Free #scandal by SO

your ugly-cry.” Griff climbs down and barges into my stall. “I didn’t mean to get all Mean Girls out there, okay? I’m just shocked.” I yank a strip of toilet paper from the dispenser and blow my nose.
    “I was on the phone with Ellie all night,” she says. “She’s a complete mess.”
    “Did she say anything about Cole?”
    “Hmm.” Griff presses a finger to her lips. “Liar, cheater, dickhead. Some other names I had to look up on Urban Dictionary.”
    “He told me they . . .” It’s a weak excuse before the words are even out, and I let the rest— broke up —die. A wave of sadness rises up, and I ball another wad of toilet paper around my hand, blot my eyes until it’s too black to do any good. “I suck for putting you in the middle. If you bail on me, I get it.” 83

    Griff tears a fresh hunk of paper from the roll and hands it over. “I’m a lover, not a bailer. I just . . . I don’t know what to do, honestly. I am in the middle. You guys are my best friends—no way I’m taking sides.”
    “Does this mean you believe me about the phone?” She rolls her eyes. “You think?”
    I blow my nose again. Translation: Thanks.
    “Who would do this?” Griff asks. “It’s not like the whole world was at Cole’s party. We knew everyone there.” Griff shakes her head. “It makes no sense.”
    I close my eyes against the flicker of faces, everyone at the party a suspect. Olivia, her friends, Clarice. Miss Demeanor’s always looking for a scandal, and she could’ve been there too—no one knows her true identity.
    The warning bell rings, T minus one minute to homeroom and widespread eternal damnation, and outside the tiny world of our stall, the bathroom door swings open and closed, the wave of hallway chatter cresting and receding.
    “Lucy?”
    Cole.
    I make a grand effort to erase my mascara tracks, but it’s no use. My eyes are so puffy I can hardly see, and my heart races at the thought of facing Cole again, at the memories of this weekend. At Ellie on the porch in her bathrobe, the door slamming before I found the strength to apologize.
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    “I’m going to homeroom,” Griff says. “I’ll tell Mrs.
    King you’re sick.” Her smile is small and dim, but it seems genuine, and I follow her out of the stall. She throws an icy glare at Cole.
    To me she says, “See you in calc,” and then she’s gone, leaving me alone with Cole and a real crooner of a song about making brown eyes blue.
    Cole’s eyes, neither brown nor blue, have lost some of their sparkle, filled instead with worry.
    “Margolis saw you head down this way,” he explains.
    “I wanted . . .” To kiss you again. “I had to see if you were okay.” His hands push through his hair, which has reached epic levels of sticking-outness, and I curse my beating heart for being so obvious and cliché.
    “I didn’t post the pictures,” I say. “My phone—”
    “I know.” He’s pacing, almost frantic. “I just found out, like, an hour ago. John and I crashed at the cabin last night.
    We were cleaning all day, didn’t even check our phones.
    This morning in the car he was all, ‘Dude, the Internet exploded.’”
    “Did you call Ellie?” I ask.
    “She’s straight voice mailing me. Oh, I found some of your stuff.” From a low side pocket in his olive cargo shorts, he pulls out a Baggie with my earrings, hairpins, license, makeup, keys.
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    “No phone,” I say.
    “No phone.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is insane. Ellie must be freaking.”
    I fill him in on my Black & Brew breakfast fail, and my stomach churns with fresh nerves. I backed down this morning at Ellie’s when I should’ve spoken up. When I should’ve fought harder, made her listen to the explanation and apology she deserves.
    “I can’t believe she found out on Facebook,” Cole says.
    “And you . . .” His voice softens as he meets my still-puffy eyes. “You shouldn’t have to deal with . . . I mean, your Facebook’s a