“Sherlock Holmes. That hot new British guy. Apparently he borrowed August’s pen in class and then snapped it in his face when he was handing it back. Got ink all over his shirt. We all know how August feels about his polos.”
August is very fond of his polos. He’d probably done something to annoy Sherlock. Used poor grammar, most likely. Maybe the polo on its own had been enough. “Hot? You don’t think he’s weird?”
“Of course I do, but he’s still hot. Like freakishly hot. Like Twi—”
“Don’t.”
“Twil—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Twilight hot.”
“Nobody even cares about Twilight anymore, Robyn. Welcome to the modern day and age.” I stab my plastic fork into the salad bar. The wilting lettuce deserves it.
“There are people on the internet who care,” she sniffs. “And anyway, don’t worry about the picture. I wouldn’t judge you for that. Guys are dicks. You send them one boob selfie and suddenly—”
“It’s not a boob selfie!” I shout. Heads turn. Mostly boy heads. The word boob is like a dog whistle to them. I lower my voice. “It’s not my boob. Boobs. They aren’t my boobs. It’s Photoshopped. Christ.”
Robyn pats my arm. “It’s okay, Irene. Nothing to be ashamed of. You have great boobs.”
I give up on life forever.
When I sit down, Robyn goes to join her real friends. The people I might have tried to sit with if I cared more. If naked photos of me weren’t floating around in everyone’s inbox.
I’m almost finished with my crappy salad when Sherlock takes a seat beside me. He’s too tall for the cafeteria table. It makes him look ridiculous. Like an adult playing with a kid’s plastic toy. And suddenly, I’m annoyed. For absolutely no reason on God’s green earth.
“You probably don’t want to be seen with me,” I point out.
“I’d say the opposite is more true. I guarantee that by the end of this month, people here will hate me more than they could ever look down on you for that photograph.” He scans the cafeteria disinterestedly.
“You’re optimistic.”
“That’s the third time you’ve called me something no one has ever called me before.”
I eye the space in front of him. No tray. “Where’s your lunch?”
“High school cafeteria food is the closest metaphor to death I can make.”
Suddenly I feel like I’m going to scream. The entire school has seen me naked, or they believe they have, and he’s making wry comments about the cafeteria food like—like it hasn’t made him think less of me. But it has. It must have. I throw my empty milk carton on my tray and stand up. “You don’t need to keep hanging around me, just so you know. I’m not entertainment anymore. Not interesting. I’m done with Ares.”
“You’re breaking up with your alter ego, are you?” He leans against the table, its sharp edge pressing into his ribs. “I should have brought my violin.”
“If Ethan’s girlfriend knows it was me in the picture, then she knows I’m Ares. Don’t think she’ll be keeping that information to herself. Keeping things to herself doesn’t seem to be a habit of hers.”
“Wrong.” Sherlock brushes his hair out of his eyes. He really does need a haircut. He looks like a shaggy dog. A weird alien model shaggy dog. “People at this school like Ares. Ares helps them. You help them. If she revealed that piece of information about you, people would be more inclined to be on your side. This photo is about punishing you, not gaining you support.”
“Why would she want to punish me?” I definitely sound as pitiful as I think I do. “She asked me to do it.”
“Maybe she assumed he wouldn’t go through with it and in her distress, found it easier to blame you. People frequently misplace blame,” says Sherlock. “For instance, you could hardly blame me for half the things people get angry with me about.”
“Yes I could.”
He’s not listening. Suddenly, his eyes sharpen like a knife and he looks almost
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