Snap Book 5

ISLA

My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest, and I almost wish it would.

I’d rather visit the cardiology ward than spend another second in the IT department with Ms. Wentworth tsk tsking at my laptop.

Today should have been an average Wednesday. It started off as one. I caught a ride with PJ. I ignored everyone in the hallway. They ignored me right back.

I plopped down in the last row of Mr. Miller’s history room. He asked me if I’d seen his email. I said no and opened my laptop, and that’s when I saw it.

That’s when I saw the genitalia in my inbox.

In a panic, I clicked into another email, one sent by someone named Kevin. Whats up sexy. I love ur picture. I’m “interested”.

Mr. Miller asked me if I was okay. I lied, spluttering that I was, but he came over to check on me anyway. We read Ernie Gauthier’s email together. Hey baby, I’ll take you for free.

I don’t know anyone named Kevin or Ernie, and I definitely don’t know LoverBoy69, who sent my school email address a photo of his penis.

As I was choking out a version of this explanation to Mr. Miller, I accidentally hovered over the previously minimized dick PNG, effectively flashing my history teacher.

I slammed my laptop shut and ran into the IT room after that.

“Isla?”

I smile weakly at Ms. Wentworth to acknowledge that she has my attention. If I speak, I’ll cry, vomit, or both, and today has been bad enough without spilling bodily fluids through my eyes or mouth.

Ms. Wentworth returns my weak smile. “I have a bit of good news. I ran a virus scan, and it doesn’t look like any of the emails contained malware.

“I’m going to check a few more things, but I think you’ll be all right, uh, with your computer.”

“Thanks,” I whisper.

“Mrs. Quentin would like to speak with you in her office whenever you have a moment,” she continues.

Mrs. Quentin is the guidance counselor. I clap my hand over my mouth because suddenly, I understand what happened.

When I saw the creepy messages, I knew someone posted my email address on the internet and asked men to contact me.

I’m not naive enough to think that I just so happen to be the victim of a “wrong email” issue. Nothing is a coincidence when you’re a loser like me.

But now, I know what really happened, and it’s so much worse.

Prom. That’s where Ernie will take me for free. That’s what Kevin is “interested” in.

Someone created an ad to find me a prom date.

Yesterday, when Lily Fletcher asked who I was going with, I should have lied.

I knew she’d use that information to hurt me, but I told her I’m not planning to attend because I lack self-preservation instincts.

And now, here we are. Like a robot, I rise to my feet and carry myself into the guidance counselor’s office.

Mrs. Quentin closes the door softly, and I’m enclosed in a tiny room of motivational posters featuring baby animals.

As if I was on the verge of giving up, but then a duckling urged me not to, so I changed my mind.

“Hi, Isla. How are you?”

I can hear the dread in Mrs. Quentin’s pinched voice. She doesn’t want to break the news to me. I can’t say I blame her.

Telling the bullied kid just how badly bullied she is doesn’t sound like an ideal task.

“I’m fine. Thanks,” I reply. I’m not fine, and I’m not particularly thankful either. Nothing against Mrs. Quentin. I just don’t want to be here.

Mrs. Quentin launches into an explanation about why men contacting a sixteen-year-old isn’t okay and that feeling violated by sexual harassment is normal and understandable.

I nod along, wishing she’d get to the part where she confirms my suspicion about what happened. I need her to rip off the Band-Aid already.

Every second she spends talking about something else adds weight to the cinderblock of stress growing in my stomach.

“Ms. Wentworth found that your email address had been posted on NJClassified. Have you heard of that before?” she asks.

“Yes.”

It’s an online marketplace for Northern New Jersey where Mom bought half our furniture.

The website has a page intended for job classifieds that’s almost exclusively used by sex workers and people who want to hire sex workers.

I think it’s safe to assume my email address was posted there, considering there isn’t a “find a pity prom date” section.

“I wanted you to hear this from me before anyone else. You know how easily rumors spread,” Mrs. Quentin continues.

I’m fully aware.

“There was an ad posted asking for men to contact you if they are interested in being your date for prom. Ms. Wentworth contacted the site to have it taken down.”

This is the worst day of my life, and my father tried to kill me once. That’s how bad today is.

“Thanks,” I whisper. I don’t know why I’m thanking her. Ms. Wentworth did all the work.

“We’re going to do our best to find out who posted that ad. Do you have any idea of who might have done that?”

Probably Lily Fletcher because she knows I don’t have a prom date, and she’s a horrible human being who enjoys tormenting me.

After all, she’s the one who airdropped my father’s mugshot to our science class in seventh grade. I suspect she helped Francine with the fake Isla Instagram last year too.

“I’m not sure,” I half-lie.

I’d bet money that Lily is responsible, but theoretically, almost anyone could have created that ad.

Me being dateless isn’t exactly shocking, secret intel; any Lincoln Memorial High School junior could safely make that assumption.

Whoever posted the ad thought it would be funny, and that doesn’t narrow down the suspect pool. I’m awkward, shy little Isla, which makes me a joke to half the school.

Mrs. Quentin nods understandingly, even though she doesn’t. No one understands how painful my existence is. “Okay. Will you let me know if you think of anyone?” she asks.

“Sure,” I lie.

“Thanks, dear. Kids can be cruel. If you want to talk about it, this is a safe space.”

I don’t want to talk about it. I peek at the clock hanging over the crusty couch I’m perched on. My choices are to cry in Mrs. Quentin’s room or play badminton in gym class.

I’m not half bad at badminton, and Ariana hangs out with me in phys ed because she doesn’t have any other friends in second period, so it’s one of my better classes, despite all the stereotypes about gym being terrible for losers.

“If you’d rather go to class, that’s fine too,” Mrs. Quentin says. “My door is always open.”

“Thanks.” I force myself to stand, brush crumbs from the couch off my skirt, and leave the office, praying for a miracle that will allow me to survive gym without crying.

That’s a low I hope to never achieve.

“Isla!”

Before I have time to turn around, PJ is beside me.

“Hey, PJ,” I whisper.

“What’s wrong?”

I blink back tears, but I’m too sad. Droplets escape my eyes, and I feel my shoulders trembling with suppressed sobs.

I can’t keep my emotions contained around PJ, not when he’s staring down at me with true understanding in his eyes. He might not relate, but unlike Mrs. Quentin, he understands me.

“I have to go,” I choke out.

As much as I’d rather sob into his shoulder until I run out of tears, I need to return to the guidance office. That’s the only way I’ll be able to skip gym, and I can’t go to class crying like this.

His fingers wrap around my wrist. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head.

“Come on. Let’s go outside for a couple minutes.”

I shake my head again, but PJ ignores my protests and guides me out a side door. In the thick Jersey humidity, under the hot May sun, I feel my lungs starting to contract.

I gasp for air, but none survives the journey down my windpipe.

I can’t breathe. I’m drowning. Shaking and sobbing, I sink to the ground.

“Put your head between your knees,” PJ instructs. “Breathe in for five seconds. Breathe out for five seconds.”

I obey as he repeats the breathing instructions. By now, PJ knows how to lead me out of a panic attack better than anyone.

The black dots slowly recede from my vision, and my lungs begin to cooperate, taking in much-needed oxygen.

“Thanks,” I whisper for the millionth time today.

“What happened?”

I shake my head again. “Go to class, PJ. I’m—”

“Fuck, no. I’m not going to class while you’re crying,” he interrupts.

“PJ—”

“No. What happened?”

Too emotionally exhausted to play the “who’s more stubborn?” game, I recount the story through sobs. Each word is a knife. Knowing what happened was painful.

Hearing Mrs. Quentin tell me what happened hurt. Speaking it myself is agonizing.

“I’ll find out who did it, okay?” he says in an abnormally quiet voice.

“It’s fine, PJ,” I sigh.

“Uh, no, it’s not. Someone should get expelled for that shit,” he scoffs.

“Please don’t,” I whimper.

If PJ asks around the school, he’ll hear about what a loser I am. Deep down, he already knows, but he’s in denial, and I want him to stay there.

I’m terrified of the day he realizes how little I belong in his life.

“No. You can’t let them get away with it,” he argues.

They already did. The damage is done. Whatever consequences they face will be a joke compared to what I have to endure.

I can see it now. They’ll lie that they were trying to help me out. An overworked school administrator will lecture them and maybe suspend them for a few days.

Then, they’ll be back, this time seeking revenge because I got them in trouble.

I’ve survived three years of high school by ignoring the bullies. I’m not about to change my strategy with one left to go.

***

PARKER

I’m so angry I’m seeing red. Someone posted an ad on NJClassified asking random men to email Isla’s school address to go to prom with her.

I should have asked her that day in the car. She wouldn’t have cared about flowers. Aiden’s an idiot.

Now, she’s sobbing on the ground outside the school building. I haven’t seen Isla cry at school since she was a kid.

“Why can’t I find out for you?” I ask.

I know pretty much everyone in our grade, and I’ll do a better job than the school. They never bothered to investigate the assholes who drew dicks on her locker last year.

“Please don’t,” she whimpers, wiping her eyes.

“But why?” If someone did that to me, I’d want to know who it was, probably to punch them in the face, but I’ll take the legal route for Isla.

“That will just make more people talk about it,” she sighs.

The type of person who posts a fake ad on NJClassified is the same kind of person who brags about it. I guarantee the rumors have already started.

“I won’t tell anyone you asked me to find out,” I assure her.

She shakes her head. A strand of hair catches in the wetness on her cheek, and she brushes it aside almost angrily. “Just don’t, PJ. Please?”

“Okay,” I sigh. I’m only agreeing to prevent her from crying more. Isla never defends herself, and she deserves someone to stand up for her. It’s time to put my foot down.

***

The next day, the prom date ad is all anyone will talk about. Most people think it’s fucked up, a joke gone too far. James and I are fucking livid.

Delaney wanted to take Isla out to get her nails done as a distraction, but I told her that wouldn’t work. I know Isla too well. She’ll think that Delaney pities her and get all flustered. Besides, Isla never paints her nails.

I scan the hallway like a detective, analyzing everyone’s chance of being the dick who posted the ad.

Darren Thomas is a jerk, but he’s too cheap to pay for ad space. Francine Price made that fake Instagram account, and she’s avoiding eye contact with me…

I power walk toward her locker. It’s interrogation time.

“Now she knows what it’s like to have a guy talk to her,” someone laughs.

I turn my head to see Marc Salazar elbowing Isaac Eaton, cracking up. When I look back toward Francine, she’s scurrying away, head ducked down. I’ll get to her later.

“Did you post it?” I demand, blocking Marc’s path away from his locker.

He shuffles backward. “What?”

I glare at him. He glares back with his stupid, beady eyes.

“The prom date ad,” I clarify. I don’t need to say more. Marc knows what I’m talking about anyway. Playing dumb won’t work with me.

He lifts his hands in a sarcastic surrender. “Nope.”

I don’t back off. “Who did?”

An amused smile makes its way onto his flushed face. “Did she send you around to ask?” he laughs.

“I asked you a question,” I remind him.

He shrugs, still smiling, but he’s getting sweaty now. “I don’t know.”

“I heard it was Lily Fletcher,” Isaac shares.

I nod once at him and stalk off. I’m never in a hurry to get to math, but Lily is in my class. I wouldn’t put shit like this past her. She’s nasty.

I overheard her call Isla fat once, and she got kicked off the cheerleading squad last year because she kept harassing the opponent at games.

I know Isaac was right the moment I step inside the classroom. Lily, sitting between Monica Roberts and Shane Lambert, immediately drops her eyes to avoid mine.

Normally, her eyes are glued to the classroom door so she can judge everyone coming and going.

I take my usual seat in the row behind Lily and lean back in the chair, waiting for James. No lie; I’m a little smug. He’ll be shocked when he sees that I got here before he did.

I always end up talking to people in the hallway and showing up to class a few minutes late, but not today. Today, I’m on a mission.

Sure enough, James freezes in the doorway when he sees me. Shaking his head in disbelief, he strolls over and settles into the seat beside me. “We don’t have a test, do we?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. If I know about a test that James doesn’t, the world is ending, and we have bigger problems than math. “Nah. Just early,” I explain.

He rolls his eyes back, so I tilt my head at Lily and mouth, “Isla.”

James’s cheek starts twitching. Mine does the same thing when I’m pissed.

I’ve been holding myself back all day. I’m sick of the way people treat Isla, and I’m sick of her accepting it. Someone needs to teach these assholes a lesson.

“I heard she got a dick pic,” Larissa Dunn giggles in the row behind us.

I whirl around, silencing her with a glare. As I open my mouth to speak, I hear the laughing, then James’s voice. “What’s so funny, Lily?”

“Nothing,” Lily giggles into her palm.

She thinks it’s funny that some creep sent a picture of his junk to Isla. I’d never hit a girl, but I think I’ll accidentally trip Lily in the hallway.

Technically, tripping isn’t hitting, and someone needs to teach this bitch a lesson.

“Inside joke,” Monica says in her high-pitched whine.

“Oh, you weren’t laughing at what Larissa said, then?” James asks, keeping his tone cool.

Lily smirks. “What did Larissa say?”

James returns her smirk and slowly turns his head to face the row behind us. “Larissa, what’d you say?”

“Nothing,” she mumbles. Her normally pale cheeks are bright red. Serves her right for laughing at Isla.

Mrs. Colby enters the classroom, clapping her hands to get our attention. James takes page after page of notes, but I only copy down the practice problems.

My brain can’t concentrate on writing and listening at the same time, unlike my identical brother.

I swear, he gave me a head injury in the womb or something. My parents swore no one dropped me at the hospital, and that’s the only other way to explain our huge IQ difference.

The bell finally rings. I swipe my book off the desk and hustle past James to chase after Lily. Her twiggy legs move at warp speed down the hall, but I’m on her tail.

With a panicked glance over her shoulder, she ducks into a stairwell.

“Lily!” I shout.

Heads turn in my direction, and I have to swallow the urge to smirk when I see her slow at the top of the stairs. Enough people heard that she has no choice but to acknowledge me. I catch up in a couple of strides.

“What’s up, Parker?” she sighs, crossing her arms.

“Don’t bullshit me. Did you post the prom ad?” I demand.

She narrows her eyes. “Who told you that?”

“Did you?”

“No,” she snaps. “Excuse me. I need to—”

“If you’re lying to me and I find out that you were the one who posted it, you’re fucked, Lily, so you’d better tell me now,” I interrupt.

“Are you threatening me?” she gasps, somehow surprised that her actions have consequences.

“Yep. Did you post the ad?”

“No. Leave me al—”

“Really? Because Monica told me it was you,” my brother interrupts.

I didn’t even hear James walk up. We Flahertys are stealthy.

“Last chance,” I warn.

“All right. I don’t even know why you care,” she mutters.

“Was that a yes?” James asks.

She glares at James, pushes me with her weak arms, and stomps off. James and I exchange a glance. I think that was a yes.

***

Isla rests her face on the wrought-iron table, sniffling and choking on the air. Diamond-shaped indents form a pattern on her cheek when she lifts her head, but she’s too sad to tease.

Ten minutes have passed since I told her that James and I snitched on Lily, and she hasn’t stopped crying.

As per usual, I’m just confused. Lily’s suspended for a week, and she’s banned from school functions for the rest of the year, so she can’t attend prom. It’s the perfect punishment.

“I t-told you not to,” Isla whimpers.

“But Isla—”

“This is so embarrassing. I can’t…I can’t do this,” she sobs.

I really don’t get it. Lily already posted the ad. The embarrassment already happened. “Can’t do what?” I ask.

Her blue eyes are so bloodshot that mine sting in sympathy. “You don’t understand,” she chokes out. “You just…You have no idea.”

She’s right about that. I’m beyond confused.

She swipes her phone off the table and stands, shaking her head. The stinging in my eyes moves to my chest. I feel small, like Isla’s about to scold me.

Instead, she descends the steps from my deck and turns to look up at me, smiling sadly. Her shoulders rise and fall with a deep inhale and long exhale.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be me,” she says in a near-whisper.

Before I can ask what she means, she’s crossing my yard, then her driveway, and then she’s inside, the door slamming behind her.