Point Horror: Identity Theft Part 5

"Really?" I asked, immediately on edge. "Where did you think I'd be?" I could sense Robbie and Adam both looking back and forth between us, as though we were playing an invisible tennis match.

"Partying," Jessica said smoothly. "You certainly talk about it a lot, at least. And I wonder what Mr. Klish would think of your extracurricular activities," she said.

My blood turned to ice.

"What do you mean?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay calm.

"Your Facebook page," she said. She pulled out her iPhone and quickly scrolled, then shoved the phone in my face.

The profile was back. Or rather, I was back. It was a photo from last night, where I was standing next to Matt, one bottle in each hand. Except this time, it was me. It was taken in the half a second before I'd put the drinks on the ground, before the collision, before he'd asked if Adam was my boyfriend, before Erin had led him away. The flash from the bushes. The pain radiating behind my eye sockets. That moment.

"You took that picture," I realized slowly. "You'd been watching me." Of course. I'd been so focused on Keely that I hadn't even thought about Jessica. And I'd walked right into a trap of my own making. I took a deep breath and looked down at my hands, noticing the way my fingers were trembling ever so slightly.

"No, I just looked at your profile pic and saw that you were partying with your Yearbook staffers. Which, to me, seems kind of sketchy. But I guess we can find out whether Mr. Klish is cool with it, right?" Jess asked, barely able to conceal the glee in her voice.

Adam took the phone from Jessica's hands. "That's you," he said in a flat voice. "It's what you were wearing yesterday."

"I know, but you don't understand. It's ..." I shook my head. Jess had gotten something even better than a Photoshopped image. She'd caught me, red-handed. And it wasn't like I could deny it, because everyone had seen me. And even though a lot of high school kids spent weekends partying, I was held to a different standard. Mr. Klish had pretty much spelled it out for me in our meeting in the guidance office the other day. And I'd blown it.

"What do you want?" I asked, panic edging into my voice.

"Step down from the editor-in-chief position and allow me to take over. I won't tell anyone about the Facebook page. I mean, if I were you, I'd take down the pictures immediately. But if you don't give me the editor position, then I'll have no choice but to demand your resignation. After all, I don't feel comfortable being led by an editor who clearly has such dubious judgment."

"Hey, Jess, do you want a chai?" Robbie called loudly from the counter. He looked almost as miserable as I felt.

"Yeah. Soy milk. And make sure it's not watered down," she commanded. Robbie turned on his heel and practically ran to the counter.

"Up to you." She shrugged as she slid her phone into her pocket.

I desperately glanced over at Adam. He and I were a team. He'd come up with something. But instead, he was packing his papers into his backpack.

"Adam?" I croaked, hating the way I sounded so desperate. So scared. He may not have been my best friend, but he was the only person I had. And I needed him on my side.

"Hayley, for all I know, you're starting all this drama. And I don't want to be a part of it. I need to study," he said coldly. "I'll see you on Monday."

Jess smirked as Adam walked out. I closed my eyes, hoping this was some terrible stress dream. I opened them. Nope. Jess was still standing in front of me, her smirk growing wider with every second that I stayed silent. I knew she knew I was trying not to cry.

Robbie walked gingerly toward us, holding out his chai toward Jess like an offering. Sorry, he mouthed to me. I turned away. I didn't want his hippie pity.

"Thanks, honey!" Jess cooed as she grabbed the drink. She perched next to me on the love seat. "Anyway, Hayley, how you live is your choice. I'm not judging you for partying. I mean, if I were under all the stress of senior year and the Ainsworth ..." She sighed. "Well, I think stepping down from Yearbook makes sense on so many levels, don't you agree?" she asked brightly.

I stood up so quickly I jostled the love seat and caused Jess's drink to splash onto her jeans. As she hurried to dab the spot with a napkin, I ran out of the coffee shop. And it was only when I got to my car that I allowed myself to cry.

I put the key in the ignition and turned on the radio. A cheesy Madonna song from the eighties filled the car, its techno-pop beat at odds with my mood.

I'm a failure. The thought came, unbidden, to my mind. I'd worked so hard, for so long. I'd missed out on field hockey, on friends.h.i.+ps, on parties, on everything. And now, because of holding a drink, not even sipping it - the one time in my life that I'd acted like a normal high schooler - everything was falling apart. I wasn't like my mom, who people just liked. People didn't like me. They respected me. But they wouldn't, not anymore.

I cried harder, resting my head against the steering wheel. Then, the song "Forever Young" came on. I recognized it from the soundtrack to the movie Listen to Me. It's one of those movies hardly anyone knows, about a group of college debaters whose hyperambition serves as the basis for their friends.h.i.+ps. Of course, it's full of eighties hairstyles and earnest dialogue, but it was one of my favorites. Before I knew about the Ainsworth or about UPenn, I knew that was what I wanted my future to be like - full of fiercely intelligent people having all-night conversations and pus.h.i.+ng themselves to be the best they could be. But now, the future was so close to slipping from my grasp. Losing the Yearbook job chipped away at my ident.i.ty as the girl who did everything.

A sob of self-pity escaped my lips.

Pull it together, Westin. I was still in the game.

For now. A voice inside my head responded. It wasn't my voice. It was small, scared, full of self-doubt. And I knew that from now on, that voice would be a part of me.

By Sunday, the Facebook profile had once again disappeared into the Internet ether. If that didn't prove Jess's guilt, I wasn't sure what would. But at least she could put her well-honed Photoshop skills to good use on Yearbook, I thought grimly, as I made my way to Monday morning's meeting, where I was about to follow Jess's blackmail instructions and resign. I'd even practiced a resignation speech. That was just the type of person I was. I couldn't even be blackmailed without significant prep.

I felt like I was marching to my execution as I walked up the stairs to room 201. And the worst thing was that none of the other Yearbook staffers seemed to notice or care. They climbed up the stairs in groups of two or three. None of them said hi to me.

I caught a glance of myself in the gla.s.s that surrounded the stairwell. I was wearing a black knee-length skirt, a white sweater, and my knee-high leather boots. It was professional, but not over-the-top, and somber without being ridiculous. Focusing on my outfit was the only way I could face the task ahead of me. Inside, I might have been falling apart, but at least I looked pulled together.

I walked to the podium at the front of the cla.s.sroom, surveying the staff. Some girls, like Andrea Faville and Marisa Ollins, were animatedly talking and laughing while others, like Pauline Millard and Kristen McGonigle, shuffled into the room in their Uggs and sweatpants, their eyes glued to their tiny iPhone screens. They wouldn't care. Which only made me feel worse.

The bell rang, and Mrs. Ross nodded at me. So did Jess. I turned away from her. As if I needed her permission to speak.

"Okay, let's start," I said in a small voice, not making eye contact with anyone.

"So, I think, personally, that we should do, like, a s.h.i.+rtless soccer spread," Pauline said loudly, ignoring me.

Marisa wrinkled her nose. "Isn't that kind of s.e.xist? Besides, I don't think any of them are that hot. I'd prefer doing a s.h.i.+rtless spread of the marching band. At least that's making a statement, you know? Some of them are pretty hot."

"Um, guys?" I tried again.

Just then, the door opened and Matt sauntered in.

"Sorry, Westin!" he stage-whispered as he walked in front of me.

"It's fine. So, like I was saying," I tried again.

"Is everyone listening?" Mrs. Ross interrupted. I glared at her, annoyed at her help. I had this. Or, I would.

The room quieted down. To avoid eye contact, I looked at the poster across the room. It was of a mountain at sunset, with one lone hiker at the top. SOMETIMES, WHEN YOU FEEL LIKE DARKNESS IS APPROACHING, ALL YOU NEED IS A s.h.i.+FT IN PERSPECTIVE. Thank you, inspirational poster. I s.h.i.+fted my focus to Matt, who was gazing at me curiously.

I took a deep breath. "After much consideration, I've decided to step down from my role as editor in chief of the Spectrum. Thank you so much for the opportunity, and I look forward to enjoying the Spectrum as a reader. I'm sure it'll be great."

Silence. I wasn't sure what I'd expected. A protest? A walkout?

Finally, Mrs. Ross spoke up. "Well, this is unexpected, Miss Westin. Do you have a successor?"

I nodded. "AndJessicaAdamsonistheneweditorinchiefpleasedirectquestionstoher," I said in a rush of words. Then, I bolted out the door. A group of junior girls were clapping for Jess, and she was eagerly making her way up to the front of the cla.s.sroom as though she'd just won an Oscar. I didn't need to watch.

I sat down on the dirty linoleum floor and rested my cheek against a metal locker. I could hear Jess's saccharine voice seeping underneath the doorway, talking reelections for cla.s.s-section editors. Hearing her made everything worse. I knew I should stand up and get out, but I was so tired.

Just then, I heard footfalls. I glanced up at Matt peering down at me.

"Hey," he said.

"I'm fine," I said mechanically.

"I didn't ask how you were. I a.s.sume it's somewhere between c.r.a.ppy and sucky. Am I right?"

I took a deep breath and nodded.

"Here." Matt offered his hand to me. I scrambled up on my own, not wanting his help. Then, he pulled me toward him into a hug. I could feel his heart pounding inside his chest. When I pulled away, there was a wet splotch on his blue-and-green b.u.t.ton-down.

Matt took a step back.

"Sorry I got your s.h.i.+rt wet." I bit my lip to keep it from trembling. "It's just ... a tough morning."

"No worries," Matt said, a crooked grin crossing his face. "It's good to see that you're human."

"I'm really fine," I said stiffly. "You should go back to the meeting."

"Nah." Matt shook his head. "Yearbook's for losers."

"Are you quitting?" I asked.

"No ..." Matt trailed off.

"Well, you shouldn't!" I said quickly, hating how presumptuous I must have sounded. Of course he wasn't quitting just because I'd resigned. "Anyway, thanks for checking on me!" I said quickly.

"Wait!" Matt called. "Where are you going?"

"Coffee." The word hung between us, not quite an invitation. "You can come if you want," I added awkwardly.

"Cool. Let's do it," Matt said. And even though I'd suggested it, it was clear he was in charge. I didn't mind. It was nice to finally follow someone else's lead.

Together, we walked down the stairs and into the bright September suns.h.i.+ne. The air smelled like wood smoke, burning leaves, and freshly cut gra.s.s. I took a deep breath. I already felt better.

"Where's your ride?" Matt asked, scanning the parking lot.

"Over there," I admitted, pointing to my ugly brown Cougar. I'd kind of hoped Matt would drive.

He let himself into the pa.s.senger door, throwing my pile of books and binders into the backseat. "Ugly Mug?" he asked expectedly.

"Nah." Memories of Jess's blackmail were still too fresh. "Coffee Hut." It was a generic chain in the strip mall at the other end of town. The coffee tasted like sugary dirt, but at least it wouldn't lead to some post-traumatic episode.

"Cool," he said. I started the ignition and he turned on the radio, jumping back when Bon Jovi blasted over the ancient sound system.

"Someone loves their eighties rock," he murmured, fiddling with the dials until he came across an acoustic rock guitar song.

"Yeah, sorry about that." I hadn't adjusted the radio since my Sat.u.r.day night cry fest.

"It's so weird that you have, like, a tape player in your car. It's like, beyond retro," he said, examining the ancient dashboard and piles of mix tapes left over from my mother's own adolescence that were spread across the floor.

"It's a retro car," I said awkwardly. I knew he was just trying to make conversation, but it was hard not to take his comment as an attack against the Cougar.

"Cool." Matt drummed his fingers along to the beat.

We parked and walked into the Coffee Hut together. It was in the middle of the early-morning rush. As we got in line, part of me hoped the customers surrounding us would look at Matt and me and a.s.sume we were a couple.

When it was our turn to order, Matt stepped in front of me.

"I'll get a hot chocolate. And it'd be awesome if the whipped cream was epic," he said, immediately moving to the coffee pickup area.

"You?" the barista asked.

"A vanilla latte," I decided. I deserved it.

"That'll be ten dollars even," she said. Clearly, Matt's epic hot chocolate came with an epic price tag.

But Matt was at the other end of the store, and I didn't want to call him out to pay. "Fine." I pulled out a ten, pa.s.sed it to the cas.h.i.+er, then headed over to wait with Matt.

"Yo," Matt said. Clearly, the fact that he had to pay hadn't even crossed his mind. And while it wasn't like I was going to bring it up or anything, I couldn't help but note that our coffees were the equivalent of an hour and a half of my own barista-ing.

As soon as we got our drinks, we went outside. Matt sat on the bench and I joined him, even though I was worried about being late for first period. How didn't he worry?

"You know, I didn't get captain of the hockey team last year," Matt said out of the blue.

"Oh?" I glanced sharply at him. His seemingly random conversation made it feel like he'd read my mind.

"Yup. I was b.u.mmed. Coach gave it to Dave Fowler. He told me that I was more talented, but Dave wanted it more. And according to Coach, pa.s.sion always wins. Of course, that's what they always tell the losers, right?"

"Well, I guess that's good for Dave," I said, not quite willing to explain the real situation about what had gone down between me and Jess.

"Wasn't that what happened with you? Ross made you give it to Jess?"

"Not exactly." I paused. "I just have a lot of stuff going on. I'm applying for this scholars.h.i.+p, and it's kind of a big deal...."

"Yeah," Matt interrupted. "Well, whatever, at least now you get to sleep in, right?"

"I guess so," I hedged.

"Meanwhile, I'll be toiling away at the crack of dawn, bribing Jess for more sports pages and trying to sneak party photos past Ross." He took another sip of his hot chocolate, then wiped away his whipped cream mustache. It was so weird how Matt was, like, the big man on campus and he didn't drink coffee. I thought everyone did.

"Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?" I asked, laughing a little despite myself.

"Maybe." Matt stretched his arms to the sky, and I caught a glimpse of his tan, buff abs. "Depends on what you do for guys you feel sorry for."

I stiffened. Was he flirting with me? He couldn't be. And yet everything - his smile, his abs, his easygoing att.i.tude - made everything extremely confusing. I averted my gaze up to his watch. It was already seven forty.

"We should go." I took a few final gulps of my coffee and threw the empty cup toward the metal trashcan at the edge of the curb. If I make this shot, then everything will be all right. The paper cup hit the rim before rolling onto the pavement.

"d.a.m.n it," I exhaled, before I realized that I'd spoken out loud to myself - again. I glanced up, and saw Matt giving me a knowing smile. I shrugged as he picked up the cup from the pavement and threw it away.

"Thanks," I said.

"Dude, I wouldn't let you litter," he laughed.