Toxic

7 THE BULLIED . . . OR THE BULLY?

Spencer was finishing dinner with her mother, Mr. Pennythistle, and Amelia. Chinese takeout boxes sat around them, but, typical of Spencer’s mom, they were eating on fine china from Mrs. Hastings’s great-grandmother and using porcelain chopsticks from a specialty shop in Shanghai. Spencer’s mom had dressed for dinner, too, changing out of the jeans and plaid shirt she’d worn at the family’s stables and into a crisp off-white linen dress and shiny black Tory Burch flats.

“So being selected for the orchestra trip is really prestigious.” Amelia adjusted the tortoiseshell headband that held back her tight curls. Even though it was summer vacation, she, too, was dressed up in a crisp white shirt and a gray pleated skirt that didn’t look much different from her St. Agnes uniform. “The orchestra director told me I should be really proud,” she added, looking around expectantly.

“That’s great, honey.” Mr. Pennythistle smiled warmly. So did Spencer’s mom.

But Spencer resisted rolling her eyes. Every time Amelia opened her mouth, it was to brag. Yesterday at dinner, she’d boasted for a while about how good a sleeper she was.

Suddenly, she couldn’t deal with one more boastful thing out of Amelia’s mouth. “May I be excused?” she asked, placing her chopsticks in her soy sauce–stained bowl.

“Yes, but only after we talk about the Rosewood Rallies event,” Mrs. Hastings said.

Spencer fell back into her chair and wrinkled her nose. “We’re actually going?” Why did she need another event to remind her of Ali? Wasn’t the point to get over it?

Mrs. Hastings nodded firmly. “You’re an honored guest. And actually, I’ve volunteered to help out.” She clicked her chopsticks together. “You girls can bring a date, if you like. It should be fun.”

Spencer felt her cheeks flush. A date. Her mind shuffled through her long list of failed romances from the past year. Andrew Campbell had pulled away from her shortly after the Poconos fire, probably because he didn’t want to be associated with someone surrounded by so much drama. And Chase, another Ali detective Spencer had met online, had dropped Spencer when his life was in danger.

Every boy she’d gotten close to had run away screaming . . . and it was all Ali’s fault. Spencer wanted to be with someone . . . but she also felt as if it could never happen.

“I’ll go if it means that much to you,” she told her mother, picking up her dishes. “But I’m not going to enjoy it.”

She carried everything to the stainless steel sink in the kitchen. As she was rinsing off the chopsticks, she sensed a presence behind her and turned. Amelia stood by the fridge. Spencer cringed, anticipating a nasty remark.

But Amelia moved forward almost shyly. “Um, I meant to tell you. A friend directed me to your new blog. It’s kind of . . . awesome.”

Spencer’s mind froze. “You really think so?” she blurted.

“Of course.” Amelia placed her bowl on the counter. “I think it’s really great that you gave all those people a voice.” And then, with a smile, she turned and pranced back into the dining room.

Spencer stood still. She was so dazed she didn’t realize she’d left the tap running until the water flowed over her dirty bowl.

Huh.

Then she climbed the stairs to her bedroom and sat down at her computer, bringing up the blog. It was astonishing, actually, that Amelia even knew about the blog . . . but then again, it had recently garnered quite a following, even showing up on the very first page on a Google search for bullying.

She scrolled through her email. Today’s crop of stories made her own experiences with Ali pale in comparison. There were tales of kids being verbally and physically attacked by whole gangs of enemies. Kids were made fun of for their sexuality, like Emily had been, or for their race or religion. A girl wrote in telling a story about how her best friend committed suicide, unable to take the jeers from her classmates any longer. I miss her every day, the email said. And I’m not even sure the kids who were mean to her understood what they did. Spencer thought of Emily there, too—how they’d saved her from taking her life off the covered bridge. If they hadn’t gotten there in time, she might have gone through with it.

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