Free #scandal by SO Page A

war zone.” Cole jams his hands into his pockets, shorts tugging low on his hips. “No one said jack on mine—just the tags . . .” He trails off.
    “I’m the girl. It’s just how it is.” I turn on the water and try my best to clean my smudged face. Purple smoky eye on the day of my public stoning? I’ve had better ideas.
    Behind me, Cole sighs. “Doesn’t make it right. I was there too.”
    “I could always join forces with Team Tinfoil Hat.” I tell him about the protest (e)VIll organized for me, but instead of laughing, he cringes.
    “They’re not . . . Luce, they’re protesting you .” Cole yanks a crumpled yellow flyer from his back pocket and hands it over.
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    LUCYGATE!
    ONE MORE EXAMPLE OF HOW OUR
    NARCISSISTIC OBSESSION WITH SOCIAL
    NETWORKING VIOLATES PRIVACY, DESTROYS
    INTERPERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS, AND WILL
    ULTIMATELY CAUSE THE DOWNFALL OF FREE
    SOCIETY.
    CAPITALIZING ON STUDENT INDISCRE-
    TIONS TO BOLSTER ONE’S POPULARITY AND
    INCREASE THE SURFACE AREA OF ONE’S
    ELECTRONIC FOOTPRINT IN THE CLOUD IS NOT
    OKAY. WANT TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?
    JOIN (E)VIll FOR OUR PRESUMMER PLENARY.
    NO CELL PHONES. ASK ASH HOLLOWELL FOR
    DETAILS, FACE TO FACE.
    CLOUD FREE, THAT’S HOW WE ROLL.
    “They were giving them out in the parking lot,” Cole explains.
    On the back there’s a Sharpie sketch of what can only be me—red hair, black boots, the dress—taking pictures with a giant phone. The whole thing is covered by a huge red circle with a slash.
    No Lucy.
    “Their drawing skills suck.” The flyer reeks of 87

    markers—they must’ve pulled an all-nighter to make them by hand. I pitch it into the trash.
    “Hey.” Cole slips his hand behind my neck, a once-friendly gesture that in the wake of our kiss is everything but. “They can say whatever they want. Far as I’m concerned, this is between you, me, and—”
    “Well, isn’t this precious.” The voice is sharp, laced with scorn.
    I didn’t hear the bathroom door, but Olivia’s reflection glowers in the mirror, her eyes red.
    Putting the hard in Mike’s Hard Lemonade . . .
    “Olivia!” I step back from Cole, ignore the shiver creeping up my spine. “I’m so, so sorry. Someone stole my phone and—”
    “Save it.” She slips past us and yanks a paper towel from the dispenser.
    “It was just a party thing,” I say. What my words lack in conviction, they make up for in volume and speed.
    “It’ll blow over, right? Everyone does dumb stuff at parties.”
    Olivia wets the towel and presses it to her face, muffling a sarcastic snort.
    “Think of all the crazy shit people will do at grad parties in a few weeks,” Cole says. “No one will even remember your picture.”
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    She reveals her eyes, wild with a deep menace that belies her tiny frame. The spent paper towel, wadded care-lessly and chucked too far from the trash can, hits the floor with a thwack . “My father saw it. He has an excellent memory.”
    “The cloud is forever, Lucy Vacarro.” The chant echoes behind me.
    I slam my locker door shut and whirl around, surprisingly disappointed that the (e)VIll girl taunting me isn’t Kiara Chen. Misguided mission aside, Kiara’s forced retirement from Team Tinfoil Hat was unfair. I owe her an explanation, face to face.
    But this particular minion is just a girl whose name escapes me, a jock in a Swordfish warm-up jacket with streaked blond hair and the long, muscular legs of a swimmer. There’s an ocean of yellow flyers in her arms.
    “Shouldn’t you be out looking for Atlantis?” I snap.
    Undeterred, she offers a flyer with jazz hands flare, and for the rest of the morning this is me: creeping along the maroon-and-gray walls like a legit zombie hunter, ducking in and out of classrooms and closets, dodging Clarice, Marceau, and a bunch of other randos whenever I spot someone from the party.
    Escaping the flyers, however, is not an option. They’re 89

    a paper virus, traveling across lockers, slipped under doors and