“Here’s the kicker,” Tracksuit continued and paused for effect. “It was the wrong guy.”
My nose wrinkled. “What?”
She nodded, her bob shaking theatrically. “Yup. But Weston’s family is paying the dude off so he won’t talk and so Weston can stay on the football team.”
“Who’s telling you all this?” Taylor crossed her arms over her chest and studied her friend. “I haven’t heard about any of this on campus.”
“I have my sources,” she replied in a defensive tone.
“Yeah but you're supposed to say ‘allegedly.’ The game of telephone is shit when it comes to reliability,” Taylor reminded her. “Don’t you think, Coco?”
I nodded, only half-listening while trying to gather my thoughts. I was too caught up in my head to remember to censor the next words that came out of my mouth: “Sure. But he is on probation.”
“I thought so,” Tracksuit said while raising her index finger in the air. “Wait, how do you know that? Do you have sources?”
Crap. The microwave beeped, reminding me of my original purpose. I should have just asked one question and quietly made my way out. Now, Taylor looked at me with interest and asked, “You know Weston?”
I shook my head and grabbed my bowl. “No, not really. We just have a class together. And a project.”
“I see.” Taylor’s mouth twisted to the side.
I had to leave now. Before any other information spilled out of my lips or worse… Taylor asked me to set her up with him. I quickly grabbed a fork, napkin, and mumbled something about having work to do. Neither of them tried to stop me as I escaped to my room. With the door finally shut, I breathed a sigh.
Nice going.
I had at least gotten some information about Weston. And despite it being secondhand maybe even third hand information, it would help in making a decision about spending more time with him. From what I learned about Weston so far, he was caring, potentially rash but willing to put his football position on the line for revenge. His probation and violence smelt like trouble. On the other hand, when you looked deeper, he seemed like one of the good ones. Someone worth knowing even if it might blow up in your face.
“Check this out.It’s for my photo shoot.” Ari’s voice carried through my lousy computer speakers. I readjusted my screen so she could see me paying attention. She held up her freshly painted purple and white nails. Each finger sported a stenciled letter. I frowned when I couldn’t make out what it said.
“I don’t get it,” I finally gave in with a shrug.
Ari flashed me her pinky fingers. “That’s the most important part.”
I snorted when reading “F” and “U.” She laughed and gave me a wink.
“Very cute,” I complimented while gathering my comforter tighter around my shoulders. I had piled my crappy dorm bed with an excessive number of blankets and pillows to ward off the cold. Taylor still lingered in the apartment, like a ghost refusing to address its unfinished business.
“I thought self-care gurus were supposed to be chill and calm,” I teased.
My longtime, internet friend had made a name for herself in the realm of self-care. She was a part-time life coach, part-time elderly yoga instructor, and moonlight journalist. Ari lived half-way across the country in a small town in Washington. Her parents allowed her to convert their backyard farmhouse into an apartment. She spent most of her time there doing research on sketchy companies and bonding with people on forums - one of which we’d met when we were barely teens.
“I’m chill and calm when it’s warranted,” she told me as tugged her locs into a bun. “But the magazine photoshoot is about our piece on the new facial recognition software. I want to continue to send a message. Especially since none of those idiots was prosecuted.”
I hummed in agreement. “Right, of course. Just don’t forget to take care of yourself.”
She finished her messy bun and reached off the screen to grab a mug filled with something steaming. “No worries. I got this.”
“I know. But… you tend to go hard post-release. You’ve done all the work and now, it’s time to let the article speak for itself. It’s an excellent piece, Ari,” I insisted. I had about a dozen tabs opened. One of which was Ari’s blog - a page currently getting so much traffic it could barely refresh without crashing.
“Post-release is the most important part.” Ari bounced up and down on her mattress. “I have three podcast interviews lined up. It’s so exciting. People are actually listening to me, to us.”
“You,” I corrected with a shake of my head. “Just you.”
Ari stopped bouncing and frowned. “I know, I know. I remembered not to mention your name. Even though I don’t see what the big deal is. You’re a killer researcher. Also, arguably a better hacker than I am. And you could add helping me to your resume post-grad, right? Which company wouldn’t want to hire a badass graphic designer with the ability to code circles around their dev team?”
“Not interested,” I said as I picked at my nail. Ari and I had learned to code together as a hobby when we were in high school. She’d wanted to turn it into a career, and I wanted something to do on the weekends.
“I don’t like attention,” I added.
