Be the Girl

“Can I ask you something?” I peer at Jen over my tray of mac ’n’ cheese. It’s rainy and cold outside, and when I saw another student walk by with the cheesy, hot bowl, I quickly abandoned my bagel from home. “As your friend.”

Her owlish eyes regard me a moment before she shrugs. “Sure.”

How do I put this … “You have an interesting wardrobe.” I give her orange jack-o’-lantern sweatshirt a pointed look.

Jen grins. “I prefer to call it festive.”

“It’s definitely that.” Yesterday’s sweatshirt was all black with the word “Boo!” across the chest. “But what gives? I mean, why do you dress the way you do, which is … not exactly like a nor—like other teenagers.”

She stabs at her macaroni noodles with a fork. “They’re my mom’s shirts,” she admits, biting her bottom lip. “Remember when I said we moved to Eastmonte when I was twelve? It was because she had cancer, so my parents decided it’d be a good idea to be closer to my grandparents while she was going through treatment. We moved in with them. It made things easier.” She smiles at her plate of food. “She died two years ago, when I started tenth grade.”

“Oh.” I swallow. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.” I’ve been so focused on my own life, I don’t know much of anything about Jen at all, other than that Holly was her nemesis.

What would it have been like for Jen, to lose her mother at fifteen?

For years, my mother seemed absent—she was gone all day, and when she was home, her head was buried in work. But it’s not the same. I knew she’d come back eventually.

For Jen, all she has left are memories.

And tacky shirts.

“So, you wear your mom’s clothes?”

She rolls her eyes. “My mom had a thing for loud, fun shirts. She always used to say, ‘I might not be the most handsome woman there ever was but I’ll be the most fun.’ And she was. She turned heads wherever she went. Not necessarily in a good way, mind you, but she didn’t care what other people thought of her. It all slid off her shoulders, because she liked who she was.” Jen smiles. “She told me that the sooner you figure out how to like yourself through your own eyes, the sooner you’ll stop trying to see yourself through everyone else’s.” She shifts her pasta around with her spoon. “I miss her. A lot. After she died, I decided to wear one of her shirts to school. It was Valentine’s Day and the shirt had a giant Be Mine heart across the front. It felt good. I felt like she was still with me. And so I started wearing more of her shirts. This was her favorite one for Halloween.” She peers down at her chest and laughs. “I used to think it was so ugly but now all I see when I look at it is her.”

“That’s …” I swallow against the lump in my throat. “She sounds like she would have been a fun mom to have.” And suddenly the tacky shirts don’t seem so tacky anymore.

“She was.” Jen studies her lunch intently before shoveling in a mouthful. She nods behind me and a moment later, Josie slides into her chair, setting her red lunch bag on the table in front of her.

“Hi.” Her eyes shift to me, partially hidden behind her heavy, dark bangs. She worries her thin lips, as if wanting to say something but holding herself back.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure if you want me to tell you this,” she says in that near-whisper.

“Well, now you have to.” Wariness slides down my spine. I already know this isn’t going to be good.

Josie purses her mouth. “Okay, so I heard people talking in class about this Instagram account that someone started for Emmett Hartford’s new girlfriend.”

My stomach sinks like a rock in a lake.

“The handle is SWF Eats.” Josie’s cute face is apologetic. “And there are pictures—”

I leave my lunch where it is, barely touched—my appetite vanished—and, grabbing my purse, dash for the nearest girls’ bathroom. Ducking into the last stall, I dig out my phone.

It doesn’t take long to find the account.

My chest burns as I study the profile picture. It’s a zoomed-in candid shot of me—my face contorted as I open my mouth to take a bite from a sandwich. Holly must’ve taken it during lunch when the lunch monitors weren’t watching.

There are five pictures loaded in the feed and they’re of equally unflattering shots of me eating, three taken in the last week.

And two taken … today.

I look down at my red shirt—a shirt we bought on the weekend shopping trip. Holly hasn’t come to the cafeteria yet. Which means other people are taking pictures of me, and she’s posting them right away. They heard about the account, thought it was funny, and joined in. That’s how these things start: a funny joke at someone’s expense. It might only last a few days or a few weeks, but the damage will be done.

How long before the whole school is in on it?

My eyes sting with angry tears as I read the profile description.

Stalker. Thief. S.T.D. Advocate. Bathroom Voyeur. DM face-stuffing pics. Anon guaranteed.

There’s no doubt Holly started this, but good luck proving it. She posted the first picture last Friday night, after the mini-meet. She probably sat in her room—by herself, or with Mandy, who seems to be of like mind—and giggled as she opened a fake account using a fake email.

And there are already seventy-four followers.

I close my eyes as a wave of nausea floods me.

I don’t know what to do. If I tell my mother, she’ll storm in guns blazing and make things worse.

If I go to Mr. Keen … who am I kidding? Holly won’t admit to it. He’ll probably make things worse too. If he does anything at all.

Maybe I brought this on myself. I did start that idiotic toe-sucking rumor, after all. And I did help break them up. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be a target. Maybe I deserve this.

That thought brings me no comfort.

But there’s not much I can do. I take a screenshot of the IG account, for proof, and then report the account, knowing it’s likely futile.

And then I hide out in the bathroom stall until the bell goes for the end of fourth period, because there’s no way I’m going back to the caf today.





22





Ms. Moretti cuts my path off as I’m on my way to joining the rest of the team in stretching. “How’s the knee?” She peers down at my leg, hidden by my favorite loose track pants.

“Fine. Just bruised.” I bend it as if to prove my words. In truth, my entire kneecap is an ugly and concerning mottle of purple and blue, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.

“Okay. Do me a favor and take it easy for one more day. We have two weeks until regionals. You’ll make your time back, if you let yourself heal. Pace yourself with Richard.”

“Sure.” My eyes flicker to the group, to where Holly sits on the grass, stretching her hamstrings, her ponytail swaying as she laughs hysterically with the girl beside her. About what, who knows, but I’ve come to assume it’s nothing kind.

Tension instantly courses through my limbs.

“Is everything else okay, Aria?”

I meet Moretti’s eyes, now wearing a coat of suspicion. “Yeah. Why?”

“Are you—” She stops midsentence, twisting her lips in thought. And then simply nods. “I know starting at a new school can be hard. You seem to be on the right track. But if you ever need an ear …” Her brow pinches. “If things get harder than they should be at school, I’m here to listen. You know that, right?”

I force a smile, even as my insides tighten. Did she dig into my past? Did she find records she was not supposed to see?

“Yeah. I know.” I sound like Cassie.

Her shrewd gaze wanders to Holly. “We’re not as oblivious to what’s going on as you guys seem to think we are. I hate it”—she holds a manicured hand up— “no, that’s a terrible word. I strongly dislike it when my students think they can’t come to me with a problem. Especially a problem with another student. I’m here to help, but I can’t do that if you don’t talk to me. Okay?”