Top 8 (5 page)

“Shy —” I started to say, but she logged out, and I was left talking to my computer.

Schuyler had seemed mad. I could tell from her face. I scrolled down to her comments, reading how hurt she sounded. True, I
had
promised her that I wouldn't tell anyone about her nose job. But I really hadn't told that many people. Just Ruth and Lisa and maybe a few theater people and possibly a couple of others. But it was a
nose job
, it's not like it wasn't going to be obvious to everyone once they saw it.

And it's not like I
meant
to talk about people behind their backs, or that I meant anything malicious by it.
Pas du tout
, as Lisa might say. It was just a…way of relaying information. Getting the word out. A public service, if you will. Kind of like CNN.

Also, it's not like it had never helped anyone. That's how Jimmy and Liz got together, all the way back in fifth grade, as I ran interference and messages and fruit roll-ups back and forth between them and their groups of friends. And when they'd gone through a rocky patch freshman year, it was precisely me telling Jimmy and Liz what the other person was saying and thinking that got them back together again.

And people didn't really think of me as a gossip. That would have to be Marilee Suarez, the biggest gossip in school, who couldn't keep anything to herself, and was, therefore, the person nobody told anything to. I was different. I was just interested in people's lives. Like Margaret Mead.

Still, I felt horrible that my hacker — whoever they were — had made Schuyler's nose job public. But I'd apologize, and she'd understand that I hadn't had anything to do with it.

Since she'd told me to meet “us” at the coffee shop, I assumed she meant Ruth and Lisa too. Glad for the chance to explain to all of them what had happened — and to get their take on the situation — I grabbed the bag of souvenirs I'd bought for them. If they were all as mad as Schuyler had been, it wouldn't hurt to have presents on hand.

Then I emptied my purse of the stuff I'd needed in the Galápagos — sunscreen, bug spray, passport, pocket guide to Spanish phrases — that I probably wouldn't need at Stubbs. I tossed in lip gloss and grabbed my cell from its charger. It wasn't fully charged yet, but it had enough juice for an emergency call.

I was almost to my door when I realized that I hadn't dealt with my profile. I figured that I didn't have time to delete all the hacked stuff and re-enter my original content, but I could at least prevent the hacker
from doing more damage. I brought up my settings and clicked on the CHANGE PASSWORD option. Whoever had hacked me must have been able to guess that my password was
madmacdonaldsmac!
Which I'd thought was pretty obscure, but apparently not enough.

I changed my password to
ih8hackers!!
, my screen name to
Plz ignore the profile, I was hacked!
, and headed downstairs to find my mother in the kitchen, staring fixedly at the stock report on the financial channel.

“Hi Mom,” I said softly. Whenever I could get her like this, I jumped at the chance. She tended to get so focused on the fluctuations of the market that I could ask her almost anything and she'd agree. This was how I ended up with permission to inverse pierce my navel, a new cell phone when I'd gotten bored with my other one before the contract had expired, and a one
A.M
. weekend curfew.

“Mmm,” she said, making notes on a piece of paper in front of her.

“I'm going out for coffee with my friends, but I'll be back in time for dinner.”

“Mmm,” she said again, still concentrating on the TV.

“Okay, bye now,” I said, backing out of the kitchen quietly. I hurried out the back door and practically tripped over Travis, who was sitting on the steps that led down to the garage, head in his PSP.

“Watch it,” I snapped at him as I made my way over to my car, a green Jetta named Judy. Technically, her full name was Judy Jetta-son, but my friends refused to let me refer to my car that way in public, citing the extreme dorkiness of it.

“Anything interesting online?” Travis asked. I looked over at him. He was smirking at me.

“What?” I said. “What are you talking about? I'm going to be late.”

“Just wondering if you had any…new e-mails or anything. That's all.” Then he went back to blowing up zombies or whatever he was doing on his PSP.

Rolling my eyes at my brother, I got into Judy, revved the engine, and headed to Stubbs.

As I drove through town, I tried to think about who could have hacked me — and why they would have wanted to. I didn't come up with anyone.

At school, I was friends with a lot of different groups of people — the theater kids, the people in my classes, Brian and his party friends — but I couldn't think of anyone I'd done anything to. I'd heard about other people at school getting hacked, but I didn't think I'd ever heard of a hacking that was this personal. Mostly, it seemed to be Macy's, desperately trying to give out gift cards, or girls named Brandee who wanted everyone to check out their Hot Pixx.

At a stoplight, I realized that in all the profile drama, I hadn't checked my voice mail. I fished around in my
purse and grabbed my cell. I loved my phone. It was super cute, as right after I'd gotten it, I had it customized and painted pink — the reason, my mother firmly believed, that it acted a little wonky from time to time.

It looked like I would have enough battery power to call my voice mail. As I turned it on, I looked around for cops. They'd passed a law in Connecticut that stated you weren't allowed to do anything on a cell phone while driving. This had caused Schuyler a great deal of stress, as she kept forgetting about this. But whenever she was talking and driving, if she heard a siren, she would suddenly remember the law and, terrified the cops had spotted her, would throw her phone out the window. She had lost at least three phones this way, and her father had started buying silver Razrs in bulk.

My voice mail icon flashed, and, slouching down in my seat, I called it and heard that I had 43 new voice mails. An hour ago, I would have been really excited to hear this, but now I was pretty sure I knew the reason for all the calls. Sure enough, the first message was from a confused-sounding Liz. I sighed, closed my phone, and pulled into Stubbs.

The Stubbs sign — a grizzled-looking sailor holding a mug of coffee, with a whale's tail arching behind him — was illuminated, and I could see through the coffee shop's plate-glass window my three best friends
sitting inside. They were in our usual spot, the one in the corner with a couch, an armchair, and a wooden chair.

Lisa was particularly adept at snagging this spot. She had no shame when it came to getting it. She had been known to spread false information about meter maids, make loud comments about where on the street the couch had been found, and on one occasion I'd just as soon forget, had appropriated a limp.

I stepped into the coffee shop, which was cozy, always just a little bit overheated, and smelled like fresh-roasted beans, and walked over to my friends.

Schuyler, all 5'10” of her, was on the right side of the couch, with her ridiculously long legs folded underneath her. She was playing with her long red hair, a sure sign that she was thinking about something. As usual, she was not wearing clothes that would have made her look like the model her stepmother was always insisting that she could be, but had on jeans and what was probably the loosest shirt Abercrombie sold.

Lisa was sitting next to her, sporting what she liked to call “Montmartre chic” and what Ruth and I called “too much time spent at Anthropologie.” She was wearing black capris and a pink-and-white striped T-shirt with little puffed sleeves and black flats. The flats were a new addition; before her passion for all things French had taken hold, Lisa had usually worn four-inch
heels in an attempt to hide the fact that she was only 5'1”. But as we always pointed out (and which she always pointed out was not helpful), her thick black curly hair added an inch. Or three.

Ruth was perched, with her perfect posture, on the wooden chair. She was adjusting her glasses slightly, the way she always did when she was concentrating. Ruth dressed pretty classically, or, according to Lisa, “yawn-inducingly boringly.” She always looked good, but rarely wore anything that would make her stand out in a crowd. Today, she had on jeans — but not skinny. And not high-waisted. Just jeans — and a fitted white T-shirt, with the gold “R” necklace she never took off. Her dark blond hair was back in a ponytail, and she didn't seem to be wearing any makeup, even though I'd dragged her on a Sephora excursion just before I'd left.

And me? I caught my reflection in the window and tucked my hair behind my ears. I didn't flatter myself — I wasn't the cutest girl in school. That would be Kittson Pearson, my nemesis on the junior prom committee, the homecoming princess, and shoo-in for junior prom queen. Nor was I the hottest. That would be Roberta Briggs, who had gotten her first bra in fourth grade — but I looked pretty good.

I had light brown hair, a few freckles, and hazel eyes. I was more flat-chested than I would have
preferred, but I had come to terms with it after the jumper craze, when I could wear them really well and Roberta Briggs wouldn't go near one. I read fashion magazines, but I usually modified the trends to what I found comfortable. As soon as it was warm enough, I lived in my flip-flops. I had never jumped on the stiletto bandwagon with Lisa. And at 5'8”, I really didn't need the extra inches.

“Hi,” I said, coming up to my friends and noticing that even though they might all be angry with me, they had left my spot — the armchair — open for me.

Schuyler glared at me, arms crossed. Lisa pointedly looked the other way. Ruth smiled, and looked like she was about to say something, when Schuyler interrupted her.

“I just want you to know,” Schuyler said to me stiffly, “that as of this moment, our friendship is off.”

“No, Shy, listen,” I started.

“Off!” Schuyler said, beginning to blotch. “Friendship off!”

“Wait,” I said. “I can explain —”

“Well, well, well,” Lisa said, turning to face me. Then she got the look on her face that she always got when she was trying to think of the French word for something. “
Alors
,” she finally said. “So you think you can
explain
?”

“Guys,” Ruth said placatingly, “let's just listen to Madison, okay?”

“She told everyone about my nose job! I mean, sailing accident. In a
bulletin
!” Schuyler said, sticking a lock of hair in her mouth.

“Hair,” the rest of us said automatically. Schuyler had gotten us all to try to get her to stop chewing on her hair after she saw a
Dateline
piece on this woman who had to have a twenty-pound ball of hair removed from her stomach. Everyone had thought it was a tumor, but it was actually just her hair.

“Thanks,” Schuyler said, taking her hair out of her mouth and sitting on her hands.

“Listen,” I said again, only to be interrupted by Lisa.

“Mad,” she said, “I can't believe you would do this to me. I mean, you propositioned my boyfriend. In his
comments section
.”

“You did?” Schuyler turned to me, looking horrified. “Ew.”

“I did?” I asked, feeling the way Schuyler looked. The reach of what this hacker had done was beginning to hit me, and I was starting to feel a little sick. Lisa's boyfriend, Dave Gold, was a nice guy, and I considered him one of my good friends. But…no. Ick. It was through no fault of his own, but nevertheless, Dave always smelled like pepperoni.

“I mean, I can see why you'd want to,” Lisa continued, straightening her short
Amelie
-style bangs. “He
is
a total studmuffin. But that's no excuse —”

“Guys!” I finally yelled, causing the older couple in the corner, bent over their
Times
crossword, to look over and frown at me. “Just listen,” I said, more quietly, crossing over to my armchair, sitting down, and leaning forward. “It wasn't me. My profile was hacked.”

Ruth shook her head. “That's what I've been trying to tell you two,” she said. “If you would have let me get a word in edgewise.”

I felt the bowling ball in my stomach get a little lighter upon hearing these words. “You believe me?” I asked my BFF, feeling incredibly grateful that she was in my corner.

“Of
course,
” she said. “Well, at first, I thought it might be you, but after a while it became apparent it wasn't. I mean, you were hitting on
Dave
.”

“What!” Lisa said, looking affronted.

“Just…that Madison's such a good friend, she'd never do anything like that,” Ruth said quickly, giving me a small smile.

“Right,” I agreed, giving her a smile back. “I wouldn't. And I
didn't
, Lisa, I swear. I couldn't have! There was barely internet on the ship.” This seemed
easier than explaining about ancient modems and Travis and fantasy baseball.

“Well…
d'accord
,” Lisa said, a little huffily, sitting back against the couch.

“Well, I'm still mad,” Schuyler said a bit unnecessarily. She was pretty red by this point. “You — or
whoever
—” she added in response to Ruth's look, “told everyone about my nose job. I mean, sailing accident. In a bulletin that went out to ALL your Friendverse friends. Back when you still had some, I mean. Like I really wanted Connor Atkins to know about my nose — I mean, sailing accident?”

“Why Connor Atkins?” Lisa asked, eyebrows raised.

“Seriously,” I said, remembering the two recounts he'd put me through.

“No, that was just a — you know —”

“Hypothetical,” Ruth said.

“Rhetorical,” Lisa said at the same time.

“Crazy?” I supplied.

“Anyway, it was just a what-do-you-call-it. Who cares about Connor Atkins. Not me. But I didn't necessarily want him to know. I mean, I WAS in a sailing accident. What were they going to do, leave my nose broken?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. I didn't think Schuyler would appreciate the reminder that once her nose had been broken, her stepmother took the opportunity
to call in her plastic surgeon and have him give Schuyler the nose she'd been trying to talk her into for years. And it was just Schuyler's rotten luck that “I got in a sailing accident” was Putnam High code for “I had work done over the break.” “And I'm really sorry,” I added.

“Well, okay,” Schuyler said a bit hesitantly. “If you say you didn't do it, Mad —”

“I didn't,” I said. “I promise, Shy.”

“Okay,” she said again, her normal cheerful look returning. “So welcome back! How was it? You're so tan!”

“Wait
un moment
,” Lisa said. “If Mad didn't do it, who did?”

“And why?” I added. “That's what I can't understand.”

“So we'll figure it out,” Ruth said, grabbing for her purse. She pulled out her small moleskin notebook and took the tiny silver pen out of her wallet. Ruth's solution to almost anything was to make a list. She made them for classes she was considering, movies she wanted to watch, items of her wardrobe that she thought were too similar, and the number of times one girl in her English class said “um.”

“Let's get coffee first,” I said, incredibly relieved that my friends believed me. “The
ush
all around?” I had a weakness for abbreviations that Dave and Ruth
were always making fun of me for. Sure enough, I saw Ruth roll her eyes a little, probably wondering why I couldn't just say “usual.” But whatever, it was more fun this way.

Everyone nodded, and I grabbed my wallet and headed up to the counter. Kevin, the cutest counter guy — who was sadly dating Vince the barista and therefore off the market — was working. I gave him the orders for what we were all drinking that month: for Lisa, a café au lait with a shot of sugar-free hazelnut (she insisted on calling it “
noisette
”), a mint mocha Stubsaccino for Schuyler, an iced vanilla latte with an extra shot for me, and a soy latte for Ruth. Ruth was the only one whose order had never changed, as long as we'd been going to Stubbs.

When the drinks were ready, I tipped Kevin and headed back to our corner. The seating arrangements really said a lot about the dynamic of our group. Ruth's chair and my armchair were the closest together. We'd been friends the longest, ever since third grade. We'd become friends with Lisa in seventh grade, and Schuyler in ninth when she'd come to Putnam High from boarding school, an experience she still never referred to except under the influence and even then only in whispered sentences, preferring to call it “The Evil Place.” We all had to be very careful not to mention the school's name, and if we ever said the word “choke,”
had to be sure to emphasize the
k
so she wouldn't think we were saying “Choate.”

Maybe since Ruth and I were already best friends — and I know that Lisa had felt a bit left out — she and Schuyler became best friends right away, and thus the group was complete.

“Okay,” I said, setting the drinks down and taking my iced latte. “We need to figure this out.”

“Ready,” Ruth said, pen poised.

“So who could have done it?” Lisa asked, dropping a sugar cube (she'd stopped using sugar grains on the basis that they were too American) into her drink.

I took a restorative sip of my iced latte, closed my eyes, and thought. I tried to remember all the mysteries I'd read recently. One thing that the famous detectives never did was try and figure things out before they had all the information. A line from the last Sherlock Holmes I'd read for Mr. Underwood popped into my head:
“It is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of the facts.”

“Before we figure out suspects,” I said, trying to jump-start my brain, which was currently experiencing iced latte brain freeze, “I need to understand how this happened.”

“You were hacked,” Schuyler told me helpfully.

“Thanks,” I said. “But when did it happen? The first time I could check my Friendverse was this afternoon.”