“The accident,” she breathes. Her eyes flash and suddenly she’s indignant on my behalf, instead of at me. “Don’t tell me he dumped you because of the scar?”
“No, but it…it changed everything.” I look away. “It felt like my punishment. And then when we could finally openly be together, imagining all those eyes on me and my face—I just couldn’t do it. Everything happened so quickly. It was too much.”
Brianne stares at me, eyes wide.
“Oh, Nicole. I wish you had told me all this before.”
“I know. I do, too. But…well, remember when you and JJ split up?”
Brianne stiffens at her ex’s name. They were camp counselors together, and she used to ecstatically mark off the days till summer by drawing big red hearts on her calendar. But that all stopped last fall.
“Obviously I remember. What about it?”
“You went from talking about him all the time freshman and sophomore year to not even mentioning his name anymore once you guys broke up. You didn’t even really tell me why you broke up,” I point out. “So we’re similar in that way. People like you and me, we don’t talk about our pain. We play it. We throw it all into our music instead of putting it into words.”
Brianne looks at me uneasily.
“I still say this is different—”
She stops midsentence as the sounds from the hallway grow louder, turning into a chorus of hisses coming at me from behind the closed door. I can make out two words: “Scarface” and “Slut.” Scarfaced slut. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“I can’t stay here,” I tell Brianne.
She nods quickly.
“You should ask Higgins if you can take a leave of absence and go stay with your mom. I’m sure she’ll say yes.”
“But—but then I’d miss the Orchestra Showcase.” The thought is almost as terrible as staying here with the hissing at my back.
“It might be smart to stay offstage until this dies down, honestly,” Brianne says.
I know she’s right, but the thought twists my insides. If Chace is gone, and I can’t perform, then what do I have left?
“I guess I’ll just…just hide out in here until Higgins gives me the okay to go home.” I scuff my toe against the carpet. “What do you think I should do about Lana? I mean, we don’t talk anymore, but…part of me feels like I should say something about the pictures—”
Brianne cuts me off, shaking her head emphatically.
“Nothing you say will do any good at this point. If you want my advice, it’s to do what you probably should have done last year: stay away from Lana Rivera.”
I spend the rest of the dreary day locked in my dorm, sitting on the floor with my back against the bed, hugging my knees to my chest. It seems I’m incapable of anything else. I don’t even have the stomach for the lunch Brianne smuggled through my door, not with the catcalls and hissing continuing unabated. It seems that every time one set of mean girls has to abandon their post outside my door to attend to their actual lives, another group takes their place. I’m dying to get out of here, but Headmaster Higgins still hasn’t responded to my email. And even when she does, that won’t stop the attacks online.
I finally call my mom back, and she’s every bit as hysterical as I expected.
“What in the world, Nicole? I couldn’t reach you all day, and suddenly your friend is dead and your picture is in the paper—” She bursts into tears.
“It’ll be okay, Mom,” I say automatically, but of course that’s an outright lie. “I’m going to try to come home.”
I hear her take a big gulp of air.
“But your scholarship—”
“Only for a little bit, until things…settle down. And only if the headmaster says it’s okay.” I glance at my locked door. Higgins will probably be glad to see the back of me, with all the distraction I’m causing.
“I’m going to talk to my boss, see if he has any lawyer recommendations.”
My blood turns cold.
“A lawyer? Why?”
Mom sighs heavily.
“Honey, the things they’re saying in the paper…and the boy’s parents are so powerful…I just want you to be protected.”
“So we had a relationship. How could anyone think that makes me a criminal?” I stare at my phone, aghast.
“I’m just trying to cover all our bases,” she says, attempting to sound reassuring. “They tend to look at the victim’s significant other first in these types of cases.”
“Then they should focus on Lana,” I say darkly.
The moment we hang up, my phone is back to vibrating again. This time it’s from Facebook, alerting me to all the new messages and posts on my page. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I log in.
Backstabbing, boyfriend-stealing, scar-faced slut, reads the first from Katie Minor, a girl in my Algebra II class. Did you kill him too?! reads another, from someone whose name I don’t recognize but whose profile picture is of a wholesome-looking woman cradling a baby. On and on the hateful and gossipy messages continue, attached to different names and different smiley profile photos that belie the cruelty underneath. My heart is palpitating in my chest, and I scroll up to Settings. Delete Account, it tempts me.
Yes, please.