18. Something Fishy In The Air
SOMETHING FISHY IN THE AIR
MARY KATE
Tuesday on campus always feels like a test of endurance—a parade of faces, a million micro-performances.
But this morning, I’m floating. I’m not even sure my boots are touching the salt-dusted concrete.
I’ve got Kent’s flannel layered under my own down vest, sleeves rolled back so I can feel the inside wrist where his scent still lingers, and the tote bag slung over my shoulder is extra heavy, crammed with textbooks and a half-eaten croissant.
My hair’s still damp from the shower, and every time the wind whips it around my cheek, I get a flash of the night before: his hand buried in my hair, his voice in my ear, the way my body went loose and molten under him.
Kent’s possession is part of the reason why I feel so amazing these days.
My body is both mine and not-mine, still sore in strange places, but also singing with a secret.
I want to call my lover, or text him some embarrassing heart emoji, but I don’t.
He’ll be at the hospital, probably elbow-deep in someone’s urethra, and besides, I want to savor this bubble of afterglow for as long as it lasts.
Meanwhile, the sun’s out and it’s a gorgeous day.
I squint at the clean edges of the sky, the way the buildings rise up in slabs of blue and tan, all glass and ambition.
The air’s so cold it cracks inside your nose, but the quad is alive—students streaming in rivers between buildings, clusters of smokers braving the last of winter on the library steps, a pack of girls in matching puffer jackets and leggings shrieking at each other over the rattle of iced coffee.
Somewhere, there’s the high whine of a drone from the engineering quad, and the cafeteria’s already belching out the scent of fry oil and cinnamon rolls.
It lasts until the moment I cross under the arch by Larson Hall.
That’s when I notice: the world has gone oddly silent.
Not everywhere, just in this tight little locus of brick walkway and slanting winter sun.
I see it first in the way the girls by the bike rack fall quiet as I pass, one of them ducking her head so fast she nearly brains herself on her own thermos.
Two guys by the sculpture bench—one of them from my Italian Civilization seminar—are mid-conversation, but when they spot me, the words just…
evaporate. But it’s not in a flattering way.
Instead, one of the boys glances at my face, then my chest, then smirks and practically googles his eyes at me. What the fuck?
I slow down. The concrete seems more real now, hard under my boots, each step a little less certain.
I scan for something on my shirt, a stain or a bit of breakfast, but there’s nothing.
My hair’s a mess, but not worse than usual.
My hands are pink from the cold, my nails short and chewed.
I check my fly, pat down my hair once more. All good.
But the feeling that I’m being watched doesn’t go away.
If anything, it sharpens. The whispering by the library fountain is definitely about me—I catch my own name, said in the way you say “cancer” or “pregnant” or “caught shoplifting”—and the little shiver that travels down my spine is not from the wind.
At the steps of the humanities building, I spot Emmeline.
She’s alone, perched on the lowest stair, scrolling through her phone with a thumb so aggressive I think she might shatter the screen.
Her hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, and she’s got her white earbuds in, but I can tell she sees me.
Her spine goes rigid; her whole head tilts half a degree in my direction, but her eyes never leave the phone.
I call her name. Not loud, just enough to pierce the chilly hush.
She pretends not to hear. I call again, waving a little. I’m only ten feet away now, but her face is a mask, a half-smile glued on in a way that says, please, not now, not ever. She stands, tugs her jacket tight at the collar, and pivots toward the door.
I try again, louder. “Emmeline!”
She stops, looks up with a kind of pained resignation, and tugs the left earbud out. “Oh. Hey, MK,” she says, the words brittle as glass. “Sorry, I’m late for class. Can we talk later?”
Her eyes dart past me, scanning the air, the sidewalk, anywhere but my actual face.
I nod, but I can’t make my mouth work. I want to ask what’s wrong, if something happened, if I missed a text, but she’s already turned her back and is pushing through the glass doors.
I watch her vanish into the dark corridor, watch the door swing shut, see my own reflection—lost, stunned, ridiculous—staring back at me.
I stand there for a second, not sure what to do with my body.
The world has snapped back into motion: a kid on a skateboard wipes out on the curb, a group of fratty bros talk too loud about the Super Bowl, the smell of burned coffee drifts in from the café cart by the bus stop.
But the silence around me stays, a little radius of chill.
The stares don’t stop. I can feel them all the way down to my toes—furtive, hungry, almost… triumphant. Like everyone else got the punchline, and I’m still waiting for the joke.
I want to run, or maybe just disappear. I tighten the strap of my tote, take a shaky breath, and force myself down the stairs. I make it as far as the courtyard before my phone buzzes, a bright digital shriek that nearly makes me drop the whole bag.
I fish it out, hands trembling, and see the name:
Kayleigh.
My stomach drops, the same way it did that time I saw my own face tagged in a photo from a party I didn’t even remember going to.
The message is short, desperate: SOS. Can we meet? Like now?
I don’t answer right away. I just stand there, surrounded by the hum of students and the brittle winter light, and try to decide whether the world is ending, or if this is just another Tuesday after all.
Kayleigh picks the place, but I get there first. Grounds & Glory is barely more than a storefront tacked onto the end of a half-vacant strip mall, but it’s the unofficial off-campus headquarters for anyone who ever nursed a grudge against Starbucks.
It’s always weirdly warm inside, like the HVAC’s broken and the only way to cool down is to open the front door every ten minutes and let the cold slap you in the face.
The windows are constantly fogged, as if the baristas exhale their own anxiety into the air.
I love it here. Usually. But today, I’m on edge because what the hell is going on?
Why is everyone treating me like a leper?
I stake out the corner table farthest from the door—closest to the radiator, shielded by the towering bookshelf that doubles as a privacy screen.
I order a latte with oat milk, more because it gives me something to do with my hands than for the taste.
My hands are shaking. I try to hold the cup with both palms, but the heat just makes them sweat.
Kayleigh’s ten minutes late. She comes in with her hair still wet, a beanie pulled low over her brow, a parka zipped up to her chin.
Her boots are dusted with a spray of rock salt and dirty snow, and she doesn’t take them off or even stamp her feet—just makes a beeline for my table, drops her messenger bag on the seat, and slides in without a word.
She looks at me. Really looks, the way she did when she thought her mom had cancer, the way she looked at her parents that time her brother got expelled from prep school and nobody knew why.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, before she can even open her mouth. “Did you have class?”
She ignores the question, yanks off the beanie, and shakes her hair loose. “So girlfriend,” she says, voice clipped. “Are you okay?”
I laugh, but it’s brittle, like I’m coughing up glass. “Yes? Why? How are you?”
She gives me the look. The you-are-an-idiot-and-it’s-cute look, but there’s no humor in it.
“I’m fine,” she says. “But… you haven’t seen anything? Online?”
My heart plummets, cold and electric, but I keep my face neutral. “What? Did I forget to turn in an assignment or something?”
She drops her voice, leans in. “MK. Seriously. You know, right?”
I squint at her.
“Honestly, I don’t know. All I know is that while I was walking around on campus today, people were staring and whispering like I’d grown two heads. Do you know something?”
Kayleigh nods slowly and then lowers her voice.
“Are you sleeping with multiple guys, MK?”
The world tilts. I almost spit out my latte, but manage to swallow instead, the hot milk burning all the way down.
“Why, is this an intervention?” I say, aiming for a laugh, but it comes out shaky.
My pretty friend winces, glances at the other tables.
There’s a pair of guys in the window seat arguing about some bullshit, and an elderly couple pretending to read the paper but obviously eavesdropping.
Kayleigh waits until their attention drifts, then whispers: “I’m serious.
Have you been seeing anyone besides your ‘doctor’? ”
I’m confused for a second, then realize she means Kent, and the label makes me want to giggle and scream at the same time.
“No,” I say, honest. “Just him. Why? Is something going down?”
She hesitates, then flips her phone onto the table and spins it with her finger. “There’s stuff on Snapchat,” she says. “And TikTok, but mostly Snap. Of you.”
My skin goes cold. I feel every inch of exposed flesh, every thread of the t-shirt under my jacket. “Of me?”
She nods, jaw tight. “Yeah. I mean, yeah, like ….it’s you. Like, in all these different positions. With different guys, sometimes two at a time. And you’re doing stuff that’s triple-X, girlfriend, it’s crazy—”
Her voice breaks off, and for a second, she looks like she might cry. I reach for her hand, but she pulls it away, tucking it into the sleeve of her coat.
“Kay. Kayleigh. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The words are coming out too fast, like I’m trying to outrun them.
She glances up, finally meeting my eyes.
There’s real pity there, and it’s worse than anything else.
“I haven’t seen the videos myself,” she whispers.
“But three people messaged me about it this morning because they know we’re friends.
They said it’s definitely you, and that you… you’re a total slut, basically.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or puke. I try to imagine what she’s describing: some kind of sex tape? A parade of random dudes? Is this a joke, some elaborate prank, or—
Or.
“Are you sure?” I say, but I can hear the panic in my voice now. “I mean, it could be anybody. My hair’s not even that distinctive, it’s just a regular blonde with streaks. Tons of girls look like me. What if it’s one of those Russian bots or whatever?”
Kayleigh finally smiles, but it’s a dead thing, all surface. “I guess so, but it seems like they had your face in the videos.”
“Then it’s fake,” I say immediately. It’s a deepfake. For sure. Lots of girls are being victimized by deepfakes these days. I hear that there are even special “deepfake apps” you can use. You just grab a face photo of someone, and then the app creates super nasty porn that’s all pretend.”
“I guess so,” Kayleigh says slowly. “It’s just … I don’t know. Allegedly, the videos look very real, and they look like they were filmed in one session. Like you were hooking up with multiple dudes in one night.”
I stare at my friend, mouth agog.
“They look that real? But how? And why would anyone do that to me?”
Kayleigh shrugs, and for a second, I see her as a little kid again—helpless, out of her depth. “I don’t know. You’re hot? Or maybe someone hates you? Or maybe it’s just random and they pulled your image off the web. But people are talking, and they’re convinced it’s you.”
My hands are shaking so bad I have to put the cup down. The latte sloshes over the rim and makes a ring on the table. I try to wipe it up with a napkin, but my fingers don’t work right.
“It’s not me,” I say, too loud, and the couple by the window looks over, eyebrows up. I lower my voice. “I’m in a monogamous—” I catch myself before saying “relationship” and instead say, “thing.”
Kayleigh is quiet, but not unsympathetic. “Look, I believe you. But you know how this stuff works. No one cares if it’s real. They just see the video and run with it, and before you know it, it has a million views and thirty thousand likes.”
I want to crawl out of my skin. I think about Kent, about the way he’d burn the city down if someone tried to hurt me.
I think about his voice, the way he’d say, “Just ignore it, sweetheart. It’ll blow over.
” But I can’t imagine ignoring this, not with the way the entire campus looked at me this morning.
Not with the memory of Emmeline’s cold, shut-down face and her barely-hidden disgust.
“Do you know who’s sharing it?” I ask, voice barely a whisper. “Like, what account? Or who started it?”
Kayleigh shakes her head, lips pressed thin. “I can try to find out. If you want. But, MK, once it’s out there…”
She doesn’t finish, but I know what she means. Once videos like this have been unleashed to the world, they take on a life of their own. My life could be ruined already.
The silence stretches. Someone starts playing The National on the café speakers, and the guy in the window seat starts tapping out the rhythm with a spoon. The world has gone on without me, and I am sitting here, trying not to shatter.
I grip the edge of the table, trying to anchor myself to something. “Can you please just see who’s got it? Who’s spreading it? What people are saying?”
Kayleigh nods, serious again. “I’ll do what I can.” She finally reaches across the table, lays her hand over mine, and gives it a squeeze. It’s warm, almost feverish. “It’ll be okay, MK. It’ll pass. These things always do.”
I want to believe her, but I don’t. Again, I think about the way people looked at me this morning—the undisguised curiosity in their eyes, the knowing smirks, the cold little pockets of silence.
I think about my own face, cut and pasted onto someone else’s body, doing things I’ve never done.
I think about Kent, and how nothing will ever be private again.
I watch Kayleigh pack up her bag and walk out, her boots leaving wet prints on the tile, her hair swinging in a bright wave behind her.
I sit there for a long time, hands curled around the cooling cup, watching the world through the steamed-up glass.
Deepfakes. The word is a stone in my stomach.
I close my eyes, and the world outside goes blurry and cold.