Authors: SO
That’s my cue. Agent Vacarro out.
Franklin’s still holding my hand. I return his squeeze and nod toward the exit.
“I don’t particularly like police,” Jayla says as Franklin and I weave through the crowd. “Especially ones with megaphones. Do you know what they say about little boys with big voices? They have teeny tiny—”
“And that’s a wrap! Thank you, Jayla Heart.” Ms. Zeff is on the scene, finally jolted into action. She takes Asher’s megaphone and waves the group back to their seats. “Thank you, evil children, for that important reminder about balancing imagination with real life, online and off. Speaking of balancing . . . please join me in welcoming your Swordfish cheerleaders and the routine that made them famous for copyright violation on YouTube, ‘Who Let the Fish Out (Woof Woof Woof Woof Woof)!’”
In the relative peace of the computer lab, I drop into a rolling chair and pull out my phone—it started buzzing the second Franklin and I left the gym.
Griff:
are we dreaming this?
Griff:
wait, where r u going?
Cole:
wtf w/ evil? hollowell’s insane! kind of awesome.
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Cole:
wait, where u going w/ FM? u ok?
Griff:
zeff is all, wtf w/ this wtfery. so much for rah-rah civic
engagement.
Griff:
omg olivia asking ellie where u went. right now! she’s
like y did lucy just leave?
Griff:
ellie goes, lucy’s allergic 2 cheer routines. LOL! *dies*
Griff:
reply, girly!!!! hello!!!
Cole:
:-( come back :-(
I send a quick text to both of them:
bailed b4 things got
more whacky. already in enough trouble w/ Zeff—time 2 lie low!
@ comp lab. in good hands w/ our lead investigator.
“Is (e)VIll trying to get me suspended?” I ask Franklin.
He’s in the chair next to me, for once not taking notes. “Or whatever it’s called when you’re about to graduate and they can’t really suspend you?”
“I’m quite certain they’re trying to help,” Franklin says. “Their presentation against social media . . . it’s as if they’re trying to force a confession through group intimidation. A classic strategy, low-tech but impressive.”
“So they’re just
pretending
to interrupt Jayla Heart’s show? Calling me out in front of the entire class?”
“More like going undercover to make a statement,” Franklin says. “But yes, I suppose so.”
“I just thought of something,” I say. “Asher seemed pretty smitten with Jayla.”
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“I noticed that too,” he says. “So?”
“What if Miss D isn’t one person, but a group? And what if that group is (e)VIL, and they’re, like, her secret force for social justice? What if
they’re
the conspiracy? No one would ever suspect it.” I spin around in the chair and stop to meet his gaze. “Think about it, Keith. It’s the perfect crime.”
Franklin’s laughing at me, but his eyes light up so much when he laughs that I can’t be offended. “Reel it in, Veronica. In case her name didn’t give it away, Miss Demeanor isn’t a force for social justice. Her column—and I use that term quite loosely—is largely responsible for your scandal.”
“Sure, but it’s not like she
told
people to go out and frame someone. They brought the scandal to her and . . .
wait. What did I just say?”
“They brought the scandal to her?”
“Yes, that! Exactly!” I dig the iPad out of my bag and pull up Miss D’s page. “You said if we identified Miss D, we might be able to ask her who posted the pics, to see if they got in touch with her or whatever.”
“I think it’s a good lead, yes,” he says. “Potentially.”
“Why not go straight to the source?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Give me five minutes.” While Franklin sits quietly, I 219
type another missive to our favorite gossip hound. Satisfied with the wording, I hit the send button, then pass the iPad to Franklin to show him the note. “Bask in the brilliance, Keith.”
From: Lucy Vacarro
Dear Miss Demeanor:
Thank you for your Wednesday Words of
Wisdom about the prom party photo scandal and the great framing of our time. Though I haven’t been in touch since, I’d like you to know that your advice has given me both comfort and strength.
This might be asking too much, but I’m trying to be all bright side about this, so I’m sharing the idea anyway. Since you hold sway over the Lav-Oaks masses, and you haven’t yet selected a photo for the #scandal contest, I’m hoping you’ll consider this write-in suggestion:
Prince Freckles partying it up at the cabin in all his glittery glory.
Before you scoff at the idea of bestowing the great honor of Miss Demeanor page
immortalization on a nonhuman, allow me to explain (and partially beg).
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Though your advice to investigate the
situation was intended for the wronged party, as the alleged wronger I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands (with help from a few loyal friends). Of primary import to our ongoing investigation, we aim to identify the individual who posted and tagged the party pics from my account. If you select the Prince Freckles shot as your winner, perhaps the proud photographer will step forward to claim her moment in the spotlight. It’s a long shot, but sometimes even the most intelligent among us is wooed by the temptation of fame and glory—however fleeting—
and my hope is that this person will be so blinded by the spotlight that she’ll inadvertently out herself as the perp.
I appreciate your consideration and support.
Yours
truly,
Harassed
Yet
Hopeful
“You’re not basking,” I say when he hands back the device. I can’t read his poker face. “I thought there’d be more basking.”
“I’m all for solving this mystery,” he says, “and maybe you’re onto something with the Prince Freckles idea. But .
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. . Do you really trust this woman? Girl? Whoever she is?”
“Think about it,” I say. “She gives legit advice, couched in sarcasm. And yeah, she’s all about the drama, but she doesn’t attack anyone. Miss D isn’t the one doubting me—
my own friends are. Ellie. What does that say?” Franklin points a pen at me. “Maybe Miss D
is
one of your friends.”
“Back to conspiracy theory? You know, Lav-Oaks has a club for that.”
The two of us laugh, but his idea isn’t
that
crazy—it’s crossed my mind. But Ellie’s too serious to pull off Miss D’s brand of snark, and Griffin isn’t that sneaky.
“So maybe Miss D isn’t one of your mates,” Franklin concedes. “But she’s still capricious. Someone that desperate for attention? Bit mental, no?”
“I like her. Officially.”
Franklin sighs through his nose. “I still think the best way to deal with this is to put something in the
Explorer
.
Get your side out there, take a stand on the issue.”
“Here we go.”
“No, listen! You won’t help (e)VIL. You won’t tell Zeff about the posters on your locker. You won’t state your case.” He rolls his chair closer. “You think this’ll just vanish?”
“That’s beside the point.”
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He holds out his hands, like,
Work with me here!
“You’re like them,” I say. “Everyone who pretends to fangirl Jayla Heart. All the stupid tabloids. The Juicy Lucy people. (e)VIL. It’s all the same—everyone just wants a piece of drama pie.”
“I hope you don’t really believe that.”
I lean back in the chair, close my eyes. “No, I guess not.
I’m just . . . I’m spent.”
The pep rally was a bust. My name’s back on Zeff’s radar for sure. Griff’s still chumming around with Ellie, who’s still ignoring me. Olivia . . . who knows what Olivia is, but she’s definitely not on my side.
And no matter how hard I try to convince myself that it’s wrong, that I have to let it go, I can’t stop falling in love with Cole, again and again, each time harder than the last.
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LOWDOWN DIRT Y LOV E
N
o one ever accused Night of the Living Dog of being normal.
Sunday night, a thunderstorm rumbles in the not-so-distant sky, and Night paws frantically at the door—
international dog lingo for
Walk me or you’ll live to regret it
.
I put on Jayla’s Broncos hoodie and hook up the leash, let him trot me out to the woods behind the house. “Colorado is a top-ten state for death by lightning. Know that, dude?”
Night ignores me, snuffles along the trail to his favorite tree just as the first raindrops plink onto the leaves. This is his spot—our spot—quiet, far enough from the surrounding houses that we’re almost always alone. Despite the rain, I’m grateful for the escape.
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Jayla’s been pretty mellow all weekend, a forced smile that I shared tonight as we made a gourmet meal out of Ben
& Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, hot fudge, and crumbled pretzels.
Pictures of her pep rally altercation with Asher leaked to
CelebStyle
, and even though it was all an act, and Asher was thrilled to go along with it, yesterday’s headlines tell a different story.
JAY-HEART LOVES HER FANS, AS LONG AS THEY’RE “ABLE” TO LOVE HER BACK; ALTERCATION AT HOMETOWN HIGH
SCHOOL REVEALS CELEB’S TRUE COLORS.
Since the story broke, she’s been ignoring her phone, deleting nasty messages from her fan page.
After orbiting different suns for years, my sister and I suddenly have a lot in common.
I unhook Night’s leash to let him explore, and beneath a canopy of aspen and ponderosa, I climb up on my favorite boulder, perfect for contemplating. As Night slops around in the mud, my thoughts drift from Jayla and Ash to Ms.
Zeff, from Ellie and Griff to Olivia, but inside the brain of Lucy, all roads lead to Cole. Cole’s sad-face text messages.
Cole’s drum solo. Cole’s kiss . . .
When I open my eyes, he’s walking toward me with Spike. It’s like I’ve pulled him out of my daydreams, and he smiles when our eyes meet, rain darkening the shoulders of his blue-gray hoodie.
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“Saw you walking this way,” he says, unclipping Spike’s leash. The Dachshund bolts down the path in search of his canine bestie.
I hop off the boulder, wipe my hands on my cutoff camos.
“You okay?” he asks. “I was worried. You took off at the pep rally, and . . . shit. Am I turning into stalker guy?” He goes all dad-voice, pounds his fist in his hand. “Dammit, Lucy, you haven’t answered my calls or texts.” I laugh. “Maybe a
little
stalkery. Mostly angry dad, though.”
“Okay, how about this?” With a huskier voice, he says,
“You and Margolis seem to be getting close.”
“Still kind of angry dad,” I say.
“Help me out here, Luce.” Cole’s voice is back to normal, but a little nervous. “I’m totally jealous. Not a good look for me.” He breaks into a grin, and I’m like,
Jealousy?
Dude.
Totally
a good look for you.
But I update him on the investigation anyway, reassure him there’s nothing going on with Franklin.
Which is so surreal that I stop midexplanation and shake my head. “Cole, this thing . . . What are we doing?
We haven’t even figured out who posted the pictures. And Ellie’s a mess, and it’s so—”
“Crazy. Straight up, mad-ass crazy.” Cole steps forward, 226
so close I can smell the rain in his hair, so close even Asher’s surveillance drones would know, thousands of feet up, that there’s nothing even remotely
just friends
about this.
“It wasn’t just some random thing,” he says, and I know he means the kiss. “Not to me.”
“We were drinking.”
“You think a few beers is why I kissed you?” Maybe, maybe not. I couldn’t trust my thoughts on prom night; the moment he showed up in my driveway in a tux, pinned me with a tea rose corsage, my logic board was fried.
Still is.
“Halloween,” he says. “Sophomore year. You were dressed like one of those special infected things from your zombie game. Right?”
“The witch.” I’m shocked that he recognized it then, that he remembers it now. “She kills you with her claws.
One strike, you’re incapped. Maybe dead.”
“Yeah, the witch.”
“But not, like, a
real
witch. The special infected are amped-up—”
“I wanted to kiss you,” he says. His breath is powder soft against my cheeks. “That night. But I was with Ellie. And I loved her—really. I took a cold shower and convinced myself I was freaking out.”
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The rain pelts our heads, our feet, soaking into the dirt.
“For two more years,” he says. “I thought it would pass, like, cold feet—that’s what John said. I put everything I had into Ellie. It was pretty good for a while too.”
He told John about me? Back then?
“But it wasn’t great,” he continues. “Love and friendship? Yeah. I mean, you know—Ellie’s awesome. But sparks?” He presses a hand to his heart and I know exactly what he’s saying, because I feel it too. Now. At prom. Every time he’s near, every time my name passes between his lips.
“Ellie and I both felt it,” he says. “Knew it was missing.
Why do you think we broke up?”
Night howls in the distance, and seconds later, he and Spike return, caked with mud and trouble, still chasing each other in hyper circles at our feet. Cole crouches down to wrestle with Night, to give him a big, wet-dog hug, and I think of Ellie, her too-cute status updates, the posed Facebook pics, the confident assurances that with Cole, all was happy and well.
For so long she was hiding doubts, dark and secret things she kept from even her best friend.
Just as I kept my own dark and secret things from her.
I see her face, her smile, her tears. She is simultaneously a soul mate and a stranger.
“I didn’t plan it, Lucy,” Cole says. He stands, unfazed by 228
the mud on his clothes, and I know he’s talking about this kiss again. “Every time I see you in those boots, I lose a few brain cells. Then all of a sudden we’re under the stars, and I’m thinking about the crazy shit we’ve done, the laughs . .