Page 51

WHEN MY ALARM goes off at 7:00 a.m., I’ve barely slept. My nervous system is too wired, too alert to the possibility of danger to let me rest. My address has likely been shared to the Twittersphere… though I haven’t confirmed it. I should go online and report the abuse, but I can’t bear to see the threats of violence and rape and torture. It will only take one outraged individual with shaky mental health to come to my building, wait outside my doors, and make me pay for what I’ve done. Anyone within driving distance. Anyone who can afford a plane ticket. Just like Chloe Winston, I’ve been doxed. I’m no longer safe.

I can’t go into work today. I’m too distracted, too jumpy, and I don’t want to put the students and staff in jeopardy if someone is coming for me. In my head, I try to calculate my sick days, but I’ve lost track. It’s too many; I’m almost sure of it. But no one will expect me to show up. My humiliation has gone viral. I can’t bear the mockery of the students, the pity or disdain of my colleagues.

As I’m dragging myself out of bed, my phone buzzes. It’s Nancy Costella, the school principal, calling me from her personal number. She has been my boss for almost seven years. She is a supportive, understanding, and compassionate person, but she can be tough when she needs to be. I remember how excited she was when Burnt Orchid came out, how she’d announced it to the whole school. But now that book may have destroyed my career as a counselor. I’m about to find out.

“Hi, Camryn.” She’s seen me on the news or online. It’s obvious in her tone. “We need to talk.”

“I can’t come in today, Nancy. I’m sorry.”

“I think that’s for the best. Why don’t we meet for coffee? Somewhere near you.”

“Or you could come here?” I suggest. I can’t admit that I’m afraid to leave the apartment, but she will understand my shame.

“Sure. I’ll pick up a couple of lattes. See you soon.”

While I wait, I scroll through the barrage of messages and missed calls on my phone. Virtually everyone I know has seen the mortifying video of my meltdown. Most of my friends are concerned, asking if there’s anything they can do, offering a meal like I’m sick or grieving. Adrian asks me to call him, and I worry about Liza. Did she go to school today? Or is she too ashamed? I shoot him a text asking after our daughter and tell him I’ll call him later. My ex is righteously upset, but I can’t deal with it right before my meeting with Nancy.

Even Rhea McMillan has sent me an email.

Hi Camryn,

I saw the video and felt I had to reach out. The pressure of putting your heart’s work out into the world and having it attacked is a vulnerability not many can understand, but I do. If you need to talk, I’m here. Remember that you are talented enough to get a publishing deal, which is an enormous feat in and of itself.

Warmly,

Rhea

It sounds sincere, but is it? I’d been so suspicious of her, wondering if she could be the ringleader of the online vitriol, but I decide to take her message at face value. I respond with a quick note of gratitude.

Theo’s numerous calls and texts must be addressed. He is losing patience with me, and I can’t blame him. Last night, after the doxing threat, I’d felt terrified and alone. I’d picked up the phone to call my boyfriend, but something gave me pause. Was it Felix’s suggestion that Theo was jealous of my book? Even if he was, Theo wouldn’t hurt me, he wouldn’t scare me. And yet I didn’t want his comfort or his presence. I didn’t reach out to him in my time of need.

As if he can hear my thoughts, Theo texts again.

CALL ME FFS

His obvious anger sends a chill through me. It’s not what I need right now, not moments before my boss shows up to scold me, if not fire me. But his frustration is understandable because he cares about me. And I’ve been keeping him at arm’s length. I ask if he can come over later, after Nancy leaves, and he agrees.

Conspicuously absent are any missives from my publishing team or my agent. They saw the video, but do they know it’s now reached the mainstream masses? Are they aware of my Twitter meltdown? My publisher was tagged in numerous outraged tweets. They know. Their silence is ominous. I wonder if there’s some sort of damage control I can do before they reach out to me. But there’s no time to think about that now. The principal is at my front door. I can only try to save one job at a time.

Nancy is in her late fifties, a compact woman with a pleasant face and a commanding presence. She bustles inside with two coffees in a cardboard tray. I’ve managed to wash my face, apply a little makeup, throw on a pair of jeans and a clean top, but I know how I look: drawn, tired, terrified. As we sit on the sofa, I take in the principal’s expression. She is concerned for me, but she has a job to do.

“I’m sorry you’re going through this, Camryn. I really am.” I nod, too emotional to respond. “But I’ve had several emails from concerned parents who saw that video. They don’t feel like you’re emotionally stable enough to be counseling their kids. Not right now.”

“Understood,” I mumble.

“The school year is almost done, but I think you should finish now.”

“But what about the kids who need help submitting their final grades for college? Or the ones who still need to take summer courses to graduate?”

“Ramona will help, and I’ll pick up some of the slack.”

“Are you firing me?” I’m in a union; I know it’s not that simple. But I need to know what Nancy’s intentions are. If she wants me gone, she can make it happen. She can transfer me to another school, even another district. Or she can make a convincing case for my dismissal.

“No…” But the word is open-ended, far from definitive. “I just think you should take some time off right now. You’ve been through the emotional wringer. Use your vacation time. Or apply for stress leave. But you need to stay away from Maple Heights.”

It’s a command, not up for debate. “Okay.”

Nancy sips her coffee, eyes appraising me over the cup. “Kash said you asked him to interrogate a teenage boy from another school.”

“I didn’t say interrogate.” I set my paper cup on the low table. “Kash said if I had a viable suspect, he’d question them for me. I’ve seen this kid, Hugo Duncan, lurking outside my apartment, Nancy. I caught him running down the side of my ex’s house. He’s the one who took that awful video of me. And”—I face her, shoulders squared—“he’s dating Fiona Carmichael.”

Nancy inhales calmly, drinks more coffee. “Monica says you’re fixated on Fiona.”

“I’m not fixated,” I clap back, annoyed that Monica has painted me this way. “Fiona is very charming and popular, but she’s manipulative, and she’s cruel.”

“So you think Fiona has orchestrated a plot to bring down your writing career?”

“No. But she’s definitely behind all the false accusations that came through the school portal. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s stickhandled some of the other abuse, too.”

“She might have sent the accusations through the portal. But why would she go beyond that? Fiona’s about to embark on the next chapter of her life. She’s smart and beautiful and the world’s her oyster. Do you really think she’d jeopardize all that to hurt her high school guidance counselor?”

I realize how insane it sounds, but still… I do. It’s clear that Nancy does not. And I’m not helping my case by insisting. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” I try. “Fiona will be off to Queen’s University in the fall. If she’s behind this, it will end when she gets wrapped up in classes and new friends and parties.”

“Apparently Fiona has deferred her acceptance.” Nancy sips her latte. “She’s decided to take a gap year.”

My chest constricts. “What? Why don’t I know about this?”

“Fiona felt more comfortable discussing it with Ramona.”

“Is Fiona staying in town? What are her plans?”

“I don’t know.” Nancy sits forward, preparing to leave. “But I highly doubt she’d divert her entire future just to pester you, Camryn.”

Pester me? It’s so diminishing as to be condescending. But I say nothing. I just walk Nancy to the door, thank her for the coffee, and promise to abide by her decree. Then I deadbolt the door and head back to the sofa.