Page 290 of Filthy Elites

Once I’ve deleted all the comments on my various socials, I go to my text messages. I’m already feeling icky from all the social media hate, and then I see I have a text from Dare, and that makes me kinda sad.

“She took the video down.”

The text gives me a small measure of relief, but considering all the hate I’ve deleted this morning, I know a lot of people already saw it—or maybe heard about it after it was taken down. Either way, the information (and the screenshots) are out there, and there’s nothing that can be done about it.

“Thanks,” I text back even though he sent it yesterday.

He texts right back. “How are you doing?”

“I’m great. Never been better. Someone wrote me a haiku! Want to read it?”

Without giving him time to answer, I paste in the creative insult someone anonymous internet person left on one of my photos last night.

Aubrey

By: Anonymous

A busy morning,

a nasty whorebag who sucks,

Her ass is ugly.

“Wow,” he texts back.

“Right? That’s an impressive amount of effort to put into an insult.”

“That’s what happens when you go to the smart school.”

Reluctantly, I crack a smile—the first one since all this crap happened.

He texts again before I can respond. “Want me to find ‘em and beat ‘em up for you?”

“Maybe. You can dunk their head in a toilet and give them a swirly.”

“Hang them up on the flagpole outside the school,” he adds. “Someone’s gotta punish them for telling lies like that about your ass.”

“But will you write them a clapback haiku for me? I feel that’s the true test.”

“I’m not much of a poet, but I’ll get my team of nerds on it, have them make a whole slew of haikus.”

I laugh. “You and your nerd army.”

“At your command, my queen,” he shoots back.

My smile fades a bit, but my tummy feels fluttery. “I’m not your queen,” I type back, surprised by how sad it makes me feel.

“You wanna be my princess? I can build you a tower to get you away from all these haiku-writing fiends.”

“On your prison island?”

“Naturally.”

“Maybe. Are you coming with me? Can we bring my mom? Are there restaurants? I have a lot of questions.”

Mom’s voice startles me and I nearly drop my phone. “What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing,” I say guiltily, fumbling to text back a quick, “gotta go,” to Dare. Returning my attention to Mom, I flash a smile and hope she doesn’t ask more questions. “You ready for brunch?”

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