The Takedown(62)

Fawn looked back and forth between us.

“Wait,” she said, breathless. “Why are we smiling? You lost me at six total sex videos.”

Giddily, I quickly explained. “So far—thanks to Sharma—we know that half of the footage that was used to make these fake sex videos was stolen from Woofer. In order to access Woofer footage, you first have to have a CB account and second have to be ‘connected’ to the person in the footage. Which means, as we speak, the hater is somewhere in here”—I wiggled my Doc—“as one of my CB connections. If we get CB’s help to compare multiple accounts and possibly access the deleted teachers’ info…”

“We can weed out your hater,” Sharma finished.

“Oh my God, my friends are so brilliant,” Fawn squealed, and threw her arms around us.

“Do you know if any of the other girls are txting the hater?”

“Uh, no.” Sharma eyes narrowed with displeasure. “They didn’t mention it. Why? Are you?”

“No, of course not,” I lied.

“So what are you going to message ConnectBook?” Fawn asked as roles reversed and for the first time ever I avoided Sharma’s gaze.

“I’m not going to message them. I’m paying them a visit.”

“Like in person?” Sharma said, glasses sliding down her nose.

“People do still do things face-to-face, Sharmie. Let them try and not help me.”





Maybe it was egotistical (I mean, surprise, surprise), but right from the start I’d assumed this was about something I’d done. It had to be, as what stranger would ever hold this big a grudge? But knowing there were five other victims changed everything. What was it AnyLies had originally told me? That she “despised me from afar.” Maybe Graff was right. I needed to shift my focus. This whole time I’d been assuming I was dealing with someone I encountered physically on a daily basis—Jessie, Ailey, Ellie, or (sorry, pookie) Audra—because our txts felt personal. Not like some random girl in Duluth hated me, but like someone very near to me in Brooklyn did. But what did distance matter anymore?

Why couldn’t it be someone I’d pissed off online? I was a regular commenter on at least half a dozen political sites. And, I mean, what was more divisive than politics? Although, come to think of it, that answer equaled commenting online at all. Period. I left reviews on every book I ever read, and let’s be honest, it wasn’t due to “this generation’s lack of attention span” that I rarely got through half of them. I was an avid poster on all things nightcore and possibly one of the only fans of Snap Cinco, a group of tiny Guatemalan girls who thought they were fly as SHT and everyone loved to hate on. I left honest (negative) reviews for shirts I bought and returned, bad food or service at restaurants I would never set foot in again, and a whole thread of angry missives on the Unicorn Wars feed when they tried to swap out a main actress for an entirely different actress without even a minor acknowledgment in the dialogue.

I mean, how hard would a You don’t seem like yourself today, Starborn have been?

Never mind that Mac had me listed as his Main Squeeze on ConnectBook and Mac had over a thousand connects, half of whom I’m sure would have loved to see me choke on my breakfast. Actually, mental note, that wasn’t a bad investigative thread to follow.

As the girls went to class, I went in the opposite direction and rushed up Ankle Breaker straight to three.

The main entrance security sensor had already marked me present, so I wasn’t worried about ruining my attendance record. But if Graff caught me sneaking out, there wouldn’t be a choice between sick or suspended. Especially after I’d received her don’t-mess-with-the-security-sensor lecture less than ten minutes ago. I could think of only one salvation.

“Kyle!” Ms. Tompkins said when I barged into the library. “Did you hear Brittany got puked on at the holiday party?”

“What? No!”

Ms. Tompkins was sitting behind a narrow counter next to a few measly shelves of fiction, one window, and two computers. Park Prep could at least try to keep her relevant. She shoved out a stool next to her.

“Yep,” she said. “In like the first ten minutes. Mrs. Claus was forced to make a quick exit. After that only Santa circulated.”

“That’s so not terrible. Did everyone else have a good time?”

“You should have seen all the moms’ faces when they unwrapped the Docs. It was the best party yet, minus one of the most important elements. How you holding up?”

“I’m good,” I said. “In fact, I’m about to go to the ConnectBook offices to figure out who’s hating on me. The only thing is…”

Without a click of hesitation, Ms. Tompkins swiped at her Doc. “You’d probably need an off-grounds pass for that, wouldn’t you?”

Off-grounds passes were something Dr. Graff created. Considering our location in Brooklyn and our proximity to Manhattan, she thought a Park Prep senior could, on occasion, be better educated outside the mansion’s walls than within them—be it at a gallery opening, a ballet performance, a lecture. All we needed was parent and faculty permission.

As Ms. Tompkins swiped to the correct screen, I txted Mac. Regardless of how we defined ourselves, he was the first and only person who came to mind. I didn’t want to be around anyone else for this.