“She’s lying.”
“Maybe.” My voice is quieter now. The fury has burned down to ashes. “Or maybe she isn’t. I don’t know. But that felt real. She looked hurt and now I feel awful.”
Cinna is breathing hard through her nose, staring at Vienna as she gets further and further away. I can tell Cinna doesn’t agree, but she drops it for now.
We stand on the steps as the last students trickle out of the building. The afternoon light has changed from warm gold to a cooler silver that drains the color from the cobblestones. Everything looks flatter.
“If it’s not Vienna,” Cinna says carefully, “then there’s only one other person who makes sense.”
I look at her, an ache creeping into my skull behind my eyes.
“Aubrey,” she says.
I open my mouth to dismiss it, but the dismissal won’t come.
“Think about it,” Cinna continues. “She’s in your inner circle. She knows about Carter. She’s blunt enough to say horrible things and smart enough to cover her tracks. And remember what she said a few weeks ago? About being jealous that you got into the exhibition?”
I do remember. It was the day I was late to Mixed Media and the three of us were sitting on a bench. Aubrey literally told me she was jealous I got into the exhibition and she didn’t.
At the time I appreciated her honesty because that’s Aubrey. She says what she’s thinking and doesn’t let it fester.
But what if it did fester?
“Aubrey wouldn’t do this,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction. “If she had a problem, she’d tell me.”
“People do crazy things when they’re hurt enough,” Cinna says.
I think about Aubrey. She’s empathetic in her own abrasive way. She cried at a documentary about elephants once and then threatened to fight anyone who mentioned it.
She’s kind. Supportive. She is a little jealous, a little prickly, and she has every right to be disappointed about not getting into the exhibition.
But harassing me and my family? Calling me a whore?
I can’t make the picture fit. But I can’t make anyone else’s picture fit either, and that’s the problem. The list of people who know enough about my life to write those texts is short. Every name on it belongs to someone I trust, and the idea that one of them has been doing this makes me feel like the ground beneath me is going to swallow me at any moment.
“I need to go,” I tell Cinna.
She blinks. “Go where? I’m already late to Drawing so I’ll ditch and go with you.”
“Go to class. I need some time alone.”
Her expression softens immediately, the anger giving way to concern. She pulls me into a hug, and I let myself lean into her for a second because Cinna’s hugs feel like being forgiven for things I haven’t done yet.
“Let me know if you need anything,” she says into my shoulder. “I’m here. You know that, right?”
“I know. Thank you.”
She squeezes once more and then releases me. I watch her walk back toward the courtyard, her cream cardigan disappearing in a crowd of students.
I’m alone.
I walk with no destination, just moving because my body needs to process life and can’t do it sitting still. My coffee is still in my hand, but the taste of it turns my stomach now so I drop it in the next trash can I pass. The campus paths are quieter at this hour. The cobblestones under my feet are uneven, and I watch them as I walk, counting the cracks between them.
One. Two. Three.
I think about every person who has access to the details of my life. Vienna. Aubrey. Carter. Dorien. Cinna. Aeron. My mother. A handful of casual friends who know some important, general knowledge.
Four. Five.
