The Takedown(2)

“Love the vest,” I said to Fawn. “It’s so…”

“Eye-searingly red?” She laughed.

Red. That was Sharma’s theme of the day, because Sharma always cut right to the chase. Just as she did as she broke away from Sir Joan—what we called the coat of arms that was next to her cubby—and fell in line with us.

“Late,” Sharma said. “Also, president signed new jobs act and creep congressman stepped down re chat sex scandal. Special elections ASAP.”

While Fawn killed time before the Walk flirting, Sharma swiped. She was our morning roundup of videos to watch, celebrity gossip, and news.

“Tell your parents to vote for the female candidate,” I chimed in. “She’s the most progressive. And she’s got realistic ideas for environmental safeties.”

Postgraduation, Sharma would be joining the military’s Code to Work program. They’d been recruiting her since she was a freshman and won that Young Minds Programmed coding challenge. So we never teased Sharma too much that her outfit themes were mundane and usually color-related, not when she’d be protecting our cyberborders some day soon. Besides, not everyone was Audra, who did the best, most cerebral themes. Rainy Parisian Afternoon was still my all-time fave.

I slipped my arm around Sharma’s nonexistent waist. Sharma was all nerd in a model’s body. If I didn’t see her eat, I’d assume she got her calories from the same place she got everything else that nourished her life—the Internet. Her pin-straight black hair fell to her waist. As always, her light-brown eyes were rimmed with gold—iris and liner—and today were protected by a pair of red glasses.

“Sweet bow tie,” Sharma said, studying me in the holomirror on her Doc because it was easier than turning her head.

“Thanks, it’s my dad’s.”

As I lifted my Doc to send him a pic, I saw that a new no-name creeper message had popped up.

[ ] T minus ten, nine, eight…

“Late and distracted?” Audra. She broke away from the antique hall mirror where every morning she fixed her lipstick or txted (us) until it was her turn to join in. Our quartet was complete. “Always a pleasure being fit into your schedule, Ms. Cheng.”

“Geez, it was only seven minutes.” I slid my Doc into my bag as Audra wedged herself between me and Sharma. “And the weirdest thing just happened—”

“Gasp, President Malin actually responded to one of your Quips?” Fawn teased.

“You got an A but no plus on your gov exam?” Sharma asked.

“No, no, no, I’ve got it,” Audra chimed in. “Your mom made you pancakes without chocolate chips this morning?”

Audra’s arm slipped around my waist, mine around hers. Even with the red stilettos she wore, I had to stoop to get it there. Audra was pint-size. When she was all done up—like today—I felt like I had a porcelain doll as my best friend. Two weeks before, in honor of her eighteenth birthday, Audra had hacked off her long tresses and dyed her hair platinum. Her new pixie cut was gelled and held back by a red heart-shaped clip. Everything else she wore was black, except the lacy red bra that peeked out beneath her tight blouse. No one did cleavage quite like Audra, because, as tiny as she was, her package was slamming. What Audra was doing after graduation equaled anyone’s guess. All soph and junsies she’d been set on applying to FIT. But when we started Prep this fall, she suddenly began talking about taking a gap year…to “grow herself.”

I sighed inwardly. I loved my girls, but they definitely required a certain level of on-ness. It was like I constantly had ten screens up and if I didn’t interact simultaneously and wholeheartedly with each one my entire system would crash.

“Why, gee, gals, funny enough it’s none of those things, but thank you for the touching insights into my apparently frivolous existence. What is actually weird is that my Doc is acting uberglitchy and—”

All the girls groaned, the potential that I might have juicy gossip clearly obliterated.

“So have Sharmie take a look at it in class,” Audra said, tsking. “Which we now need to speed to as some lanky betch was seven and a half minutes late and I still have to finish my E-N-G essay. Kisses?”

We’d come to the sweeping staircase in the back that led to all the humanities classes on the upper floors and was the endpoint of the Walk. Since the stairs were right next to Coffee Check, the tiny snack-and-coffee bar that resided in a former coat closet, this particular foyer was the gathering spot for almost every upperclassman in the building. With all eyes on us, we brought our Docs together and commenced our much-Quipped-about morning tradition.

Like it’s not obnoxious enough that they air-kiss with their Docs, one of our classmates had posted, they European air-kiss and do each cheek.

When I pulled mine out, yet another creeper message was on it.

[ ] T minus ten, nine, eight, seven…

This wasn’t an admissions app reminder or a glitch. Someone was intentionally stretching out the suspense before…what?

I felt it then: hate eyes on me.

It wasn’t hard to spot the source. Over by the potted ficus, Jessie Rosenthal and Ellie Cyr were staring at us. The Walk warranting laser death eyes wasn’t unusual, but this combination was. Ellie Cyr was Park Prep’s basketball star. Junior year, college recruiters had taken up their own section at our home games. She’d get a full ride anywhere she wanted—luckily, since her wicked three-point shot wasn’t much helping her C-minus average.