Authors: SO
The soccer team re-forms their lines. Marceau gives 198
me a final, broken-hearted smile, and I curl my fingers in a tiny wave.
“Stop.” Griff’s breath is hot on my neck. “You’re making it worse on him.”
Safely back on the sidelines, Asher greets each of us with a curt, official nod. To Zeff, he bows his head and holds out a hand, giving her the floor.
“You tell me,” she says. “Seems you’ve got something important to say.”
Obviously thrilled by the invitation, Ash launches into what would be, if there were a few hundred more people around, a riot-inducing speech about the fall of the Roman Empire, the conspiracy of big pharma that’s keeping us all sick, something about Homeland Security that I’m not a hundred percent sure on because I zoned out for a minute, and—
“Lucy.” Asher crosses his arms, and the other two exchange approving nods. “All down to her.”
“Down to who-the-what-the?” I blink. Blinding sun reflects endlessly off their white berets. “Could you repeat the question?”
“Lucy,” Zeff says, glancing at her watch, “this sounds like another great opportunity for branching out in a positive direction. And, Asher, I’m proud to see your group testing the boundaries of civic engagement. I trust 199
you’ll both resolve this like responsible young adults, without further disrupting the sports teams?” Not waiting for confirmation, she says, “Great. I’ll leave you to it!”
And she does.
Asher’s (e)VIll membership pitch is a repeat performance from the other day at my locker. Only this time, his minions join in.
“We could really use a rallying point,” one guy says.
He’s got thin, shoulder-length dreads with little shells at the bottom and a silver eyebrow ring. Tens, I think they call him. Pretty sure he’s Asher’s best friend—I’ve seen them together a lot.
“You could be our Mockingjay,” the other says. It’s the blond swimmer who handed me a flyer that first day. Her eyes are bright blue in the sun. “Lead us to take down the corporate social network regime.”
“And it’s no coincidence, Stephie,” Tens says, clearly rehearsed, “that if you rearrange the letters in ‘corporate social network’ you can make ‘Capital’ and ‘Snow.’”
“And Oreo rocket,” she adds with a nod. “Definitely a message.”
“Really?” I say. “What’s happening here, people?”
“What’s
happening
here?” Asher says. “Vanity-based technologies are corrupting our relationships, destroying 200
our souls, and rendering genuine human interaction a quaint relic people won’t even be able to reminisce about, because reminiscing would require the very interaction whose demise we’re lamenting.
That’s
what’s happening here.”
“I meant—”
“And as someone directly impacted by the shadowy side of friends who let friends Face-frack,” Stephie says, “you’re in a position to take a public stand on this issue.” Griff giggles behind me. “With great scandal comes great responsibility, Lucy.”
Franklin scoffs. “I’m fairly certain that’s not how the saying goes.”
“Why do you like correcting my syntax so much?”
“That’s not syntax. It’s—”
“You have control issues,” she tells him. “And for your information, I rock an A minus in AP English.”
“Guys!” This train is rapidly going off the rails. It’s after four, way past time to go home and boot up a little
Undead
Shred
. “Asher,” I say, “I get some of the stuff you’re saying.
But I’m not . . . I can’t . . . No.”
“Please, Lucy?” Stephie asks. Her blue eyes are so sincere, but . . . no.
Asher blows a frustrated breath into his fist. “Truth time,” he says. He motions for me to crouch down close, 201
and when I do, he puts his hand on my shoulder
.
“We’re looking for a cause, Lucy. Something to put us on the map before we graduate, something to preserve for future generations of dedicated Lavender Oaks underclassmen.”
“You need a legacy?”
“We need new members, especially now. The NSA monitoring our communications. The TSA monitoring our body cavities. Drone surveillance at an all-time high . . .” He looks to the sky, searching. Franklin and Griffin do the same.
“Drones?” Franklin asks.
“Drones.” When Ash looks at me again, his eyes are watery from the sun and/or his passion about inva-sion-of-privacy issues.
“You know the ironic thing?” I rise from the grass and dust off my hands, offering a sincere but apologetic smile.
“You guys could recruit a lot more people if you used Facebook and Twitter instead of white pants and megaphones.
All the cool revolutionaries are doing it.”
“So I’ve heard. But listen.” Asher winks at me, and my Spidey sense is all,
Whatever comes out of his mouth next, no
good can come of it.
“I’m wearing you down, Lucy Vacarro.
Trust me. After the pep rally tomorrow? You’ll come around. Resistance is futile.”
“Dudes wearing white pants is futile,” Griff says. But 202
Asher has me locked in his sights like a UFO tractor beam, and Franklin’s scratching his head, and Tens and Stephie nod knowingly, and I find myself looking to the sky, just in case.
203
ll AV- OAKS Fll ASH MOBS NEITHER
Fll ASHY NOR MOBBY
MISS DEMEANOR
3,213 likes
C
702 talking about this
Friday, May 2
In a series of unprecedented public displays that weren’t actually all that public, everyone’s favorite conspiracy theorists ditched the tinfoil hats yesterday for berets, igniting several self-proclaimed “flash mobs” across campus. These megaphoned, white-cloaked warriors made such lofty demands as: Dismantle the social media regime (boo hiss, tinfoilers, boo hiss)!
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Boycott smartphones! And . . . some other stuff . . . that no one remembers . . . due to mitigating circumstances of the wardrobe malfunction nature.
(Style tip, public protestors: He who dons white pants should un-don colored underpants.)
Inappropriately dressed as they may have been, (e) VIL’s attempts at defending one of Lav-Oaks’s own against the tyranny of the Lav-Oaks masses is to be commended. Just not by me, since I exist only online and Team We Hate Social Media won’t be clicking my like button anytime soon (that’s not a euphemism, kidlings).
So, my massive masses, if you see one of our no-flashy-no-mobby flash mobbers, thank them for . . .
whatever it is they’re doing, because it probably has something to do with free speech and freedom from oppression and all that inalienable rights hoo-ha that I don’t feel like referencing right now because the bathroom where my US Constitution shower curtain and coordinating Bill of Rights liner so proudly and currently hang is a long walk from my bed where I so proudly and currently hang.
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Like most things on which I so doggedly report, you’ll just have to trust me on this. And, you know. Fight the power and stuff.
xo ~
Ciao!
~ xo
Mis Demeanor
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THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE, JUST NOT
ANY WHERE CLOSE TO HERE
T
op ten reasons not to bail on the Lav-Oaks senior pep rally:
1. Vanitas is playing.
2. Jayla’s making a surprise Angelica
appearance and I promised I’d critique her performance.
3. (e)VIL. Ash
did
say that resistance is futile, so here I am, not resisting.
4. Actually, there’s only the three reasons.
Inside the highly lacquered gymnasium, I scan the bleachers for a friendly face. Griff’s white-blond waves call 207
out from the crowd, but she’s next to Ellie, and she turns away when she sees me. Seconds later, my phone lights up.
Griff:
sorry. here w/ ellie. franklin’s got u covered.
Me:
nbd. anything to report on mystery wings?
After the (e)VIll onslaught yesterday, Franklin and I gave Griff the 411 on 420, and now Franklin’s got her working the wings angle, scanning party pics to see if she can match up the evidence and find our fairy. Despite their pseudo bickering on the soccer field, she seemed more than eager to take his assignment.
Griff:
nothing yet. got my eyes on olivia tho—girl’s def hiding something. more soon. agent colanzi out. xo
The sight of Olivia’s name makes my blood simmer.
It’s still hard to imagine anyone would willingly post such an incriminating photo of herself—she looked seriously wrecked in the emo bathroom that first day—but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s involved. Not just in the obvious ways—the Juicy Lucy posts, Operation Mean Girl with Quinn and Haley—but something deeper, more sin-ister.
Or maybe I’ve been spending too much time with Ash Hollowell.
I drop the phone into my pocket and lower my sunglasses to look for Franklin. When our eyes meet, he stands up and gives me a double-arm flag down.
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I climb the bleachers and take the seat next to him.
“Putting the pep in pep rally, Keith?”
“I thought this would be a good vantage point from which to investigate suspicious activity.” He points at the Jayla banner beneath the scoreboard. “We’re looking for anyone pulling a paparazzi on our little Darling.”
“I thought Jay’s visit was—I mean, um. Jayla Heart’s coming?” I nearly forgot that he doesn’t know she’s my sister. He thought I was joking when I offered to hook them up for an interview. “How do you know?”
“Zeff asked if I wanted someone from photography club to get pictures for the paper,” he says. “Anyway, it works out brilliantly for us.”
“Because you’re such a huge Jayla Heart fan?” Franklin nudges me with his shoulder. “Miss Demeanor is a Jay-Heart megaminion. If anyone’s likely to get too close and camera happy today, it’s her. She might be care-less enough to blow her cover.”
“You think Miss D might know something about the perp,” I say, catching his drift. “Something that can help us.” Franklin looks supremely pleased with himself.
“But
everyone
fake worships at the altar of Jayla,” I say.
“Have you
seen
her fan page? People never pass up a chance to snap a few selfies with a celeb, even if it’s just to make fun of her later.”
209
“For research purposes, I have in fact evaluated the Heartthrobs page.” Franklin scratches the back of his neck, which has turned suddenly and quite glaringly red. “But that’s not the point. Miss Demeanor is truly obsessed. Just
. . . be cool, okay? Don’t give away our position.”
“Covert ops. I like it.” I put my sunglasses on and kick back, scrutinizing the crowd through dark lenses.
“Look alive, partner.” Franklin points his half-f water bottle center stage. “Show time.”
Lav-Oaks administrators learned long ago that teacher speeches kill the pep rally buzz faster than cops at a party.
After a blissfully short welcome and a useless reminder about switching off cell phones, Principal Zeff tells us to put our hands together for Vanitas.
The crowd roars as Cole, John, and Spence take center stage. Cole settles in behind the drum set, spins his sticks, beams at the audience. It’s the pregame warm-up I’ve seen at every gig, every garage practice. But now, when he smiles at the crowd, I let myself dream—for one forbidden moment—he’s smiling at me.
For
me.
He taps the snare to usher in John’s opening guitar riff, and my heart rattles, aches, rattles, aches.
They play a five-song set—three covers and two originals. Every one of my senses is trained on him, eyes tracking the rapid
fling-bang
of the drumsticks, the bob 210
of his shaggy head. Ears picking out the drumbeat above all other sounds. I feel it inside me, a deep metallic thud against my rib cage. And when I close my eyes, I feel his lips pressed to mine, taste his breath on my tongue, soft and warm and utterly unforgettable.
At the end of the last song, the crowd is on their feet.
Bleachers rumble and shake, but I stay seated, my heart clinging to a memory that shouldn’t belong to me, wishing like hell I could slip inside of it and live there forever.
Franklin touches my arm, spell broken. “All right, love?”
I’m still staring at Cole, and he’s staring back at me too.
Franklin must notice it, because he leans close and offers a supportive smile.
“You can’t help who you love,” he says, “even if the timing is horrendous.”
“Even if people you care about get hurt?” I ask. I don’t really mean for him to answer, but he does.
“It’s not like you can switch off your feelings. Repression never helped anyone.”
“That needs to be on a bumper sticker.”
“You’re in love with him,” Franklin says matter-of-factly. “Don’t try to outrun it. You can’t.” His eyes are full of regret, and I wonder how he came to know this particular wisdom, this hurt. I’ve been counting the days till 211
graduation since freshman year, but now, for a moment, I wish I had more time. More time to know Franklin. Asher.
Kiara. More time to be with Ellie and Cole and Griff. More time to be honest, to be me.
To figure out what that even means.
From behind his drums, Cole’s still watching me, his gaze fiery and direct, and I know that Franklin’s right: Not even with all the zombie survivalist cardio in the world could I ever outrun this. Could I ever want to.
It’s a gruesome thought, love seeping into the chest, devouring the heart from within. But the image of it floods me, sends a current through every nerve. I almost rise out of the seat, rush down to the floor, fall into Cole’s arms.
Love. Devouring. Heart . . .
The commotion at the side door distracts me, and the moment explodes, my nerves fizzling back to normal, heart pounding but still intact.
Saunters.
That’s the only word for my sister’s approach, and I sink into my seat as the crowd erupts in a mostly mock cheer.
Jayla’s smile is plastered on, beautiful and synthetic. If she senses the mockery in the air, she either doesn’t care, or she’s gotten really good at repression.
The phone buzzes my hip.
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Griff:
check out olivia 2 rows down from me. closet angie-d
fangirl, whut?
I scope out the section of seats in front of Griff and Ellie. Olivia’s on her feet, fist pumping, a solo standing O. Haley and Quinn flank her, but they’re sitting down, laughing, shooting Jayla with their phones. They’ve perfected their fake fangirl squeals. Olivia, on the other hand, looks like she means it.
Me:
that’s . . . unexpected.
Griff:
only 1 being sincere for sis. told u she’s shady as eff. I’m
on her & team sprite like angie on a mattress.
Me:
:-) good work, agent colanzi. vacarro out.
When the noise finally fades, half the crowd buried in their devices, Jayla launches into a dramatic monologue of a scene from last weekend’s episode. Only she reads
all
the parts, not just Angelica’s, and despite her attempt at different voices, it makes no sense. The crowd goes crazy with laughter and more fake cheers, and my cheeks burn, and I’m pretty sure if Franklin didn’t offer me his water, I’d burst into flames.
Official critique? My sister is one hundred percent, straight-up mortifying.
“Angelica Darling,” she bellows across the gym, “takes a lot of things lying down. But treachery is
not
one of them, Mikayla McBride. You were supposed to be my confidant.
213
But now you’ll be telling your secrets to the devill. . . in hell!” Jayla lunges forward, pantomiming an upper cut to an invisible opponent. Or possibly she’s reenacting a knife fight, or maybe a hug. But before she can complete the scene, the lights flicker, followed by the unmistakable hiss of rubber wheels and the chirp of sneakers on the polished wood floor.
“We! Are! The point-zero-five percent!” Asher’s got the megaphone again, and his minions—up from two to three today, Kiara included—form a line across the center of the gym. They’ve traded in the whites for blacks, each megaphoned and sunglassed.
The teachers are seated in the front row, and a few of them stand as if to put an end to the disruption. Zeff, smiling and curious, holds her arm out to stop them, her other hand raised in a pause:
Hold on. Give them a moment.
Without missing a beat, Kiara steps forward with her megaphone, tall and proud after her brief suspension. “We are the few. The few who say
no
to Face-frack.
No
to perpetuating cruel celebrity gossip.
No
to electronic vanities.
No
to social-network brain rot and the government’s plan to control us through personal-data acquisition and con-sumerist messaging.”
That night with Prince Freckles at the prom, she was so nervous, decked out in her mermaid finery, sneaking a 214
photo for her mother. But here, center of attention for a cause she wholeheartedly believes in, she shines.
“Think for yourselves.” Asher rolls forward when Kiara steps back. “The founding fathers never intended for things to go down like this. The Constitution? They rocked it. We wrecked it.”
“They rocked it,” the others repeat. “We wrecked it.”
“So honor our fab founding fathers. Unplug. Engage.
And . . .” Ash lowers the megaphone and looks around.
Kiara shrugs. He raises the megaphone again. “Where is Roman?”
“Guess he didn’t get the memo about the time change,” Kiara says.
“Are you sure we can’t have cell phones?” Stephie asks.
The whole conversation is unfolding via megaphones.
“Hard to coordinate last-minute flash mob changes on handwritten notes.”
“Texting
would
be easier,” Kiara concurs.
“You guys are missing the whole point!” Asher shouts.
Still with the megaphones. The crowd has gone silent—
teachers exchanging confused glances, waiting for Zeff to shut this down—and suddenly Ash seems to realize that all eyes are on him. He clears his throat into the megaphone and, with his free hand, points toward me and Franklin.
“Lucy Vacarro is not a perpetrator. She’s a victim. All of 215
you—the plugged in, the updaters, the uploaders—are victims. Only Face-frack is to blame.”
“Lucy Vacarro is a slut!” someone shouts from a few rows behind me.
Jayla, who’d been stunned into silence by (e)VIL, whips her head toward the direction of my eloquent name caller.
Still miked up from her monologue, she shouts, “Angelica does
not
approve of slut-shamers, you filthy little maggot!”
“Narc!” someone else shouts.
“Slut!” Pretty sure that was one of the vampire bros.
The chant’s about to start; the anticipation of its arrival fills the room like a balloon ready to burst. Franklin grabs my hand, squeezes gently. “Shall we make a run for it, then?”
“The truth is out there, people!” Ash booms into the megaphone, hijacking the full force of the chant before it gets off the ground. “Open your eyes! Get
off
social media and
on
social reality! Friends don’t trend! Friends don’t trend!”
“Friends don’t trend!” the minions chant. What they lack in number, they make up for in enthusiasm. “Friends don’t trend! Friends don’t trend!”
“Who are you, the hashtag police?” Jayla marches up behind Asher, spins his chair around so they’re facing each other. The mock cheers are deafening, but Asher is 216
positively star-struck. “Do you know what Angelica Darling says about that?”