“We’re taking a ride?”
“No, we’re taking a meeting. C’mere.”
The boy looked around and got out. Gray hoodie, bright-blue board shorts, orange sneakers. The thunderbolts etched into his hair had been highlighted yellow. He crossed the street, got into the backseat behind Milo, and immediately began fidgeting. “Smells weird back here.”
Milo said, “New cologne, Todd. Eau de Felony. So what’s on your mind?”
“This.” Reaching into his jean pocket, Leventhal produced a single sheet of paper.
Screenshots of several Twitter posts.
The same poster: V-I-M Numero Uno.
Similar messages, one day after the other, all within the last week:
TL and SA socialize suckalize screwalize.
TL and SA and their ilk are like elk. hunted.
TL and SA have low genetic life expectancy. dna do not allow.
TL and SA party partially perish permanently.
TL SA MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD.
Milo said, “Someone doesn’t like you and Shirin.”
“No! It’s more!” The boy’s new voice was shrill, constricted. “Look at the bottom one—look!”
“Lotta MD’s. Something to do with a doctor?”
“No! It means ‘must die’!”
“You figured that out because—”
“I didn’t figure, I know! Motherfucker comes up and whispers it to me, online he doesn’t want to get kicked off so he hides it with code. Look at his handle! It’s obvious!”
“V-I-M…”
“Vengeance is mine! He says that, too!”
“This person has threatened you to your face.”
“He always looked at me weird,” said Leventhal. “Now he’s saying it. Whispering. Like he’s telling me a fucking secret.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“Piece of shit autistic spazz-whack named Moman.”
“First name?”
“Crispin.” Snickering at the sound of the name.
“Crispin also goes to Beverly.”
“Not like a normal person,” said Leventhal. “He was like homeschooled ’cause he’s fucked up, started this year so he could like go to Harvard or something. He misses a lot ’cause he’s fucked up. Allergies, flus, whatever. But when he’s there he’s being psycho with me and Shirin.”
“Why you?”
