says at my silence. “You were acting crazy all night, and now Ellie thinks I knew what happened and kept it from her, and she’s . . .” Griff’s white-blond curls seem to tighten with their own rage, and she shakes her head to untangle them.

“I was
kidding
about you and Cole hooking up. I never thought you’d—”

“The kiss just . . . it happened. And Ellie . . .” Everything inside me burns. I want to ask Griff if she knew they’d broken up, if Ellie had said anything to her before prom, but the accusation in her eyes silences me.

Three days ago, I had two best friends. We weren’t perfect, but we were mostly close. And now?

“Listen, Luce.” Griffin folds her arms again. “Ellie wants her dress back.”

Last year the administrators had the bathroom at the end of the art wing painted orange, and they wired it with a commercial-free XM feed from the easy-listening station. They said it was to “discourage student loitering, smoking, and socializing,” which they believed its tucked-away location made all too easy.

Instead, it became the default emo hideaway, private 82

and cold, our daily little miseries set to the smell of bleach and their own tearful soundtracks.

Lav-Oaks is a silver linings kinda place.

A place where Phil Collins is now cautioning me with dire emphasis:
Oh! Think twice . . .

“Lucy?” Griff’s head prairie dogs over the top of the adjacent stall.

“What if it wasn’t?” I say.
’Cause it’s another day for you
and me in paradise . . .

“Educated guess. I heard your ugly-cry.” Griff climbs down and barges into my stall. “I didn’t mean to get all
Mean Girls
out there, okay? I’m just shocked.” I yank a strip of toilet paper from the dispenser and blow my nose.

“I was on the phone with Ellie all night,” she says. “She’s a complete mess.”

“Did she say anything about Cole?”

“Hmm.” Griff presses a finger to her lips. “Liar, cheater, dickhead. Some other names I had to look up on Urban Dictionary.”