We had another study session Friday night (this time sans Mason) and I finally felt like I was back on track. Back on my schedule. Back on my life plan. The last few weeks had been exciting and distracting and out of the ordinary but, like I’d told Seth, it was time to focus. Keep my eye on the real goal—college. And that’s what I was doing now, sitting at my desk on a Saturday afternoon, doing what I did best, studying.
My phone buzzed and I smiled; Seth was my main texter lately. But it wasn’t Seth. It was an anonymous number. And the only text was a link to a website that I wasn’t dumb enough to click on. I wasn’t going to get a virus on my brand-new phone. It was probably some spammer. I deleted the text and set my phone down.
Not two minutes later, the text was back again. This time I clicked the link. It took me to a website I’d seen before. It mostly covered celebrity gossip or sensational news stories that seemed too far-fetched to be true. Again, I deleted the text. When it came up a third time, my curiosity got the best of me. I accessed the link on my computer rather than click on it through my phone again.
The headline story on the site was about some woman who had free-climbed a fifty-story building.
“Crazy, girl,” I said. “But pretty impressive.”
Had this girl’s publicist sent out mass texts to the world to get her some attention? Or maybe she wanted to go viral and get on a few talk shows or something. I moved the cursor to the top left corner, ready to shut down the browser, when I saw something that stopped me cold. Below the article about the human spider woman was the title of another article. “How Would You Spend $50 Million?” Subtitled: “Probably Not Like Her.”
I moved the cursor over the words, not wanting to know if it was about me. Maybe it was about someone else and the text I’d gotten was just showing me how someone else chose to spend their money. Or maybe it wasn’t. How would anyone know how I spent my money anyway? Lottery winners might have been public record, but I knew my spending habits weren’t.
I wasn’t sure if I was trying to talk myself into or out of clicking on the link with that reasoning. But my finger pressed on the trackpad, and I wasn’t prepared for the large picture of my face that now filled my screen. It was a newer picture, my hair highlighted and cut. I’d been shot candid style. My mouth was halfway open, right in the middle of saying something. It wasn’t flattering. I looked like I was disgusted or in the middle of ordering someone to do something. And the words that followed were even less flattering.
Hundred-thousand-dollar yacht parties, hundred-thousand-dollar cars, half-a-million-dollar condos. This new multimillionaire has already gotten the hang of luxury. But don’t let the fact that she’ll drop cash by the hundreds fool you into thinking she’s generous. She’s also already learned how to snub the commoner—how about no tip for the valet driver and a mere twenty bucks for the delivery boy after ordering designer pizza. And not a single charitable donation. Maddie might want to read up on charity before she spends her way into the title of most-hated teen.
Below the words was a detailed spreadsheet of how I’d spent a lot of my money, including the hundred dollars I’d given to Dylan not to jump off the boat. It didn’t list everything I’d spent, but enough to let me know that someone had talked to this journalist. Someone close to me. But who?
I re-read the article multiple times, feeling more and more sick to my stomach. There was no one person who knew all of these things. The same people who knew how I’d tipped the delivery boy—Blaire, Elise, Mason—were not with me when I hadn’t tipped the valet driver. Also, who took the super unflattering picture of me and handed it over? Upon further study, I realized the picture was taken the night of the yacht party.
That could’ve been almost anyone in the entire school.
This was my own fault. I’d started my spending off with a bang. Regardless of how responsible I planned on being with most of my money, nobody could see that from the way I’d acted so far. Was someone trying to teach me a lesson in some weird way? Who would humiliate me publicly like this? Had someone been compensated for this information? For the picture? And how many people would visit this site?
That thought had me clicking over to Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, checking each one to see if anyone had linked to the article yet. So far, nothing. The thought brought me no relief. I knew they would. Whoever my mysterious texter was would pass this information on. The texter. I picked up my phone and responded to the text: Who is this?
There was no answer.
Had I expected the person to confess their identity after what they’d just shown me?
I called Blaire on speakerphone.
“Hey, Bruce,” she said.
“Not you too.”
She laughed. “It’s kind of funny, right?”
“I’m going to text you a link. Look it up and tell me not to panic.”
“Okay … ” she said warily. “Is everything all right?”
“That’s what you’re going to tell me. That everything is going to be all right.” I shot her off a text.
“Looking it up now,” she said. “Okay, I’m here. What … Oh.”
I listened as she mumble-read the article to herself. “Condo? I didn’t know you bought a condo.”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh.” She continued to read. Then she was quiet. “Who did this reporter talk to?”
“That’s what I was wondering.” I let out a long groan.
“Listen, Maddie, it’s fine. I mean, it’s super unflattering, obviously, but this is a gossip column. Everyone knows half the things on here are exaggerated or lies.”
“You think?”
“Yes. So just let it go. I doubt anyone will even look at this.”
Her calm helped settle my nerves. “I hope you’re right.”
“The real thing you need to worry about is who is talking. Who wanted to rat you out like this? And did they get paid to do it?”
“That’s what I was wondering.”
“You need to be more cautious. Less trusting,” she said.
Less trusting. What did she mean? I didn’t get to have friends? Or talk to my friends about anything? Or maybe I just couldn’t make new friends. I put my hand on my forehead.
Was this my life now?