#Scandal (27 page)

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Sadly, most of our assumptions were upheld.

Surprisingly, though, they were upheld not just by our subjects, but by me.

I fueled the drama, offering incentives for the #scandal page, asking you to validate me and profess your socalled love by clicking the like button. I posted gossip, reblogged negativity. I dished the dirt, doused it in gasoline, lit it on fire, and broke out the marshmal ows, all under the guise of a legitimate experiment.

I was wrong.

I presumed that people use technology as a screen, allowing them to say virtually anything without consequence, but through the Miss Demeanor persona, I got to know students’ issues in a way that writing for the newspaper never allowed. There’s truth in all we say and do, even in our lies and exaggerations.

I never planned to out myself. After graduation, I was supposed to trail off into the sunset, go out with an air of mystery, become an Internet legend. But that 334

was back when I was still treating this project as an effort to validate my own assumptions rather than as an objective experiment. I never thought this would change my perspective. I never thought it would be the catalyst to bring new friends into my life. And I damn well never thought it would be the thing that, through my underhandedness, would hurt those friends—

especially the one I’ve grown to care about most.

Hurting her is my biggest failure, my deepest shame.

It’s possible that my confession will earn more enemies than accolades, and that I’ll regret going out like this instead of going out with an anonymous bang. Or perhaps a buzz? ;-)

Okay, no more jokes. My cynical heart being what it is, I’m guessing most of you stopped reading after

“Franklin Margolis” above, and I’m typing into the echo chamber. But for those of you still with me, thank you for listening. I sincerely hope that those I’ve offended and hurt will find it in their hearts to forgive me, knowing that you’ve taught me much.

Mostly, that even as the guy with the highest GPA at 335

Lavender Oaks High, I don’t know jack.

With sincere apologies and a final online goodbye, xo ~
Ciao!
~ xo

Mis Demeanor

Bet er known as Franklin Margolis

336

PANTS, SHIRTS, HATS,

ACCESSORIES, AND ALL MANNER OF

UNDERGARMENTS TOTALLY ON FIRE

T
hey used me.” I lean against Prince Freckles and breathe deeply, focusing on the soft sounds of the horses and the earthy smell of hay and oats. “I’m such an
idiot.
”

“Shut up,” Griffin says. “You’re so not an idiot. Franklin and Ash are idiots. Honestly, I expected more from our valedictorian. Miss Demeanor? The whole thing is bloody—I mean freaking—insane.”

This gets a smile. “Does this mean you’re not moving to London after college?”

“Hell no.” Griff puts a hand on her heart. “From now on, the only Brit I’ll ever love is Harry Potter.” 337

I sit down just outside the pen, sketch two stick figures in the ditt where I first had lunch with Franklin. It was only two weeks ago, but it seems like a year’s worth of ups and downs have converged into one moment, today, our last day of classes.

“So what did you bring me?” I ask. Griff texted me just before lunch,
got something 2 cheer u up bigtime! meet @ stables?
“Please say it’s the Daryl and Merle action figures from
The Walking Dead
.”

“Not quite, weirdo, but now I know what to get for your birthday.” Griff crouches next to me. She doesn’t quite sit—no way she’ll get her Calvin Klein cutoffs dirty—but the fact that she’s enduring the horse barn at all shows her loyalty.

From her purse, she fishes out a silver iPhone. My iPhone. The one I lost at Cole’s party.

“Where . . . ? How . . . ? What the . . . ?”

“This morning in gym,” she explains. “The little Judas left her bag on the bench while she was in the bathroom.”

“Olivia?” I ask, and she nods. “You went through her bag?”

Griff rises and dusts off her hands. “Hardly! The zipper was partway open. Like, a lot of the way. And I happened to see a phone that looked a lot like yours. When I saw the cracked screen, I knew for sure.”

338

“What did she say?” I ask.

“I was about to rage on her,” Griff says, “but I reined it in. I figured it would be better to talk to you first, see how you wanted to play it with Zeff.”

“Good call.” I flip the phone in my hands, trace my fingers over the familiar scratches and grooves. I’m not that surprised that Olivia turned out to be the perp—

even before the phone, the evidence was pointing that way. But I guess there was a small part of me that hoped she wasn’t, that hoped my suspicions would be proven wrong. I wanted to believe that decent people stay decent, deep down, even when bad things happen to them.

She
really
had a thing for Cole, more than I ever realized, and seeing him with me must’ve crushed her.

The Daryl and Merle action figures might disagree, but it doesn’t take a zombie apocalypse to bring out the worst in us, to chase off our humanity. Like the old song in the emo bathroom says—all we need is love. A secret, unrequited ache that goes deep enough to leave scars.

“Lucy. I hoped I’d find you out here.” Franklin appears in the doorway, the sun lighting him up like some kind of poufy-haired angel. There’s a deep apology in his eyes, but when I recall the message I sent to Miss D the other day, the confession that felt a lot braver when she didn’t have a 339

face —especially not Franklin’s—my skin burns with the heat of a thousand lightbulbs.

The old, nonenvironmentally friendly kind that get, like,
super
hot.

Griffin levels an icy glare. “What are
you
doing here?”

“I was hoping I could talk to Lucy,” he says.

“She’s not interested,” Griff says.

Franklin crosses the stables and stops before me, his eyes pleading. “You’re my partner, Veronica. Don’t shut me out.”

“Was.” I’m surprised at how much it aches to say it.

“Guess (e)VIll was right all along. Vanity-based technologies really do kill relationships.”

“Lucy—”

“I’m not perfect, okay? I screwed up majorly this year.

And before all this happened, I was a total antisocial emo bitch most of the time. I get it. But you pretended to be my friend, and I believed you.”

“It wasn’t pretend. All that time in the lab, hanging out, working on the case . . . it was me. Franklin.”

“But not Miss Demeanor, the one I was e-mailing for advice. I defended her—you—and you attacked her—you

. . .” I squeeze my eyes shut so hard that when I open them again, I see stars. “That’s so—”

“Meta?” He cracks a smile, but quickly drops it.

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“
Really
?” Griff rolls her eyes. “That’s pretty ridiculous, even for you.”

“It was an experiment,” he says. “Gone wrong. I never meant—”

“You set out to prove how meaningless relationships are by faking one with me.” I slip the phone into my pocket and dust off my hands. There’s a brush dangling from a nail inside the stall, and I grab it, get to work on Prince Freckles. “There was never any
Explorer
story, right? All your notes, your research, it was all part of your experiment.”

“The last issue came out April tenth.” He nods. “I misled you about my reasons for wanting the inside scoop on the Facebook scandal. But our friendship? That was real. From the first time we talked, I never saw you as just another variable. And Ash—he wasn’t involved, as far as your story was concerned. He and I started this long ago. He wanted to help you solve this thing too. He believes in justice. And he really likes you, Lucy. He respects you.”

“You both took advantage of me. You both lied.” He winces, but doesn’t deny it. Instead, he turns to Griffin. “Do you mind if I speak with Lucy in private?” She snorts. “Like
that’s
gonna happen.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Go. I’ll catch up with you after.” Griffin huffs, but she does as I ask.

Franklin says, “You’re right, I lied. I’m here to apologize 341

for that. But you’re a liar too.” There’s no melodrama in his voice, no accusation. Just fact. “Still trying to convince yourself that Facebook is the cause of your problems. Or cell phones or cameras or Olivia and her friends. Even your sister gets the blame.”

“Jay has nothing to do with this.”

Franklin shakes his curly head. “I’ve seen the way you treat her, how embarrassed you were during her performance at the pep rally. You didn’t want me to know you were related—not because you thought I’d use you to get close, but because you were mortified of her.” I lower my eyes, focus on untangling Prince Freckles’s mane.

“Why not add Cole, if we’re making a list? He should’ve told Ellie no when she suggested you go to prom in her place.” His voice is rising, emotion replacing his measured tone. “And Ellie . . . She’s the one who kept secrets, then got upset when she discovered you liked her ex. There’s also the school. Ms. Zeff. (e)VIL. Horses too. Right, Freckles? Bloody hell, he was at that party. He could’ve taken the pictures. Why not?”

Prince Freckles stomps his still-sequined foot.
Leave me
out of it, dude.

I’m silent, still brushing. It’s one of those moments I’ll reflect on later and come up with all the right things to say.

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All the best comebacks, the real zingers to put him exactly in his place.

But right now, all I can do is hurt.

He’s right.

“You’d like to crucify everyone for living on Facebook,” he continues. “Yet you shared more of yourself with Miss Demeanor, a fake online persona whose primary claim to fame is hashtag scandal, than you have with any real person in your life. You haven’t even shared your feelings with Cole.”

“I trusted
you
,” I say. “Maybe not with everything, but with a lot. And look how that turned out.” The words find their target; hurt flickers in his eyes.

“I’ve been here for you all along, Lucy. I still want to help you solve this. And I still want to be your friend. You just refuse to let anyone in because you’re a self-proclaimed stubborn emo pain in the ass.”

I clap the brush against the side of the pen and hang it back on the hook. “It’s done,” I say. “I know who did it. I have my proof.”

Franklin raises his eyebrows. “Well, don’t leave me hanging, Veronica.”

“You won’t be shocked to know it’s Olivia.” I tell him about Griff and the phone.

“Why didn’t Griffin send me an update? This is a major breakthrough in the case.”

343

“Why do you
think
, Miss Demeanor?” Franklin’s neck goes bright red. “Right. Well. Are you sure it’s your phone? Lots of people have iPhones.”

“Same cracked screen.” I slide it out of my pocket and show him; then I remember he’s not allowed to be involved anymore, and I put it away.

“What are you planning to do?”

“Confront her,” I say.

“But it’s still yours and Griffin’s word against hers. I think you should—”

“Stop.” I shake my head, erase my stick figure sketches with the heel of my boot before Franklin even notices them. “Griff and I can take it from here.” I’m so ninja style—minus the fruit—as I sit through our last art class, quietly rolling my final sketches into a long cardboard tube. Olivia’s cozying up to Mr. Lopez today, no eye contact, no harsh whispers or smarmy remarks about me and Cole. But when the bell rings and she slips into the bathroom for a break, I follow her, quiet as a mouse, deadly as a viper.

Once she’s in a stall, I lean back against the main door.

I hold my breath.

And I wait.

Despite my impressive undead kill stats and my 344

obsession with all things gore, I’m not a brawler; I detest actual violence. I’m not even much of a yeller. Sarcasm and avoidance, the dash of melodrama I inherited from my actress sister? Those are my weapons of choice.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I almost laugh. Smudged black eyeliner. Dyed red hair. Nose ring.

Real
intimidating.

There’s the telltale flush, but before she opens the stall door, Olivia’s phone rings. I hear the rustling, wait for her to dig out her phone and answer. There’s a deep sigh, a pause, the hello.

And then she’s crying, her voice broken and defeated as she tells her parents yes, it’s fine if they cancel her graduation party; her friends will make other plans. Yes, she’ll come right home after school, and yes, tomorrow’s senior picnic is mandatory, but she’ll come right home after that too. Yes, she knows she’s still grounded.

I look at my cracked iPhone, the dead black screen smudged with fingerprints.

Oranges in a vase, sunflowers on the table. A basket full of
puppies . . .

Olivia’s paintings in Lopez’s class.

When she lurches out of the stall, eyes red and smudgy, I don’t give her a chance to speak. I hold the phone up, wiggle it in front of her face.

345

“You’re taking
my
picture in the bathroom now?” she asks. “Classic.”

Her expression doesn’t change, short brown hair sticking up like she couldn’t be bothered styling it this morning.

She ducks under my arm, heads for the sink.

When the faucet clicks on, I toss the phone into the sink, right under the stream.

“I’m not paying for that, I hope you know.” I hold her gaze in the mirror. She looks sad, maybe a little angry. The ghost of it still burns behind her blue eyes.

“I have irrefutable proof from . . . from an independent investigator that you created the Juicy Lucy page,” I say.

“They were able to cross-check the times of the messages and the linguistics.”

Olivia’s face rearranges into something closer to surprise, followed quickly by fear.

And then it crumples.

She turns to face me, takes a breath, looks at me like she’s about to say something sincere, something important.

But all that comes out is, “I deleted it.” She plucks my soaked phone out of the sink, drops it on the counter. “Pretty sure this is toast. God, you really
are
nutter butters.”