Is that hay?” Jayla drops all pretense of composure and crinkles her nose as I enter the office. She’s perched on a chair across from Zeff’s oak desk, and beneath a floral headscarf and sunglasses that cover half her face, she looks like a kid playing dress up.
I cross my arms over my black tank top. “What are you doing here?”
“Have a seat, Miss Vacarro.” Zeff motions toward the adjacent chair. “I understand your parents are out of town. Your sister kindly rearranged her schedule so that we might discuss the situation in person.”
Out of town?
Kindly?
“Situation?” I ask. Play dumb play dumb play dumb.
Ms. Zeff looks from me to Jayla, then back to me.
Normally I like Zeff. She’s been principal only five years, so she’s not all jaded and hateful yet, never invents reasons to bust us. She’s only about ten years older than Jayla, and just as pretty, with shoulder-length wavy brown hair and honey-brown eyes. Decent, I usually say when my parents ask about her. Cool.
But for the first time in my life, I’m standing in her office, looking across the polished expanse of the desk, my throat constricting in a decidedly not cool way.
“Would you like a chocolate chip cookie?” she finally says, holding out a plate of them. “I find difficult conversations go better with treats.”
I wonder if she got that theory from Griff, or if Griff got it from her. Either way, I flop into the chair like a noodle and reach for a cookie, first bit of good news all day.
Soon enough, I realize my grave error. Effing oatmeal raisin.
“I understand you attended quite a party this weekend, Miss Vacarro.” Ms. Zeff slides the cookie plate behind her monitor and pulls out a stack of yellow papers, (e)VIL’s handiwork.
“It’s okay, Lucy.” Jayla removes her sunglasses and eyes me with practiced compassion. “This is a safe space.”
“Really?” I shoot flaming eye-daggers at her. To Zeff, I explain, “It was just a few friends.”
“I see.” She thumbs through her papers and tugs a white one from the bottom. “Do you know what this is?”
I lean forward to read the title. “ ‘Lavender Oaks School District Cyberbullying Policies.’ Cyberbullying?” My pulse ticks from trot to gallop. Yeah, it sucks that someone took my phone and posted smarmy pics, but I don’t need the principal fighting my battles. Miss Demeanor would probably create a special place in fan page hell for that. “I’m not being . . . It’s not a big deal. Not like that.”
“I’ve seen the pictures,” she says. “It’s a big deal.”
I break the cookie in half and shove in a bite, forcing myself to chew.
“I want to show you something.” Zeff’s fingers fly over the keyboard; she turns her monitor so all three of us can see it together.
Facebook.
Ick. Ms. Zeff’s not supposed to exist outside this building. Spying on her profile feels like catching my parents making out on the couch.
“I’m giving you a peek at my personal life,” she says, “because I want you to understand that social networking can be a positive—”
“Jayla Heartthrobs!” Jayla squeals when she sees her own face under the likes list. “And Danger’s Little Darling! Yay!” She narrows her eyes at the screen. “Who’s Miss Demeanor?”
“She does the Scandal-of-the-Month stuff,” I say when Zeff doesn’t respond. “No one knows who she is.” I raise my eyebrows at Zeff. “You’re a fan?”
“It’s important to monitor the school grapevine, yes. But I never comment. There’s a line, Miss Vacarro, and adults need to—”
“Coach!” Jayla’s still beaming over Zeff’s likes, another match made in social media heaven. “You like Coach bags!”
“And Fifty Shades of Grey,” I say. Awesome. Now I’ll have to look straight into the sun to burn those images out of my retinas. I shove in another bite of cookie. The oatmeal turns pasty on my tongue.
“Weird.” Jayla’s nose crinkles again, ragingly adorable. “All your friends are babies.”
“What? Oh, no!” Ms. Zeff laughs. “They just have babies. Like, constantly.”
“But you’re practically my age,” Jayla says. “Way too young for friends with kids.”
“Tell my mother that. Excuse me a moment.” Zeff takes to her keyboard, sounding out words as she responds to a message that just popped up. “Grayson. Is. Adorable,” she type-says. “Love. Those. Tantrum. Videos.” She smiles at us. “See? You post things from your life, and you encourage your friends to do the same, and it’s a nice, tasteful way to share important moments without having to overcommit.”
Another message pops up, wondering if Zeff “watched the bathtub one.”
“Watched. Them. All!” Zeff rolls her eyes playfully as she types. “New parents,” she explains to us. “They’re quite . . . enthusiastic. Anyway, it’s pretty nonthreatening as long as everyone stays respectful. Respect is the key to successful social media interactions.”
Watching her feed scroll by, baby after crying baby, I realize two things: One, the Facebook profiles of new parents are an excellent form of birth control. And two, Zeff isn’t concerned about my being bullied.
She thinks I’m the bully.
“Ms. Zeff, I didn’t post those pictures,” I say. “From the party?”
Her professional smile melts into a frown that says, I want to help you, but first you must help yourself by telling the truth. “Technically, we’re supposed to go through the antibullying manual together.”
“But I’m not a—”
“There’s a manual?” Jayla asks.
“We take it seriously, Miss Heart.” Her eyes drift back to the monitor, suddenly huge with shock. “Unlike my mother, who takes nothing seriously ever! Can you believe this? She just posted something about my father staring at a woman’s ass.” She deletes the offending message and bangs out a clipped reply: MOM, YOU’RE VIOLATING MY PERSONAL SPACE AGAIN.
She turns her attention back to us. “What I meant to say . . . Lucy, the school doesn’t need another scandal, and—”
“Ms. Zeff?” Her assistant buzzes through the speaker phone. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got your mother on line one. She says it’s important.”
“Excuse me, ladies.” Zeff picks up the phone and mutters into the receiver, eyes still trawling her Facebook messages. “Hi. Yes, I’m just . . . I understand, but take it up with Dad. You live in the same house, for the love of . . . Okay, but don’t post it on my page. . . . Of course I love you, I just can’t . . . No, I don’t want to say hi to . . . Hi, Daddy. No, I’m fine . . . School’s great—I’m actually in the middle of . . .” She meets my eyes briefly, then glances back to her monitor. “Miss Demeanor? How do you . . . ? Just click unlike. There should be a button and . . . What’s blinking? No. Listen, Dad, we’ll talk later, okay? I’m in a meeting with . . . Hanging up now. Love you too. Bye. Bye!”
Zeff suddenly looks exhausted, like she was the one whose Facebook was scandalized and whose best friend is probably breaking up with her and whose principal is reading Fifty Shades and pushing stale oatmeal raisin cookies under the guise of easing difficult conversations.
“Here’s the deal, Lucy,” she says firmly. “Since the harassment didn’t happen on school computers or during school hours, and it’s not a hate crime, I can’t legally do anything. But I’ve already received calls from parents, and the Explorer editor wants an official statement for the paper. . . . Things could escalate if we don’t nip it in the bud.”
“But I’m not the—”
“Isn’t it butt?” Jayla says. “Nip it in the butt?”
“Bud, Miss Heart. Cookie?” Zeff offers the plate again, but I decline. Fool me once. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she says. “I’d like you to delete all the prom photos from your profile and issue a formal apology. If you could post a little something about what you’ve learned from—”
“Someone stole my phone and—”
“I really thought it was butt.” Jayla nibbles on her sunglasses, clearly vexed.
“It would go a long way, Miss Vacarro,” Zeff says, “if you showed remorse toward the students who were impacted. Olivia Barnes was especially scandalized—she’s been in and out of the counselor’s office all morning.”
I swallow the oatmeal-coated lump in my throat. “I feel awful about Olivia, but I was scandalized too. I mean, why would I post incriminating photos of myself? No one sees how crazypants that is?”
“Teenagers do a lot of things in the heat of the moment,” Zeff says. “Unfortunately, the combination of camera phones and social networking ensures that a momentary lapse in judgment is never forgotten.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Miss Vacarro.” She holds up her hands, like, Stop, in the name of love! “It’s clear you were at the party, and regardless of who posted the photos, you made some poor choices this weekend. You’d be setting a good example all around if you’d simply accept some responsibility here.”
“Ms. Zeff,” Jayla says, finally back on planet earth, “poor choices aside, surely you can see that Lucy is the one being bullied.”
“I understand there are some shades of gray, ladies.”
Eww.
“No shades,” I say. “I straight up didn’t do it.”
“I want to believe you. Both of you. Lucy, your academic record is perfect; your artwork speaks for itself. And, Jayla, I’m a huge fan. I wish I’d been on staff while you were a student here.”
“Thank you,” Jayla says, and I’m just waiting for the “but.”
“But the fact is,” Zeff says, “the pictures originated on Lucy’s profile. You’re welcome to report the incident to Facebook, but the school doesn’t have the authority to . . . to . . .” Her eyes slide to the monitor, to a new message from Mom.
She types out another angry missive—MOM! BOUNDARIES: NOT JUST FOR NATIONS!—and merges back into our conversation, multitasking like Jayla drives. I’m seriously getting whiplash.
“Legally I have no authority,” she says. “But if I deem that this scandal is disrupting the educational process or that students are being bullied on school grounds as a result of the photos, I could pursue . . . disciplinary action.” Zeff has the decency to look distressed, but not distressed enough to stick up for me.
“The sooner you apologize,” she says apologetically, “the sooner this will go away. Isn’t that what we all want?”
She’s nodding, nodding, nodding, and soon Jayla’s nodding, and then my head’s bobbing too. Zeff’s right—I do want this to go away. I’m not trying to stand up to bullies or make a federal case or be (e)VIL’s poster girl. I’m trying to duck and cover, get my friends back, forget this whole thing ever happened.
I’m resigned to the Facebook fates. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
“That’s my girl.” Her smile returns, and she rummages in her desk drawer for a late pass. “Now that we’ve settled that, where are you off to next?”
“Ms. Zeff? With your permission,” Jayla says, enjoying the faux-thority these school-sanctioned dramatics have enabled, “I’d prefer to take Lucy home early so we can discuss this as a family and determine the appropriate next steps. In addition to posting the formal apology, of course.”
“Oh, of course.” Ms. Zeff’s eyes are kind, foolishly trusting. “And, Lucy? I know it’s hard when you’re not as social as your peers, but there are more positive outlets for your frustration. Your art, for instance, can be a great stress reliever. Or hot yoga. My sister has social anxiety—it’s really helped her.”
“I’m not socially anxious.” Socially annoyed, sure, but I doubt there’s a hot yoga for that.
“Give it some thought.” Zeff’s doing that nod-and-smile thing, like, You’re already agreeing with me about the yoga. “And please remember that my door—sorry. Hang on.”
Keys are banging again, Zeff spitting out words between clenched teeth. “Maggie. I. Already. Saw. The. Video. Twice. Adorable!” She offers me a forced smile. “Chin up, Lucy. My door is always open. Got it?”
“Great.” Zeff’s attention is back on her profile, fingers poised on keys, ready to take down the oversharers. “Would you mind shutting the door on your way out?”