Free Attitude by Robin Stevenson

Facebook before I deleted it. More likely, Melissa has done her best to spread the story.
    It isn’t until it’s time to go home that I think of the Harrisons. My stomach knots and my mouth suddenly tastes sour. Will Edie tell them? And will they believe that I posted that comment?

Thirteen
    Mrs. Harrison picks us up as usual, and she’s smiling. “Good day?”
    I guess she doesn’t know. “All right,” I say.
    Edie shrugs and gets into the passenger seat beside her mother. I hold my breath, waiting, but she doesn’t say anything.
    Which doesn’t mean she won’t. I can’t relax yet.
    â€œI thought we’d get a movie this evening,” Mrs. Harrison says. “Friday night! I bet your bodies will be glad of a little rest this weekend.”
    In the back seat, I buckle my seat belt. “Definitely,” I say. My legs feel as weak as a toddler’s and my left hip hurts, and my toes— well, I don’t even want to think about my toes.
    â€œCan Melissa come over?” Edie says. “And can we get that ballet movie? The new one, that documentary?”
    â€œWhat a nice idea,” her mother says.
    I didn’t think things could get worse, but they just did. I can’t imagine spending the evening with Edie and Melissa.
    Maybe I’ll pretend to be sick and just go to bed.
    * * *
    When we get back to the house, I head up to my room. I change into my old flannel pants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt, and I curl up on my bed. I ache all over, and it’s not just my muscles. I want to cry, but I’m too exhausted. If a fairy godmother appeared right now and offered to wave her wand and send me home, I’d be gone.
    I can’t imagine how I’m going to get through two more weeks of this.
    I push my face into the pillow. It’s pale blue, silky and cool and smells like fabric softener. I think of my own well-worn red-plaid pillowcase and a wave of homesickness rushes over me. I think about calling my parents, but there’s the time difference, and I’d have to borrow Edie’s computer. And I don’t know why, but I feel oddly ashamed, like I’ve done something wrong. I don’t want my parents to know about the Facebook comment beside my name.
    Then there’s a knock and my bedroom door opens.
    I sit up. It’s Mrs. Harrison. She steps into my room and closes the door behind her, and I see her creased forehead and the hard line of her mouth.
    My heart gives a jolting kick high in my chest.
    She knows.
    â€œCassandra,” she says, “I just heard something extremely disturbing. Something about you posting a very hurtful comment on Facebook.”
    I shake my head. “I didn’t, Mrs. Harrison. I know what it said, but I wouldn’t ever do that.”
    She frowns, her plucked and penciled eyebrows moving toward each other like two skinny black worms. “Then how do you suggest that this happened? The comment was in your name.”
    I can hardly tell her that her own daughter must have done it. “Someone must have signed in as me,” I say. “Maybe I forgot to sign out of my account.”
    â€œI hope you aren’t trying to shift the blame to Edie,” she says sharply. “She’s been very loyal, you know. She didn’t even tell me what you did. I only heard just now, from Melissa’s mother. She called to let me know. Apparently Melissa is very upset.”
    I’m pretty sure the whole thing was Melissa’s idea. “I’m not trying to blame anyone,” I say. “I just know I didn’t do it.”
    â€œThis Facebook business, all this cyberbullying…I’ve read about it happening, but really, Cassandra, I wouldn’t have thought you would do anything like this.” She leans toward me, tilts her head and tries to look me in the eye. “Is there something going on that you’d like to talk about? If you’re having a hard