Chapter 7
Each time the bell rings, Halide Hall heaves itself full of bodies, surging toward their next scheduled disillusionment.
I wedge myself into the current, backpack plastered flat against my spine, hoping to ride the human riptide through to the exit.
Halfway between Chem and Psych, my phone buzzes so hard it feels like my thigh bone is about to vibrate out of existence.
At first, I ignore it, focusing instead on the way the light ricochets off the buffed tile. My breathing is shallow, but at least it’s regular, and if I time each inhale to my footfalls, maybe I can outpace the panic.
But the phone won’t stop. It stutters against my leg, pulse after pulse, like a distress signal.
I clench my jaw and keep walking, but the sweat blooming under my arms tells a different story.
At the end of the corridor. I duck into a patch of shadow behind the “Student Success” corkboard and yank my phone from my pocket with shaking hands.
Six new notifications from Hunter. Two from Sara.
I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for the onslaught, and read Hunter’s first.
brO
You need to see this.
[image attachment: a blurry screengrab of the Wilcox U subreddit]
[link to YouTube]
You are trending, my dude.
[screenshot of what looks like Aaron’s Instagram]
Sara’s is more subtle: Hey, call me when you see it?
And then, a few seconds later: It’s not as bad as you think.
I want to throw my phone in the nearest trash can and walk into traffic, but instead I open the first link. The page takes an eternity to load, every second stretching the drum-tight skin of my scalp until I’m sure it’ll split.
It’s Aaron. Or, more specifically, it’s Aaron’s face, his name tagged in the headline: “Deadpool Thirsts For Campus Legend—#FindJessica Hits 500.” Underneath is a cropped photo of Aaron at last week’s party, mid-laugh, the red suit half-zipped to show his throat, a plastic cup dangling from two fingers.
There are already dozens of comments. I scroll too fast, skimming them like a coward.
“Can confirm she was real, saw her at Pi Omega,” “Was she a ringer from out of town?” “If this is a marketing stunt, I’m buying whatever they’re selling.
” Then: “Heard Deadpool made out with her in the closet, anyone got pics?” Followed by a barrage of low-grade GIFs and a few amateur memes, some of which are so badly rendered I actually want to die.
My thumb slips and I click through to the YouTube link. It’s a grainy video, clearly shot on someone’s phone, but the audio is crisp enough: Aaron standing on the steps outside Porter Hall, explaining the legend for a local news crew.
“She was just… unreal,” Aaron says, hair a little messy, eyes flickering everywhere but the camera.
“I’ve never met anyone like her. I don’t even know her name, and now it’s driving me nuts.
” The interviewer—a sophomore journalism major trying to sound like Anderson Cooper—asks if he expects to find “Jessica” before semester’s end.
Aaron grins, but it’s a weird, off-center smile.
“I hope so. If she’s out there, I want to talk to her. ”
I clench my jaw so hard my molars groan. The words are all harmless, the kind of empty hero-quest language you use when you’re playing it for the crowd. But there’s something in the way he says it—the “I want to talk to her”—like a dare, or a plea.
My hand goes numb. I barely notice the textbook slipping from my other arm until it hits the floor, the thud echoing down the hallway with the finality of a closing casket. A few people look up, but most keep moving, a river in perpetual motion.
I lunge for the book, and as I do, my phone buzzes again. New message, this time just a link, no comment.
It’s Aaron’s own post.
My hands tremble so hard I almost drop the phone a second time. I tap the link, and it loads instantly, because of course it does.
It’s just a wall of text, not even a picture. The kind of thing you only write when you’re three drinks past self-consciousness, or when you really, truly need the world to see you.
Okay, this is embarrassing, but here goes: If anyone knows the identity of the girl in the Jessica Rabbit costume from Pi Omega’s party, please reach out. Not a joke. She was amazing, and I regret not asking her name. For what it’s worth: You left an impression, and I hope you see this.
The comments are relentless, but I barely read them. I stare at the post until my thumb cramps, until the white background burns itself onto my retinas. I don’t know if I want to laugh or throw up.
I find myself drifting, unmoored, stumbling toward the men’s room at the end of the hall. I slam into the last stall and lock it behind me, my body suddenly weightless, like the oxygen has been sucked from the air.
I sit on the closed toilet lid and put my head between my knees, breathing slow and shallow. The phone is still in my hand. I unlock it, re-reading the post. This time, I notice the tiny heart icon at the bottom, the “liked by” count already over a hundred.
I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the cool metal of the stall.
I try to imagine telling the truth—just walking up to Aaron in lecture and saying, “Hi, I’m the Mystery Girl.
Also, I’m a guy. Surprise!” The image is so absurd it almost feels plausible, but then I remember what it was like to be invisible, to have no one ever look twice, and I know I can’t do it.
I sit there until my ass goes numb and my heart rate approaches “imminent cardiac event.” When I finally get up, the mirror over the sinks shows a version of me that’s paler, sweatier, and possibly ten years older than the guy who walked in.
I splash water on my face and watch it bead on my glasses, then streak down my cheeks like I’m auditioning for a role in my own life. I dry off, swallow once, and put the mask back on.
The rest of the day is a blur of half-heard lectures, accidental eye contact, and a growing sense of unreality, like I’ve left my own timeline and am watching the true story play out somewhere just out of frame.
—ΠΩ—
Sara shows up at my door at 9:30 PM, armed with a thermos of chamomile and a plastic Walgreens bag.
“Sit,” she says, not waiting for me to argue. She plants me at the desk and flicks on my lamp, the light soft and warm, nothing like the prison yard LEDs overhead. She pours me a mug and hands it over, then sets the bag on my knee.
“What’s this?” I mumble.
She ignores me, rummages through the bag, and pulls out a travel pack of makeup remover wipes, a tiny bottle of cuticle oil, and a tube of Aveeno. “For the aftermath,” she says, voice soft.
I stare at the items, then at her. “I’m not even wearing—”
She cuts me off. “It’s for your hands. You’ve chewed them to ribbons.”
I look down. She’s right; the skin around my nails is raw, the cuticles shredded. I haven’t even noticed.
Sara soaks a cotton pad and grabs my right hand, dabbing at the worst spot. The lotion is cool, almost shockingly so, and for a second the sting is enough to chase away the panic.
She works in silence, her head bent close to mine, the smell of chamomile overlaying the sharp tang of isopropyl. She finishes the first hand, then switches to the other, kneading the lotion into my skin with surprising gentleness.
“This is getting out of hand,” she says finally. “You know that, right?”
I laugh, a short bark. “Tell that to the internet.”
She finishes with the lotion, then picks up my mug and forces it into my grip. “You need to tell him, Spence. Before someone else figures it out.”
I shake my head, too hard. “No way. He’d hate me. He’d tell everyone. It was just a stupid bet.”
Sara gives me a look, not angry but deeply tired. “He’s not an idiot. He’s already obsessed. You saw the post. That’s not a guy looking to make fun of someone.”
I look away. “You didn’t see how he was in class. He’s—he’s not like that in person.”
She sighs and sets the bottle down, then slides her hand onto my shoulder. “That kiss meant something to both of you. I saw your face when you came out of that closet. You looked like you’d been hit by lightning.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, memory flickering. The heat, the rush, the way my knees almost gave out.
I say nothing, and Sara lets the silence hang. She pats my shoulder, then stands.
“Sleep,” she says. “And if you can’t, text me. I’ll tell you what happens next in the comments section.”
She leaves the door open a crack as she goes, the light from the hallway spilling in. I watch it flicker across the carpet, the world outside moving forward whether I want it to or not.
I drink the tea, hands still shaking, and try not to think about what will happen when the next message hits my phone.
—ΠΩ—
The campus coffee shop is always too bright for this early, the kind of lighting that feels punitive.
I order a double espresso and slide into the corner booth, the one by the fake fireplace with a view of the quad.
I tell myself I’m here to work, but all I do is watch the door, and jump every time it opens.
It’s only a matter of time before something happens. Viral posts don’t die quietly.
Hunter finds me less than five minutes in, breezing through the entrance with his windbreaker unzipped and his ego at full blast. He spots me instantly and zeroes in, cutting through the line and plopping down across from me without so much as a “hey.”
“Montgomery,” he says, voice pitched just above the background Spotify. “You got a minute?”
I nod, steeling myself. Hunter’s not one for preamble, and his energy is already set to “emergency.”
He leans in, resting his elbows on the sticky laminate. “Dude, you will not believe what I did.”
There’s a pause, like he’s waiting for me to beg him to go on. I don’t, but he does anyway. “I fixed your problem. Or, at least, I set up the best possible train wreck for it.” He grins, but it’s the slow, carnivorous one he gets right before something explodes in his hands.