Chapter 33
MCKINNEY HIGH SCHOOL
The world is a blur of green and blue and gray, and there’s a terrible roaring in my ears. Someone nearby is talking but I can’t register what they’re saying. I’m untethered from the world—floating, bodiless.
It’s a relief, truly. A moment outside of time, away from the weight and chaos of my feelings.
Then someone grabs me by the elbow, and the world swerves back into focus.
“Henley. Henley.” It’s Max. He shakes me gently, trying to jostle me back into my body. Then, suddenly, he cups my chin in his hand.
“Iris,” he says.
I blink. There behind him is Jonah, still with a towel around his neck, sweaty from his match. He looks beyond startled, his eyes are so wide. I catch my breath.
“Are you okay?” Jonah asks.
I fight the urge to let out a wild, hysterical laugh. Instead I shake my head no.
Max sets his jaw and turns to look at Jonah.
“Do you know anywhere we can sit down for a minute?” he asks. “I think we need to talk.”
The orchestra room is dark and silent when we arrive. The three of us sit on the topmost riser near the back of the room, Max and me side by side, Jonah facing us.
“So you’ve never texted me, not even once?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t even have your number. I almost asked for it last summer, but I just thought … you know. It seemed like a bad time. I didn’t want to freak you out.”
Max looks at me for a moment, then back to Jonah. His expression is guarded. It’s only because I’ve known him my whole life that I can see how tense he is. “What about Sekrit, do you use that? Someone’s been spreading a bunch of rumors on the Varda High feed. I take it that’s not you either?”
“No, man, I don’t fuck around with social media.” Jonah makes a face. “Partly because of stuff like this. This is messed up.”
“I’ll second that,” I say softly.
Jonah leans back against the wall. He still hasn’t had a chance to shower, and his curls are wilder than ever, the sweat drying it into strange whorls and twists.
He’s ostensibly easier to read than Max—less guarded, more open—but I feel like everything I thought I knew about body language and expression has become useless in the last six months.
I thought I knew Rocky and Lynette. I thought I knew who I was talking to when I was texting Jonah. But I’ve been wrong every single time.
“This guy—let’s call him ‘Not-Jonah,’ just to prevent confusion,” the real Jonah says. “He knew enough about me to keep this going since August?”
“Well … yeah.” I knew Jonah in real life, so I never questioned it. I liked him, I wanted to hear from him, and I was excited to see his name appear on my phone. But now that I’m thinking about it, what exactly did Not-Jonah say that made me so sure of him?
I open up our texts and scroll back as far as I can. There are hundreds of messages. It takes a while to get to the beginning, but neither Jonah nor Max rushes me.
There. August twelfth. Hi Iris! It’s Jonah, from camp. This was followed by roughly thirty hours of silence from me as I scrambled to decide how to respond.
ME
Hello Jonah from camp! What’s up? How was Vermont?
JONAH
Nice and cool, at least compared to Houston. I actually wore outerwear. In August!
ME
I’m so jealous. I wish my grandparents lived somewhere with a breeze. Instead they moved to Phoenix. Like, who does that? Moves from Texas to Arizona? The food’s worse and the weather still sucks
JONAH
I had these cheese curds in Burlington that you would not believe. Sorry your grandparents didn’t want you to be happy.
I look the words over with a sinking feeling in my chest. Jonah had been scheduled to go to Vermont after camp was over.
We’d talked about it a little. His maternal grandparents lived there, and he visited every year.
But Not-Jonah hadn’t even had to phish for that one; I’d delivered it right into his hands.
From there it was easy to riff on Burlington and cheese curds: just look up where most domestic flights are routed and what Vermont is known for.
I had been an easy mark.
The texts went on just like that for a while.
I’d ask how Jonah’s sister was, and Not-Jonah would say “kind of a pain in my ass.” That’s an easy guess; what sister isn’t?
I’d ask if he was auditioning for Houston Youth Symphony again, he’d say “I’ve been practicing nonstop.
” I handed Not-Jonah every bit of information he needed, at least at first. And then over time it was easy for Not-Jonah to become a character in his own right.
The catfisher introduced new characters, new plotlines and thoughts and feelings.
I’d filled in the rest with my own imagination.
“Here,” I say, handing the phone to Jonah. “I’m probably the one that owes you an apology. Now it’s obvious he was phishing.”
He looks through a few pages of the texts. Then he runs his hands through his hair and exhales loudly.
“This is so weird,” he says. “You didn’t ever ask to talk on the phone or anything?”
I shrug. “I brought it up a few times, but you … he … just kind of put it off. Once we had a date to FaceTime, but he said something came up and I didn’t bring it up again.
” I think for a moment, trying to figure out how to put the experience into words.
“I … was trying not to pressure you. I really liked texting with you and I didn’t want to mess it up, and so I just kind of followed your lead. Except obviously, it wasn’t you.”
“Whoever’s been doing this,” Max puts in, “it looks like they’ve been trying to get information about Iris and her friends, and then posting it all on Sekrit to make her look bad.”
Jonah looks at me, and I nod. I haltingly explain as best as I can about Rockytruther’s two posts, about the secrets I thought only Jonah knew. His expression changes with every word, shocked, and then angry, and then oddly sad in turn.
“I don’t know what to do now,” I say. “I don’t know who’s doing it, and I don’t know how to get them to stop. After the dance I was sure it was you.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you, Iris.” He says it simply, without a trace of admonishment, but it still makes me feel bad.
“Don’t take it personally.” I look down at my lap. “The person I thought I knew best turned out to be a murderer. I don’t know how to read anyone anymore.”
He reaches across the distance between us and takes my hand in his. I look up at him.
“Whoever did this knew you were in a bad place. They knew what they could get away with,” he says.
Before I can say anything, Max cuts in.
“Hey, I know this is all weird and messed up, but do you mind if I look at your phone?” Max asks. “I’m sorry, I just…”
“Want to make sure I don’t have a bunch of throwaway accounts and stuff,” Jonah says. “I get it. Yeah, that’s fine. Here.” He lets go of my hand to unlock his phone. The loss of contact makes me feel abruptly adrift.
Max starts to move through the screens, looking at apps, opening things up. I turn back to Jonah, who’s still looking at my phone. He comes to one of the photos and frowns.
“This picture was on my friend Marcus’s Insta. But as far as I know, he keeps that account locked.”
“How many mutuals does he have?” I ask.
“A ton.” He shakes his head again. “Wonder if Not-Jonah is one of them.”
“Not-Jonah seems to be pretty resourceful,” I say. “Would you send me a link to Marcus’s account though? It might be useful.”
“Sure. In the meantime, I’m going to message every single person I know and tell them to remove every single picture that’s ever been taken of me.
” He drums his fingers rhythmically against the back of my phone.
“Do you mind if I show my sister the Sekrit posts? She’s a tech person.
She may have some ideas how to figure this out. ”
“Ugh, I don’t want anyone seeing that who doesn’t have to,” I say, making a face. “But sure. Yes. See if there’s anything she can do.”
That’s when the door swings open, and a janitor with a large wheeled trash can looks in. She sees us and gives a start.
“What’re you kids doing in here?” she asks, looking up the risers at us. “This part of the building is closed.”
“Yeah, sorry.” Jonah jumps to his feet and we follow suit. “I, uh … I just had to get my viola. Come on, guys.”
We follow him into the locker area just off the main room, the janitor following us with her eyes.
Jonah opens one of the flat white lockers and pulls out his viola case.
Then he pauses and looks at us. “I guess I’d better get back out there,” he says.
“People are going to be wondering. But I have about a million more questions for you.”
“How about we talk on the phone when you’ve got time,” I say with a rueful smile. “Not sure I feel up to texting with you.”
“Fair.” He hesitates for a moment, then puts down his viola case. “Man, I’m sorry, Iris, this really sucks. I hate that you’ve been going through it.”
I think about hugging him. This is not the Jonah I’ve fallen for in the past few months—but it is the Jonah I hung out with at camp, who played brooding shoegaze music for me in the dorm rooms, and gave me a quarter of his cinnamon roll at the breakfast table.
That slow-danced with me at the camp social.
But the two Jonahs are too tangled, too confused in my mind. So instead, I just nod.
“I’m sorry too. I’m sorry you got pulled into this.”
After we exchange real phone numbers in the hall, Jonah goes one way, and Max and I go the other. Once again I have more questions than answers. But one thing’s come into sharp relief: Whoever the catfisher is? It’s someone close enough to know exactly how to get me.
Back in the car I scroll through my text history with Not-Jonah one more time. All that gentle flirtation. All the stupid banter. But this time my embarrassment gives way to anger. This guy, whoever he is, tricked me. Fuck that.
I don’t know who you really are, I type, fingertips stinging from the force. But when I find out? I’m going to make you pay.