BY THE TIME WE ARRIVE at school, the blog published by Anonymous has been deleted from Hinderwood’s Facebook page, Twitter feed, and Tumblr. Thank you, Seung, for believing me over blog comments. But just because Seung logged into a few social media accounts and deleted the article doesn’t mean the entire school didn’t swallow its words. Lies at a small-town high school travel at warp speed. Even late risers know someone who memorized key points.
Reed Clemmings = Monster
Anonymous = Victim
The article punches Reed where it should, but the comments don’t. They split the school in half and say things like “She should have signed her name. Owned up to shit.” Owned up? Some call the article blasphemy. Others call Anonymous a hero. “Burn the jerk at the stake.” “Take him to the chopping block.”
The article shares what kind of person Reed used to be. In his past life. Before he became a monster. There’s mention of his tender touch and the first time he and Anonymous had sex. Then there are the words describing the first time he slapped her face, seven times in a row, each hit with more force. The article reads, “How could someone so flawless become so fucked up?”
But there’s also that comment at the top. The one responsible for the rumor rage and giving Anonymous her name. “Linden Rose didn’t seem to mind kissing Reed Clemmings at the dance. Who’s the monster now?”
When Seung and I plow through the front doors of Hinderwood High, we’re met with a frantic principal and rabid school counselor. Apparently they read the comments, too, and have arrived to rescue me. News flash. I don’t need a rescue mission, or at least not for the reason they think.
Seung loops his arm through mine and waves his hand like he’s swatting away paparazzi cameras. “She can’t talk right now!” he shouts. “She needs to see Mr. George.”
As we storm the newsroom, Principal Falsetto’s sister walks out.
“Hey,” she says. Not the most professional salutation for a journalist.
“Not now,” Seung snaps, struggling to shut the door on her.
The journalist smiles and grips the handle. “Nice article,” she says, “Anonymous.”
“No further comment!” Seung shouts, and slams the door in her face. He twists the lock, then rushes Mr. George’s desk.
He logs on to the computer and pounds keys. Mr. George isn’t in the room, but I’m certain he’ll be here soon, ready to talk.
“Everyone thinks it’s me,” I say. “Even Miss Sunshine.”
“Miss who?”
I shake my head at Seung. “Never mind.”
“It’s because of that comment,” he says, his voice climbing. “One comment spawned fifty more. What the hell is wrong with people? Don’t they know the rules? You never read comments. Ever.”
I step beside Seung and accidentally bump him with my hip. His eyes open up and I smile to myself. Seung notices, too. Right away.
“Why are you smiling like that?” he asks. “You should be mad, not smiley.”
I tuck my lips around my teeth. It’s hard to stop grinning when you thought your friend was dead, then find out he’s alive. All else seems trivial. “I know the truth,” I say. “Why be mad?”
“Because everyone thinks you wrote the article,” he says. “Everyone thinks you’re Anonymous.”
“Well, it’s not me. You and I both know that. Obviously, it’s Bea.”
“And you’re not mad at her?” Seung rubs his forehead, confused.
“Why would I be mad at Bea? She can’t control the comments.”
I don’t feel anger toward Bea. If anything, I’m relieved. She finally stood up for herself, even if she did it anonymously, even if I was indirectly implicated in the process of telling the truth. This has nothing to do with me.
I neaten a stack of notebooks on Mr. George’s desk, unsure why I’m compelled to organize shit. I suppose I could be raging mad, pissed at Bea for eliminating her name from the article or forgetting to disable comments. But why? I know the truth. Seung knows the truth. Everyone at school now knows the truth about Reed. Who cares if Bea refused to sign her name and shine a flashlight in her face? Maybe she wanted to fly beneath the radar. Maybe it’s her way of getting revenge.
“You don’t care if everyone thinks you had sex with Reed?” Seung asks, and I can’t help but notice him recoil and squirm.
“I can’t control what others think.”
Seung cares more about my reputation than I do. But he believed me without question. And I’ve done my fair share of lying. Everything else seems minor-league.
I bump Seung with my hip again, only this time I don’t hit his hip, I hit the front of his pants. By accident. My head is instantly twenty degrees warmer than the rest of the room.
“I’m glad you don’t care,” Seung says, and bites his bottom lip. “And I’m glad it’s not true. I mean, not you.”
“Did you think it was?” I match Seung’s move by chewing my lip. Only when it makes a slurping sound do we both smile and stare at each other’s face, lips, feet.
“Never.” Seung taps my thigh with his knee, then clears his throat. “You snored last night.”
I chuckle. “Well, of course I did. I was tired.”
“It was cute.”
Now it’s my turn to bump him with my knee. “You’re cute.”
“Shut up,” he says, playfully.
“Make me,” I say. Make me?
Seung opens his mouth as if to offer the world’s greatest comeback, then says, “You make me.”
But I don’t. I freeze. Because it’s the world’s greatest come-on.
Seung eyes me. My knees lock. The corner of his mouth hikes up. I can’t stop looking at his mouth until I realize I can’t stop looking at his mouth. We stare at each other for eight seconds. How do I know? Because the room is so quiet I hear the wall clock tick eight times.
Seung moves first. And by move, I mean combs his hair with his hand. The sudden movement makes me whip around and head toward my bag. Why I insist on pilgrimaging to my bag at a moment I could be kissing Seung is beyond me. I hear Seung exhale halfway across the room, and the sound makes my eyes blink long, squeeze hard.
“Mr. George. Hey,” Seung says, and I whip around.
Mr. George throws his keys at his desk. “Sit down. We need to talk.”
I’m sure he means me, but Seung drops into a chair and says, “We need to talk to you, too.”
A shine of sweat beads on Mr. George’s brow. He dabs it with a yellow handkerchief. “Who wrote that story, Linden? The one unapproved to publish. Was it you? Is it true?”
Mr. George points at me and I struggle with my answers. I mean, no, the story isn’t mine because I didn’t write it, but yes, the subtext is fact. My name is nowhere on the piece, only in the comments.
I need to say something. But what? Well, Mr. George, the story is true, but I didn’t write it? I’m not Anonymous? Seems simple, plausible, but for some reason I can’t form the right words. Those explaining the facts. Instead, a familiar jab pokes my gut. The sting of sympathy. This isn’t my story to tell. If Bea didn’t want her name known, I sure as hell won’t reveal it.
I shove my chair back and it squeaks across the floor. My bag is out of reach, so I extend my leg and loop the strap over my foot. Mr. George is still waiting for an answer I won’t give. He’s tapping his pen on paper, and his patience is at a low level.
I lift my bag with my foot and swing it toward me. Breaking rule #2 from beginning to end.
My backpack tips, falls, spills.
“Whoops,” I say, stepping on my deodorant and stumbling to one knee.
“Linden,” Mr. George says. “Are you listening?”
I yank at my bag’s strap to settle my belongings to the bottom. Then, because I’m distracted, unfocused, too busy thinking about Seung’s mouth and how it would feel against mine, I swing my bag over my shoulder, upside down.
Hey, Linden, there’s your other bra.
Beans.
Balls of brown paper towels.
Your toothbrush.
Plastic bags packed with bacon.
And biscuits from breakfast.
Dumped on the floor in front of me. The rest behind, and off to the side.
I’m on all fours, scooping everything I own into my backpack. Everything I wish I didn’t see. Everything that screams Linden Rose = Homeless.
Seung squats to help, and I snap, “No!”
He jumps up, twirling my underwear around his index finger.
Here’s me, trying to keep my shit together after I failed to keep my shit together.
I reach for my underwear and Seung jerks his hand back. I watch for a smile, wink, or wisecrack. Silence. Until the cogwheels whirl in his head.
“Linden?” Mr. George says. “For God’s sake. Time to spill it.”
I already did.
I yank my underwear from Seung’s fist and stuff it into my bag. This time I remember to zip.
“Can we talk later?” I ask, refusing eye contact with Seung, who is refusing to look anywhere but dead into my eyes.