I feel light-headed. Because I haven’t been breathing. I force myself to inhale some air, in and out and in again. This has to be photoshopped. Yes. There’s no other explanation. Very well done, but . . . in grad school Annie photoshopped a tentacle coming out of her butt. Anything’s possible, right?
I sit at my desk, noticing that lots of people I’ve talked with recently have blocked me—do they believe this rubbish? They can’t possibly. They know me. Right?
MARIE: Shmac, I just saw the STC shitshow. Have you?
I bounce my foot and wait for his answer. Minutes later Rocío comes in and starts sliding stuff into her backpack. When I say “sliding,” what I mean is “aggressively throwing as though she’s practicing her pitch for an upcoming stoning.”
“You okay?” I ask, regretting it even before the words are out. I’m probably too anxious to help her with whatever she’s going to tell me.
“No.”
Shit. “Is Kaylee okay?”
“No. She feels like crap.” She zips up her backpack, forcefully sliding her arm through one of the straps. “All the work we’ve been doing for #FairGraduateAdmissions, flushed down the toilet because one of the leaders outed herself as a damn crook.”
I freeze. Of all the conversations, I cannot imagine one more uncomfortable, untimely, unpleasant—lots of Uns.
“I—I saw,” I stammer. My mouth is dry. “But . . . is that even true? It’s probably something made up—”
“I bet it’s not. People kept saying that STC’s screenshots were fake, so he gave proof to some #FairGraduateAdmissions leaders. Marie really did slide into this guy’s DMs and asked for money. She fucked us over—she was the one who started #FairGraduateAdmissions, so we won’t be taken seriously any longer. That means lots of horrible things for lots of good people—and even for some evil ones. Like me. I’ll have to spend thousands of dollars I don’t have to retake a test that’s less valid a predictor of my ability to succeed in grad school than the number of mummified scorpions I own. Which is seven, by the way.” Her voice breaks a little on the last word, which in turn breaks my heart. She looks away, but not before I can see the lone tear sliding down her face. “I won’t get into Johns Hopkins. I’ll be a jobless failure while Kaylee goes to grad school and forgets all about me.”
I stand. “No. No, it won’t happen—”
“I’m just so disappointed.” She takes a deep breath, shuddering and despondent. “You can’t trust anyone. The world really is a vampire.” She shrugs, backpack bouncing on her slim shoulder. “You should stop doing that, by the way.”
“What?” I follow her gaze. She’s staring at my hand, where I’m furiously twisting my grandmother’s ring.
“Yesterday I spent fifteen minutes arguing with Guy about whether you’re married. That’s what happens when you wear other people’s wedding rings, Bee.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Did Guy find out? He did seem a little distant today, but I thought he was just nervous about tomorrow’s demonstration. Should I go find him to explain?
“You going home?” Rocío asks.
“No, I . . .” I was supposed to leave with Levi, as usual. But I don’t think I can pretend nothing happened, and telling him about this mess seems . . . well, I could, I guess. If there’s someone I could trust with WWMD, it’s Levi. But my shitty mood as I try to wrangle my online identity is probably more than he’s bargained for. “Yeah, sure. I’ll walk with you.”
I shoot Levi a quick text about the change of plans and fall in step with Rocío. He doesn’t answer until I’m home, asking me if everything’s okay, if I want him to pick me up, if he should stop by. A few seconds later, Shmac finally replies:
SHMAC: Yeah. I saw.
MARIE: I have no idea what’s happening. I never messaged Green, of course.
SHMAC: Problem is, people on #FairGraduateAdmissions side say they have proof it was you.
MARIE: Please, tell me you don’t believe them.
SHMAC: I don’t.
I close my eyes. Thank God.
SHMAC: Let me think about this, okay? Talk to some people. There must be a way to fix this. Also, check your logs. In case you’ve been hacked.
I have not. There’s nothing out of place—every access to my account has been from Houston. I’m jittery, nervous, scared. I pace around my apartment, long and aggressively enough that it’s probably a workout. I should log it into the stupid exercise app Levi made me download （“You’ll keep track of your progress. It’ll be rewarding.” “You know what else is rewarding?” “Don’t say ‘Not working out,’ Bee.” “。 . . Fine.”）。 I’m actually considering going for a run to clear my head （Have I been body-snatched? By aliens?） when I get an email notification.