the way I like it most of the time.
“Show me,” I say, taking the seat across from Skyla.
Skyla leans back, dropping her watery gaze to her lap. Bryn opens her Bedazzled laptop and turns it so I can see a fairly ordinary-looking Facebook page. But I grow cold as I scroll through the litany of insults, racial slurs, fat jokes, and requests for Skyla to off herself. I’d bet an A in psych class that it’s unprovoked, since the content of the attacks all center on Skyla’s looks, her fabricated sexual exploits, and her worth as a person, rather than referring to specific events. To me that says someone’s hacked off about Skyla’s mere existence, not anything she did.
Worse than the attacks themselves, they show up across multiple Facebook accounts, which indicates a group of bullies. I check the names at the top of each Facebook profile, but none of them ring a bell. They’re normal names, like Jo Black, Allie Trask, Kimmy Plith. But I’m fairly familiar with who’s who at St. Aggie’s, and I don’t recognize any of them. The odds on that are not great, so I’m guessing the names are fake to keep the perpetrators from getting caught.
From what I’ve seen so far, I’m putting my money on a group of miffed and bored mean girls who have targeted Skyla as a scapegoat. They’re not posting about anyone else—only Skyla. And they aren’t holding back. The suggestions that Skyla commit suicide in new and interesting ways are nauseating. Which is saying something, because it takes a lot to unsettle me.
“When did it start?” I ask as Yaji drops off my triple soy caramel macchiato.
“A few weeks ago.” Skyla alternates between wringing her hands and tucking strands of her skinny black braids behind her ear. “I ignored it at first. But it’s getting so bad. And now the pictures.”
“Pictures?” I say before taking a sip.
Bryn positions the computer so she can click to the right place. When she finds it, I wince. Someone obviously doctored the photo, stretching Skyla’s features and body into grotesque configurations.
“It gets worse,” Bryn says. She drapes an arm around Skyla. “They reference Skyla’s class schedule, describe her hairstyle or what she’s wearing on any given day—”
“Which means the cyberjerks are within frequent eyeshot of her,” I finish.
Bryn says, “I’ve been trying to get her to go to the dean for weeks. When they started mentioning her boyfriend, Garrett, in their attack posts, I finally convinced her to come to you.”
I tap the table, thinking. “Does Murphy know about this yet?”
Bryn shakes her head, so I text him to get his bespectacled self down here. It’s just shy of seven, so I’m pretty sure he’s still upstairs in our office above the Ballou. My phone buzzes a second later with a snarky emoji, which I take to mean that he’s on his way.
“Have you pissed anyone off lately?” I ask Skyla.
“No.” Skyla leans against Bryn. I expected her to elaborate, maybe even get defensive, but she leaves it at a simple negative.
“Any idea at all who it could be?”
She closes her eyes and shakes her head.
Bryn looks at me accusingly. “Isn’t it your job to find out?”
“I don’t know. Is it?” I study Skyla as I ask. “What exactly are you hiring me to do?”
“Just make it stop,” Skyla says without opening her eyes.
Dani shrugs when I look for her opinion. It’s her
up to you
shrug. She has a lot of shrugs.
“What’s up?” Murphy asks when he joins us. He scoots in next to Bryn on the love seat she’s sharing with Skyla. They’re an odd couple, especially when seen so close together—like Barbie and Michael Cera instead of Ken.
Bryn angles the computer so Murphy can see the adulterated picture of Skyla. He sucks a breath through his teeth as he clicks through the multiple hater accounts.
“Damn,” he says softly, shooting Skyla a sympathetic look as he leans back in his chair. “That sucks, Sky. I’m sorry.”
“Do
“Show me,” I say, taking the seat across from Skyla.
Skyla leans back, dropping her watery gaze to her lap. Bryn opens her Bedazzled laptop and turns it so I can see a fairly ordinary-looking Facebook page. But I grow cold as I scroll through the litany of insults, racial slurs, fat jokes, and requests for Skyla to off herself. I’d bet an A in psych class that it’s unprovoked, since the content of the attacks all center on Skyla’s looks, her fabricated sexual exploits, and her worth as a person, rather than referring to specific events. To me that says someone’s hacked off about Skyla’s mere existence, not anything she did.
Worse than the attacks themselves, they show up across multiple Facebook accounts, which indicates a group of bullies. I check the names at the top of each Facebook profile, but none of them ring a bell. They’re normal names, like Jo Black, Allie Trask, Kimmy Plith. But I’m fairly familiar with who’s who at St. Aggie’s, and I don’t recognize any of them. The odds on that are not great, so I’m guessing the names are fake to keep the perpetrators from getting caught.
From what I’ve seen so far, I’m putting my money on a group of miffed and bored mean girls who have targeted Skyla as a scapegoat. They’re not posting about anyone else—only Skyla. And they aren’t holding back. The suggestions that Skyla commit suicide in new and interesting ways are nauseating. Which is saying something, because it takes a lot to unsettle me.
“When did it start?” I ask as Yaji drops off my triple soy caramel macchiato.
“A few weeks ago.” Skyla alternates between wringing her hands and tucking strands of her skinny black braids behind her ear. “I ignored it at first. But it’s getting so bad. And now the pictures.”
“Pictures?” I say before taking a sip.
Bryn positions the computer so she can click to the right place. When she finds it, I wince. Someone obviously doctored the photo, stretching Skyla’s features and body into grotesque configurations.
“It gets worse,” Bryn says. She drapes an arm around Skyla. “They reference Skyla’s class schedule, describe her hairstyle or what she’s wearing on any given day—”
“Which means the cyberjerks are within frequent eyeshot of her,” I finish.
Bryn says, “I’ve been trying to get her to go to the dean for weeks. When they started mentioning her boyfriend, Garrett, in their attack posts, I finally convinced her to come to you.”
I tap the table, thinking. “Does Murphy know about this yet?”
Bryn shakes her head, so I text him to get his bespectacled self down here. It’s just shy of seven, so I’m pretty sure he’s still upstairs in our office above the Ballou. My phone buzzes a second later with a snarky emoji, which I take to mean that he’s on his way.
“Have you pissed anyone off lately?” I ask Skyla.
“No.” Skyla leans against Bryn. I expected her to elaborate, maybe even get defensive, but she leaves it at a simple negative.
“Any idea at all who it could be?”
She closes her eyes and shakes her head.
Bryn looks at me accusingly. “Isn’t it your job to find out?”
“I don’t know. Is it?” I study Skyla as I ask. “What exactly are you hiring me to do?”
“Just make it stop,” Skyla says without opening her eyes.
Dani shrugs when I look for her opinion. It’s her
up to you
shrug. She has a lot of shrugs.
“What’s up?” Murphy asks when he joins us. He scoots in next to Bryn on the love seat she’s sharing with Skyla. They’re an odd couple, especially when seen so close together—like Barbie and Michael Cera instead of Ken.
Bryn angles the computer so Murphy can see the adulterated picture of Skyla. He sucks a breath through his teeth as he clicks through the multiple hater accounts.
“Damn,” he says softly, shooting Skyla a sympathetic look as he leans back in his chair. “That sucks, Sky. I’m sorry.”
“Do
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