“But she seems to have—”
“It wasn’t Vienna,” I interrupted. “It’s not possible.” Before he could argue with me, I clicked back to the feed and refreshed. The hashtag reloaded. I cringed at the top photo: a very unflattering photo of me, one taken from the under-chin angle (why did that angle even exist?) with my mouth half open and nose pores on full display.
The cringe only lasted a second, though. It didn’t faze me that much. The world had seen way worse of me. See: the paparazzi competition over who could get the “best” upskirt photo after I turned eighteen. There was nothing like the entire world getting to see the red, inflamed evidence of your very first bikini wax.
It took me another second to realize that I wasn’t the only person in that photo: Vienna was there too. It was an old one, back from when we were doing the reality show; her arm waswrapped over my shoulder, clearly relying on me to hold her up. We were probably drunk or high (we were drunk or high a lot of the time those days). Unfairly, she looked way better than me—she’d had the foresight to tilt her chin down, and her hair was messy in a way that looked like it was on purpose even though it most likely wasn’t.
Gabe, looking over my shoulder, sucked in a breath through his teeth. “The caption,” he clarified, so that I wouldn’t think he was wincing at my face.
I leaned in. The words seemed awfully small. Did I need glasses? Maybe I was being punished by the universe for convincing Coriander to wear those hideous frames, for which she’d already featured in, according to the group chat, at least two “Worst Dressed at the Murder Scene” compilations, which really should not be a thing.
Pomona Afton’s grand entrance into the do-gooder scene was supposed to be akin to a butterfly emerging from a cocoon: wasted party girl caterpillar to saintly butterfly. Saints don’t get their biggest donors killed, though. Pom, maybe you should hop back up on a table, where you belong. Better to get attention by flashing your underwear at cameras than helping your fellow fake-do-gooder friend kill someone who only wanted to do good for real.
“Wow, okay,” I said. Not going to lie, reading that made me feel a little nauseous, and the thought of all the people I wanted so badly to impress reading it made me feel like I might actually vomit. I was used to bad press—but not when I was actually trying to do something good. Part of me wanted to listen to whoever this anonymous asshole with no profile picture but a mastery of the hashtags was. Just admit defeat. Go back to doing what was easy.
No. I couldn’t do that. My eyes flicked toward Gabe. For one, Gabe didn’t love Old Pom. Right?
I thrust my shoulders back. I would be strong. I’d get through this.
My phone buzzed. The unflattering picture of me disappeared from the screen and was replaced with a picture of my mother. Suddenly I wanted the unflattering photo back.
Maybe I’d be lucky and she was accidentally butt-dialing me. I hit the green button. “Hello?” I said quietly, so that I wouldn’t alert her head in the event I was indeed talking to her butt.
“Pom? You sound exhausted,” she said. I was not lucky today. To be fair, she’d been extra cautious about butt-dialing people since her old habit had exposed the fact that her shoe had been my grandma’s murder weapon.
“That’s funny, because I’m the opposite of exhausted,” I said. “There’s nothing that makes you sleep soundly like someone getting murdered at your very first gala. It’s so calming.”
I could practically hear her rolling her eyes through the phone. She said, “I hope this call isn’t being recorded, because you know everyone would have those words plastered all over the headlines without any regard to your supposed ‘sarcasm.’?”
If the paparazzi had managed to tap into my phone, they already would’ve plastered the headlines with quotes from my debate with Vienna about whether it was unethical to try out one of those spas where they use blood diamond dust in their massages. “Mom, why are you calling?”
She sniffed into the phone. “My goodness, Pom. Can a mother not call her daughter to see how she’s doing the morning after a horrific event?”
“I’m here too,” said my dad. She must have me on speakerphone. I could picture them in the living room of their Afton penthouse, my grandmother’s old apartment, my mom in her tight black workout clothes all sweaty on my grandma’s white couch (just because she could); my dad kind of hovering in the background, stubble on his cheeks, wearing khaki shorts thatexposed knobby knees. “How are you doing, Pom? I’ve been worried about you.”
I knew better than to let myself relax whenever my mom was involved, but I let my shoulders fall a fraction anyway. Gabe got up from the table with the crumb-covered dishes in hand to take to the sink. “Oh. Well, I can’t say I’m doing great. It’s so hard to know that someone wasn’t only hurt at an event I’d hoped would be a good thing, but—”
“Richard, don’t get blood on the couch,” she snapped. “I heard your friend was arrested?”
“Why is Dad getting blood on the couch?” I asked. “Is he okay?” It would be so like my mom to call for a chat while my dad was bleeding out in the background.
“Another nosebleed. He always gets them,” my mom said. “Anyway, Vienna was arrested? Is that true?”
I sighed. Of course she just wanted gossip. “Vienna was not arrested, at least last I heard.” I would’ve heard, right? Even if she hadn’t texted me back?
“Do you think she did it?”
“Yes, Mom. Of course I think my best friend did it. Are you telling me you don’t thinkyourbest friend’s murdered anyone? How pedestrian.”
“Honestly, Pomona.” My mom bristled. “You know with mine it’s a gray area.” But I’d shut her up, at least for a few seconds, and that was a victory. Those few seconds were enough time for my dad to get some words in.
Unfortunately, he seemed to have forgotten about his concern for me. He said, rather self-importantly, “It’s not a gray area because she used a beach umbrella and was technically found not at fault because it was such a windy day.”
“I’ve already had to testify to that enough,” Mom said. “My skin looked terrible in that drab courtroom lighting. Thank goodness they didn’t allow photos, though it’s not like that sketch artistdid me any favors. Did you see how that man depicted my neck? It was like I hadn’t even gotten that surgery. Well, surgeries.”
I sighed through my nose.
“Anyway, I was asking about your friend because apparently she was sleeping with Conrad Phlume.”
