Page 51 of Enzo

A video of Enzo has gone viral.

Enzo.

The man who hates being seen.

He never took his mask off so people are trying to guess his identity.

I take the phone from Kiki and watch the clip again before scanning through the comments. Someone identifies him, even though nobody ever saw him without the mask except for me.

Some comments mention the same name:

Enzo Knight.

Apparently, he’s famous. Not filmstar famous, maybe, but known to people. Some say he's from a rich dynasty.

My chest suddenly feels heavy.

I know how fiercely he guarded his privacy, how reluctant he was even to tell me his name or remove his mask, and now because of a terrible mistake, I've shattered his trust.

He will hate me.

And, much to my dismay, he's the son of a billionaire. I shouldn’t be surprised, given the event, but it disappoints me because I know that power and wealth often change people. I saw it in the people who sat at the table when we were having dinner.

“Has this gone viral for everyone?”

Kiki chuckles. “That’s what viral means, silly.” She continues to tap away on her laptop.

My insides hollow out.

Does Enzo know about this?

“What have you done?” I whisper. My lungs feel as if they’re gripped in a vise and it becomes harder to breathe. “You're not sick, are you? The food poisoning is a lie.”

Kiki folds her arms. “What's a little lie between friends?”

I taste bile in my throat. “They were my private film clips. You uploaded them to your account. You can't do that.”

How could she ever think it would be okay?

“Don’t go getting on your high horse again, Molly. You love teaching. I don’t, and those videos you sent me are my ticket out of Oakleigh.”

She opens the small box of strawberries and bites one off, leaving the stalk. She didn’t even bother to wash them.

I shake my head as I look at her. Kiki and I differ in lots of ways, but for the most part we get on. We like the same pizza toppings, and enjoy the same rom-coms, but this is the extent of what we have in common.

She starts typing and ignores me.

“Are you just going to sit there and pretend there isn’t a problem?” I snap.

She barely looks up at me.

“I'm stuck here teaching scummy, dirty little six-year-olds.”

“Don't call them that!”

“It's the truth. There's no money in teaching, and these kids give me a headache, but now …” She picks up her phone and taps it a few times. “I've gained thousands of new followers. Brands are contacting me, and management agencies.”

There’s a gleam in her eyes that makes me sick to my core. She sounds excited, almost intoxicated by the attention.