Page 16 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
She studies me a moment longer, then sniffs. I wait for her to tell me off. “Well, I know I’m not supposed to admit this because I’m an adult, but I wanted to yell at that young boy too. Come on,” she adds, lifting the container from my arms and turning toward our house. It’s recognizable even in the darkness, with its jade-green roof and the fairy lights strung up over the front porch. “You should shower and sleep early. You still have school tomorrow.”
School tomorrow.
The reminder hits me like a mallet to the stomach. I don’t know how I’m going to survive it.
Nothing good has ever happened in the Main Hall before.
It’s where we take our final exams and where we were forced to sit through unbearable lectures onour changing bodiesand where Ray once dropped a banana behind the podium and the rats managed to find it before the teachers could.
So I’m instantly apprehensive when we’re directed to the hall right after lunch.
“What’s going on?” I ask Abigail as we find seats at the very back. The entire room is basically designed to be depressing, with its drab, windowless walls and uncomfortable plastic chairs. A whole year after the incident, the stench of the rotten banana still lurks around like the villain from a major movie franchise—impossible to track down and never fully killed.
“I was hoping you’d know,” Abigail says between loud bites of her kaya toast. The sticky note on her lunch box today readsKEEP SHINING!“Don’t school captains get advance notice of this stuff?”
“Not this,” I say, scanning the room for clues. There’s a laptop set up near the projector, and a thermos sitting on the hardwood floor, which means we’re getting a presentation of some sort. Then, without meaning to, my gaze slides to Julius in the second row—just as he lifts his head and glowers at me.
A shock goes through my body at the venomous look on his face. I’d hoped his anger would dissipate after yesterday, but it seems to have only fermented.
It’s not just him. Word about my emails must have spread to everyone in our class by now. When I sit down, the girl next to me scowls and scoots her chair away as if I’m the source of the banana smell.
My stomach burns.
The sound of clacking heels distracts me briefly from my misery. A serious-looking woman around my mom’s age strides up to the front, her blonde hair pulled into a bun so tight I pity her scalp, a school visitor badge pinned to her tweed jacket.SAMANTHA HOWARD, it says, underneath a blurry photo of her. She doesn’t say anything, just surveys us like we’ve collectively committed a crime against her family pet, and presses a button. The projector flickers on, casting a slideshow onto the giant white screen behind her.
I take one glance at the title—“The Digital Student: Online Etiquette and Cybersafety”—before my stomach plummets, my misery returning with full intensity.
“Your school called me in light of . . . recent events,” she begins, confirming my very worst suspicions. “They’ve asked that I give you a refresher on how we should conduct ourselves through digital communication channels.”
Thirty pairs of eyes instantly flicker to me.
I’ve done it, I think to myself.I’ve discovered hell on earth, and it’s right here.
“Now, you might be under the impression that since you’re the younger generation and you grew up with your little tablets and laptops and iPads and gadgets, you don’t need any advice, right? You know exactly what you’re doing, right?Wrong,” she says, so loudly a few people jump. “Before we dive in, let’s have a quick show of hands: How many of you in this room have a social media account of some kind?”
There’s a brief moment’s hesitation. Then every single hand in the room goes into the air.
“That’s very disappointing,” Samantha Howard says on a heavy sigh. “Not surprising, but disappointing. And tell me: How many of you post frequently on these accounts? Videos and photos and the like?”
A few hands are lowered, but most of them stay up.
“This is your first mistake,” Samantha tells us. “Everything you post will leave a permanent mark on the internet. Every comment, every interaction, everyselfie.” She spits out the word like it’s the name of someone who once poisoned her morning tea. “After today’s session, I hope you all go back and private your posts. Better yet, delete all your accounts completely. Keep your content to yourself—” She pauses midsentence and blinks at Abigail. “Yes? Do you have a question?”
Abigail stands up, her expression almost as grave as Samantha’s, her platinum hair swinging over her shoulder. “Yes, just one.” She clears her throat. “What do we do if we’re really feeling ourselves?”
Snorts of laughter travel around the room.
Samantha frowns. “This is not a joke. This is a matter of security—”
“I don’t think you’re understanding,” Abigail says innocently. “I’m talking about, like,reallyfeeling ourselves. Have you never drawn the perfect cat wing and felt the utmost need to share it online, for it to be saved in perpetuity, to become your lasting legacy? Don’t you think it’s a crimenotto show the world the new black dress I bought and how good it makes my figure look?” She finishes her little speech by falling back in her seat and grinning at me.
And though I really should disapprove, I have to bite my lip to stop from laughing as well. Partly because I know why she’s doing this. Abigail has never minded being disruptive in class, but she’s always more disruptive when she senses that I’m in a bad mood. It’s her way of simultaneously raising my blood pressure and my spirits.
“I assure you, young lady, that’s not the kind of legacy you want to leave,” Samantha says, her nostrils flaring. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. I know your prefrontal cortexes haven’t fully developed yet, but you have to start thinkingbeyondyour impulses in the moment. Your digital footprint could affect your school records, your future colleges, your futurejobs.Let’s all take a look at examples of what you should be avoiding, shall we?”
She moves on to the next slide, which is a mock-up of an email.
Dear Brady,
