Toxic

  She checked the website stats. To her astonishment, the blog had gotten eight thousand hits in the past twenty-four hours.

  Halfway down the list, she opened an email from Greg Messner from Wilmington, Delaware. Greg hadn’t been bullied himself, the letter said, but he’d witnessed other people being picked on and had stood by, doing nothing. Eventually, his passivity began to haunt him, he said. He should have stood up for what was right, yet he’d been too scared that the bully would turn on him. Your site is inspirational, he said, and I want you to know that not just kids who were bullied are reading it. Everyone can use it as a tool to understand what bullying feels like.

  Spencer sat back. It was an interesting perspective. Years ago, she and her friends had stood idly by as Ali tormented kids, too. Sometimes, Spencer had even actively participated. She remembered laughing at Mona’s askew glasses or Chassey Bledsoe’s ubiquitous Razor scooter. She’d helped write teasing missives on the sidewalk outside Mona’s house and, one time, filled her locker with tampons with their tips painted bright red.

  She started to write a response. Dear Greg, Thank you for your letter. Like you, I was passive around bullies, too. In fact, there have been many times I’ve wondered if what happened to me is karma. We all make mistakes. I’m just glad the site is helping people.

  She sent it off. Within a half a minute, Greg replied. Hey, Spencer, Thank you so much for writing back to me. Don’t kid yourself: You’re awesome. The best thing you can do is admit your mistakes and try your best to help others. You are truly an inspiration.

  Tingles ran up her spine. It was such a nice thing to say. But then she set her jaw. No more boys. No falling for someone on the internet. No freaking way.

  She continued to scroll down the list of stories, taking time to read each one. Then she got to one written by someone who called himself DominickPhilly. Not him again.

  You think you’re so awesome, but you’re not, the message read. You’re nothing but a poser, and pretty soon, people are going to figure you out.

  Her head started to pound. DominickPhilly had sent her messages practically since she’d set up the blog. He’d said that the site was pathetic. That Spencer didn’t know what she was talking about. That she used her fake bullying story as a stepping-stone to fame, and that she didn’t know what real pain was. In this latest message, he’d included a thumbnail photograph of himself. Spencer clicked on it, leaning in close to look at his square, angry face. If his profile details were to be believed, he lived in the city of Philadelphia, and he was her age. Why did he hate her so much? Why was he trolling this site? He hadn’t included a tale of being bullied. Maybe he was a bully.

  Pots and pans clanged in the kitchen, followed by the soft sounds of the family’s two Labradoodles, Rufus and Beatrice, drinking water from their metal bowls. The sun had sunk lower in the sky, and everyone’s front lights had snapped on, casting a warm golden glow along the circle. Spencer stared out the window at the neighborhood she loved and hated. Her gaze drifted to Ali’s old bedroom next door. For a split second, she thought she saw Ali standing there, smirking at her.

  She blinked hard. There was someone at the window. Someone blond.

  But then she looked again. The window wasn’t even lit. The St. Germains, who had lived there for almost two years now, were on vacation in the Outer Banks. Of course Ali wasn’t there. You’re supposed to forget about her, Spencer thought.

  Beep.

  It was her computer. Spencer turned away from the window and moved the mouse to wake up the screen. There was a new email for the bully site from someone called BTH087. Please Read, read the subject line.

  She opened the email, grateful it wasn’t from DominickPhilly. A new bullying tale was written in swirly pink font, each sentence on a separate line like a poem. For whatever reason, the author had bolded the first letter of every sentence. Still a little freaked out, Spencer began to read.

  I want to tell you my story.

  All my life, I have been persecuted, and

  My heart breaks every day.

  Why people are after me, I don’t know, because

  Anyone will tell you I am a nice person.

  Try to get to know me is all I ask.

  Can you do that? But no. You won’t.

  Help me, please!

  It’s getting too much to handle!

  No one seems to listen, though.

  Get over it, everyone says.

  Yet they’re sometimes the ones tormenting me.

  On and on it goes.

  Until one day, when I’ve had enough.

  —And then it’s over.

  Spencer felt even more uneasy when she got to the end. Something about the message struck her as strange, maybe even cryptic. She looked at the signature at the very bottom of the email. It wasn’t from BTH087. Instead, it said Maxine Preptwill.

  Her stomach dropped. That was the alias Ali and Noel Kahn used to contact each other when Ali was at The Preserve.

  No, she thought, backing away from the computer. It was a coincidence. Maybe someone else did know about that stupid Ali-Noel code name.

  She looked at the bolded letters at the beginning of each line again. Was it a code? She wrote each one on a separate sheet of paper. They began to make a message. I am . . .

  She kept writing, then sat back to look at the whole statement. She clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a scream.

  I am watching you. —A

  8

  BREATHLESS

  On Friday, Emily sat in the chemistry classroom, fanning herself with a notebook. Rosewood Day must have forgotten to turn on the AC, because the room felt sticky and closed and smelled like feet. Several kids had already walked out, complaining about the heat. Others were asleep at their desks. Flies buzzed noisily around Ms. Payton’s head.

  A long swim would be wonderful. Emily needed to keep up with swimming anyway, in case UNC wanted her for the team next year. But her parents didn’t belong to a summer club. Last year, she’d swum on a summer team at the YMCA, but that was miles from here. If only she could use the Rosewood Day pool. It was right down the hall.

  Dear Jordan, I’m thrilled to be in summer school, don’t get me wrong. But this room couldn’t smell any more like BO. And I swear someone has the worst gas ever. Help!

  She’d been writing letters to Jordan in her head ever since she heard from her on Tuesday. Not that she’d even written them down, but knowing that there was someone out there she could talk to, someone who might listen to every stupid little thing she had to say, lifted her spirits. A few more days until I see you in New York, she thought, smiling to herself.

  As Ms. Payton languidly drew diagrams of ions on the board, Emily’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and peeked at the screen.

  Need to talk, Spencer had texted. I think Ali sent me a message through my bullying site last night.

  Emily looked around, almost as if Ali would be standing at the door, glaring at her. Hanna seeing Ali in a crowd on a movie set was one thing—they chalked that up to Hanna being confused and overwhelmed. But Spencer wasn’t one to cry wolf.

  Emily texted Spencer back for details. Spencer explained what had happened. I tried to trace the IP address to see who sent the note, but the details were hidden. I looked into the email it was sent from too, but it’s an alias. A fourth text said the alias was so protected she couldn’t get any details there, either.

  So someone is really trying to hide their identity, Emily typed back, growing more and more nervous. Ali and Nick had configured all their past A messages to reroute back to their own phones, making it look like they had sent them to themselves. Maybe Ali was doing it again.

  We should take the note to someone who knows more about computers, Emily typed, her fingers flying. We need to take this bitch down.

  She waited for Spencer to respond, but her friend didn’t address Emily’s comment, saying she had to go.

  Emily slid her phone back into her pocket
, feeling antsy. Maybe Ali was planning something. But what? Was there anyone they could report this to? Would anyone help them?

  Dear Jordan, I think Ali’s back. And I don’t know what to do or how to find her.

  She pulled her phone from her pocket and typed Ali Cats into Google. Several fan sites appeared, and she read the new posts. One girl whose screen name was TabbyCatLover had listed intimate Ali details, like her eye color, her estimated weight, her favorite clothing brands, movies she used to like. Another poster had written an itinerary of what Ali’s life must have been like inside The Preserve, down to what sorts of meds Ali had taken. She’s tougher than all of us combined, the poster wrote at the end.

  Emily couldn’t read any more—it wasn’t like any of the posts gave hints about Ali being alive or where she was. How could people support such a maniac?

  The rest of the class passed in a sweaty blur, and soon enough, Ms. Payton was dismissing them. Emily stepped into the steamy hallway, then glanced to her left toward the natatorium. The door looked unlocked. Could she swim a few laps?

  A half minute later, she was at her car, grabbing the bag of swim stuff she always kept in the backseat. She padded back into the school, cut through the girls’ locker room, and peeked into the natatorium. Blue water lapped against the sides. Every lane was empty, and the water looked glassy and smooth and cold. All the lights in the natatorium were still on, and even the digital time clock on the wall was working.

  She tried the door handle. It turned easily.

  She dropped her bag on a bench in the locker room and began to change into her swimsuit. During the school year, the locker room walls were filled with motivational posters, newspaper clippings, and pictures of the team, but now that had all been stripped away. The only poster still up was one for the Rosewood Rallies charity event next week. Emily’s parents had RSVP’d; her mom thought it was particularly important to go because she thought doing good in the community would help the whole family heal. If only it were that easy.

  Emily pulled the swimsuit straps onto her shoulders. A faucet dripped at the sink, the noise echoing through the empty space. Sudden movement flickered across the room, but when Emily turned, all she saw was her reflection in the long mirror on the wall.

  Dear Jordan, I’ve become a huge baby. I’m afraid of my reflection.

  Emily slung her towel over her arm, slipped on her flip-flops, and strode into the pool area. The radio the team listened to during practice sat on its usual step on the bleachers, which relaxed her a little. She switched it on to the regular rock station her old coach, Lauren, used to play, and a Red Hot Chili Peppers song sounded through the room. It made everything feel a little more normal.

  Then she stuck a toe in the water. Just as she’d expected, it felt cool and refreshing. She pulled her cap over her head, fixed her Swedish goggles to her eyes, and dove in. Ahhh.

  Dear Jordan, she thought as she swam smooth, even strokes, I love swimming so much. And I know I should be excited that UNC might keep me on the team for next year, but I don’t know what I want anymore. I feel like a jerk for even saying that, though. It’s my chance to get away. And I am dying to get away.

  She swam a hundred yards, then two hundred, flipping compactly at the wall and pushing off in a streamlined shape. Emily suddenly remembered Jordan running her thin, delicate hands over her strong shoulders during those blissful days on the cruise ship. “You’re like a sexy mermaid,” Jordan had whispered in her ear, her breath warm on Emily’s neck.

  What would it be like to see Jordan again? Where would things go from there? Could she actually date someone in prison?

  A loud clap of thunder sounded above. Emily stopped and peered through the skylights. The sky had turned very dark. Rain began to pelt the glass. She treaded water, wondering if she should get out. She listened for more thunder, but couldn’t hear anything over the rain.

  She put her head down and decided to swim a little longer, but after a few laps, the room had darkened even more. The bright spots of sunlight had vanished. And then, suddenly, there was a snap . . . and the overhead lights dimmed and then went dark.

  Emily touched the wall and looked around. The digital clock had lost power, and so had the radio. It was so dark on the pool deck that she could barely see the bleachers a few feet away.

  She almost didn’t see the figure standing above her.

  Then Emily jolted and gasped. It was a girl. She was wearing a dark zip-up hoodie, dark jeans, and sneakers that were getting wet from the lapping water in the gutter. She was standing right above Emily, leaning with her hands on her thighs. Just staring.

  Before Emily could say a word, lightning flashed through the sky, illuminating the girl’s face. Her mouth was open, revealing a few missing teeth. Her eyes were wide and crazed. She leaned farther into the lane, her features so close. Emily smelled the faintest tinge of vanilla soap on her skin.

  A scream froze in her throat. Ali.

  “Oh my God,” Emily cried, paddling backward. But Ali reached out and grabbed her before she could get far, pulling Emily back to the wall with surprising strength.

  “Hello, Emily,” Ali said in an eerie, craggy voice, pausing to cackle. “Did you really think I’d leave for good?” Her smile stretched wider. “I haven’t visited your friends, but I just had to see you. You’re my favorite!”

  Emily tried to wriggle out of Ali’s grip, but Ali was holding her hard by the shoulders. “Please,” Emily said in barely more than a whisper. “Please let me go.”

  Ali pursed her lips. “First tell me you love me.”

  “What?” Emily sputtered.

  “Say you still love me!” Ali demanded.

  “N-no!” Emily cried, astonished. There was no way she could lie about that.

  Ali’s eyes widened. A dangerous look crossed her face. “Okay, then. You asked for it.”

  And then she pushed Emily under.

  Water rushed into Emily’s lungs. She kicked hard, groping for the surface, but Ali wouldn’t let her up, her nails pressing into Emily’s right temple and the left side of her neck. It was a perfect plan, Emily realized. No one was in here. The room was so big no one could hear her scream. Much later, maybe even tomorrow, a janitor would find Emily in the pool, dead, and figure she’d drowned.

  She struggled and kicked, clawing for Ali’s hands and using her feet to push off the wall. But Ali kept holding her down. Emily’s throat caught, and her lungs began to burn. “Please!” she screamed under the water, the word exploding out of her like a keening wail.

  She could hear Ali laughing on the surface. Ali’s nails dug even deeper into Emily’s head, pressing her toward the bottom of the pool. Spots began to form in front of Emily’s eyes. She opened her mouth again, letting in more water. One more scream escaped from her mouth, her addled, oxygen-starved brain hardly registering the sound.

  But suddenly she felt Ali’s grip release. The blurry figure over her receded, growing smaller and smaller above her.

  Emily shot to the top, gasping for air. She gripped the sides of the wall hard and coughed up water. Her head still pounding, she pushed to the deck and gazed around. The door to the girls’ locker room swung shut. Emily ran for it, her limbs heavy, her lungs tight.

  She crashed into the locker room. “Ali!” she screamed, groping past sinks and the showers and slipping on the tiled floor. A black-hooded shape rushed for the door to the hallway.

  Ali. Emily barreled forward, catching her by her sleeve. Ali kicked and bucked, her hands outstretched for the doorknob. Finally, she swung around and glared at Emily, her features twisted and furious and unbearably ugly. She opened her mouth and sank her teeth into Emily’s arm.

  Emily let out a yelp and released her grip. With a laugh, Ali slipped free. Emily reached to grab her again, but suddenly, all she was holding was Ali’s hooded sweatshirt, the zipper undone, both sides flapping free.

  Emily lunged for the door, but Ali had slammed it behind her so forcefully that it
swung inward, cracking Emily on the head. Emily staggered back, seeing stars. It took her a few seconds to regroup. Then she rushed into the hall.

  There was no one there. No sound of footsteps, either. No wet footprints leading in a direction, even.

  Emily stared right and left, feeling like she was going crazy. Ali had vanished into thin air.

  Water dripped off her fingertips, making puddles on the ground. She ran her hands down the length of her face, suddenly realizing she was still in her bathing suit and swim cap. Then she noticed how freezing she was. She inspected the sides of her neck, wincing at the tender spots where Ali had squeezed. She took a step to the left, and then to the right, and then sank down to the ground, horribly dizzy.

  Ali had escaped. Again. But she’d sent a message, all right. Loud and clear. And next time, Emily wasn’t sure if Ali would let her live.

  9

  SHE’S BAA-ACK. . . .

  Hanna stood in the middle of an empty soundstage, studying her Naomi lines, which a production assistant had printed out and highlighted for her earlier that day. Hank, Burn It Down’s director, had dismissed the cast and crew for the day because filming during a lightning storm was dangerous, but Hanna had decided to hang back for a while to practice. She wanted to be perfect for her next big scene. Even though Hank had told her she was doing a great job, she still felt like a little bit of a fraud. She was acting opposite people who had so much experience . . . and her only claims to fame were doing a PSA and being tormented by Ali. “And that’s why we’re not friends anymore, Hanna Marin,” she said into the still, quiet room, among the idle cameras, equipment, and lights. She glared at an imaginary Hailey opposite her. In this scene, she, as Naomi, had found out about Hanna’s almost killing her cousin in a car accident. “Because you’re crazy. And you’re a liar. And there’s only so much a girl can take.”