The Takedown(6)

“The essay reads like code, Ms. Clarke.” Mr. E. finally looked away from me to rifle through the drawers of his desk. “And if I know anything at all anymore—which I don’t think I do—it’s that I’d rather read your unique thoughts on a novel over some regurgitation of online opinions.”

“‘Unique thoughts’?” Sharma laughed. “Don’t exist. And not regurgitation. Essay equals the best selections from lifetimes of collected knowledge of people way smarter than me.”

moi Point 123,083,505 to Sharma.

audy Mr. E.: 0.

“I hope I never see a day when ‘collected knowledge’ trumps an individual’s visceral emotions.” Mr. E. slammed a drawer shut. “And dare I ask, if enough people wrote that the sky was green, would you believe that? Knowledge needs a source. Or else there’s no way of differentiating guerilla propaganda from true learnedness. Don’t believe everything you see online, Ms. Clarke.”

There was a gentle knock on the classroom door. It was Mr. Parish, the art teacher. Forgetting about his perfect pompadour, Mr. E. ran a hand through his hair and nodded. Audra txted me question marks and a disconcerted face. Another creeper message bumped hers away. But it wasn’t just one. It was a wave of them.

[ ] T minus…

Three.



Two.



One.



Ready?



Smile



“Oh God,” I said.

Audra craned her neck to see what I was looking at. I held my Doc like something might burst out of it. But nothing happened. I looked up. Mr. E. was staring at me again. This time, when our eyes met, he blushed and mumbled something about having to take a personal day. “Mr. Parish will be sitting in for me until a sub gets here.”

We all shifted nervously in our seats as Mr. E. shrugged into his blazer.

“Everything okay, Mr. E.?” Audra asked.

“Of course, of course. Before I go, I just want to say…”

Mr. E. took the bust of Mark Twain’s head off his desk, then simply stood there, cradling it. Someone in his family must have died. There was no other explanation for his stunned expression.

“T MINUS TEN, NINE, EIGHT…” the numbers shouted from my Doc.

The entire classroom jumped. Mr. E. almost dropped Mark Twain. My Doc was furiously vibrating, speaking in its no-name sender voice, volume on high.

“Where is that coming from?” Mr. E.’s eyes landed on me. “Ms. Cheng?”

“I’m sorry. I thought it was on mute.” I fumbled to shut it off.

None of the other hundred txts I’d received in the last few minutes had come through in audio mode. This one was preset that way, like it was meant to get me in trouble.

“SEVEN, SIX…”

“Gosh, I’m sorry.” My classmates snickered, like I was doing it intentionally. “It has a virus or something.”

“FIVE, FOUR…”

“Geez, Kyle,” Audra said under her breath. “Swipe it off already.”

Why hadn’t I asked Sharma to look at this before class? Because you were too busy clandestinely meeting with your unboyfriend, said Audra’s voice in my head.

“THREE, TWO…”

Pinpricks of sweat formed on my forehead. No one was snickering now.

“Ms. Cheng, please shut that off this instant!”

“I’m trying!”

Before I could swipe it off, the next-best thing happened. My charge died. My Doc powered off. I tossed it on my desk. Shaking his head, Mr. E. left without another word. For the first time in my life, it felt good to put my Doc down. Little did I know, right at that moment, my life as I’d known it?

So. Totally. Crashed.





The whispering started immediately. Stupid, shallow girl, I imagined that people were talking about my bow tie. I actually smiled at a group of freshies who pointed at me, like I was doing them a social favor. Sharma and Audra had second period together and always took off right after English, which meant Fawn found me first. A cartoonist couldn’t have drawn her eyes any bigger.

“Kyle, what the fudge?” she squeaked, dragging me into the nearest girls’ bathroom.

It was empty. She braced herself against the closed door, intent on keeping it that way.

“Audra already reamed me out,” I said. “Sorry. I won’t lie about our meet-ups again.”

Fawn also thought I was wasting Mac’s valuable resources, but her exasperation made sense. She was tagged kissing so many random boys that she used a sort filter. Anytime a pic surfaced where her face or lips were pressed against a boy’s (or the occasional girl’s), the image was immediately sent into a G-File album labeled OOPS. Fawn was completely boy-crazy.

“Meet-ups? I had no idea you two were…I mean you…and everyone’s saying he was sent home. How are you in one piece right now?”

Sure enough, there were her hands, skittering over me to make sure her words were true.

“Wait. Mac was sent home?”

“Oh gawd. Mac. Has he seen it? What did he say?”

This was becoming less humorous by the second. I put my hands on Fawn’s shoulders, forcing her to meet my gaze.

“Fawnie, what’s going on?”

“You don’t know?” Her eyes filled up. “You haven’t seen it?”