“’Cause darling I’m a nightmare dressed like a daydream.” –Taylor Swift, Blank Space.

Pros and Cons of Being the Target of a Stupid Prank

Pro: Being totally raised to the top of the rumor mill can do wonders for your reputation.

Con: Sometimes these rumors aren’t necessarily good.

Pro: It’s always entertaining to watch someone try to bring you down from your rightful place.

Con: You begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe, they’re beginning to succeed.

Pro: You get an overwhelmingly large amount of condolence cards from people who do not want to get caught in the crossfire (these also happen to include Danish macaroons and expensive chocolates, too).

Con: This was only truly the beginning.

Of course, I knew it wouldn’t end at the goo.

For this person, they seemed to take whatever the hell I’d done to them to heart, and this wasn’t some quick fad. This was endgame.

This was war.

But still, I was not going to allow myself to be brought down by this idiot with a metal bucket of slime who thought they could ruin me. I did not climb and blackmail my way to the top of the totem pole to be knocked off so easily.

Of course, this is good in theory, until it’s put into practice.

Which it was, Tuesday at lunch.

I knew it seemed almost too easy, going four days without a prank. It was almost like the calm before the storm, and it was beginning to make me just a little bit nervous. It was ridiculous that I’d been reduced to this, but I found myself checking my locker incessantly for notes and watching my back to make sure nothing had happened.

Of course, I should’ve known the moment I let my guard down, he or she would attack.

Except this time, it wasn’t a he or she.

It was multiple figures.

I’d just finished lunch and was making my way out to the benches for a quick nap before sixth period, when they attacked.

One minute all I could see were lush green soccer fields and a pastel-pretty blue sky, and the next my whole body went cold and I was being drenched.

I knew straight away it was water. It was clear, cold, and had no smell. It wasn’t vodka or methylated spirits, which, if you ask me, would totally have been more effective, but the water did its job.

I was immediately soaked from head to toe in the clear liquid, and it clung to my hair, made my mascara run (because I’d been stupid enough not to wear waterproof that day, dammit) and drenched my clothes, including my vintage jeans and hundred-dollar combat boots.

I seem to have this problem where silly, trivial things seem more important than actual problems. For instance, instead of worrying about the fact that I was drenched in water and there were a dozen cackling perpetrators around me, I was more worried about my ruined hair (which had been meticulously curled and crafted for the day) and that this water would no doubt make the buckles on the combat boots rust.

Once the initial freak-out over my appearance had died down, the next thing I felt was a cold rage so fierce it made me burn. A growl tore its way from my throat, and I spun on the figures.

It was all very sickeningly cliché, if you ask me. Like something from a horrible teen movie filled with bad effects and horrible acting. They were all dressed in tight cat suits and balaclavas, their faces hidden. They all held metal, silver pails of water, and they were laughing as if their daily dose of entertainment had been sufficiently served.

I studied each figure, trying to see if I could identify any. But everybody looked the same; in varying sizes and shapes and muscular sets. I could tell there were seven boys and five girls amongst the mix, judging by the change from broad shoulders to lithe, willowy figures.

I pushed my clumped hair away from my eyes and glared down each masked culprit accusingly. “Which one of you is running this little prank?”

No one responded, and the laughter died down. It went from being a caddish prank to something all too serious when I was suddenly faced with twelve deathly-quiet teens in balaclavas.

“What, you can’t own up to it?” I asked, staring at each one of them, trying to see if I could somehow glance through the black fabric to the person beneath. No dice. “Went to all this effort, created a team of Camila-haters, and you can’t show your face? You’re a coward.” I looked at all of them with slit eyes. “You’re all cowards.”

If I’d been hoping to get a rise out of the wrongdoer, I was far out of luck. No one made any sound of anger. All of them just turned and started walking away like some kind of acting troupe, a stream of black-clad figures.

As they left sight, one of them—a short girl—turned around and threw the bucket at me as hard as she could.

I quickly raised my hands and deflected the blow, the pail bouncing off of my forearm and landing on the floor with a sickening crack. A fire of pain shot up my arm, and I winced.

They ran off before I could give chase, and I slowly bent down and retrieved the bucket, turning it over and over in an effort to gain some insight into what exactly had just gone down.

There was nothing there, except for an inscription written on the bottom of the bucket in the same blood-red marker as the newspaper.

Did you know water puts out fires? If only you had…

My stomach twisted with nausea, and the bucket dropped from my hands in surprise. Any doubt I’d had about this person knowing of what I’d done in the past disappeared; all but proven by the person’s note.

“Cammie!”

My head whipped up from where it had been staring at the bucket disbelievingly, and I was faced with Zach standing before me, his fists clenched at his sides and his eyes wide with rage.

“Cammie!” he called again, rushing over. He seemed uncaring of the fact his expensive sneakers were treading in water; only focused on me. “What the hell happened?”

“Stupid teenagers,” I said bitterly, looking down to see my shirt and jeans clinging to my figure and dripping cold water. “Stupid teenagers happened.”

“Who did this to you?” he asked.

I shrugged. “People who belong in a spy movie,” I answered, trying to sound as cavalier as I could. But my strong front was undermined when a cold wind blew and I shivered.

“Come on,” Zach said, taking my hand and leading me towards the lot and his car.

“Where are we going?” I asked, looking around at the school, which was quiet; no sign of a student or the prankers in sight.

“To my house,” he answered, not glancing back at me as he strode with purpose towards the pickup truck. “You can’t stay here like that. You’ll catch a cold.”

“So I’ll go home,” I told him. “I have a car.”

“No, I’m taking you,” he told me.

“Why?”

“Because I want to, okay?” Zach said, running a hand through his hair and stopping by the outdated vehicle. “For once, just let someone do something for you. Please?”

I pressed my lips together and said nothing, and he went to the back of the truck and pulled it open, grabbing out a blue blanket. He shrugged off his jacket and turned to me. “Now, take off your shirt.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Well, I know you’ve done that for me already, but that’s a little forward for a schoolyard, don’t you think?”

He pressed his lips together imperviously. “Come on, Cammie. You’re gonna catch a cold. Take it off.”

I sighed and did as he was told, lifting the wet fabric from my body and squeezing it out, making no move for his jacket. I looked up and noticed him looking away and swallowing thickly, his eyes obviously trying not to look. I smirked and reached for the jacket, making sure to let my fingers trace his hand as I took it off of him.

I quickly shrugged it on and zipped it up, before holding out my hands. “What now?”

“I’d tell you to take off your pants, but I think that’s just a little too personal for right now. Plus, I have a feeling you’re enjoying this a bit too much.” He opened the door and gestured for me to take a seat. “Hop in.”

I did as instructed, landing solidly on the blanket, and shivered again as I pulled the jacket tighter around me. It was oversized and warm, smelling like a mixture of cologne and boy. I liked it.

The drive to Zach’s house was silent, and I spent that time staring out the window and familiarizing myself with the neighborhood. The way the leaves fell from the branches in beautiful hues of red and yellow as autumn ended and the slow descent into winter began.

He pulled up outside of his house and helped me out of the car like a true, chivalrous gentleman. I thanked him and landed on the ground, looking around. Of course, I’d already visited his house, but he didn’t know that.

“Nice place,” I acknowledged, shivering once again in his jacket. Underneath the shadows of the trees, the water felt even colder, and it still dripped off of my hair in rivulets, falling in droplets down my back like an icy finger.

“Thanks,” he said, turning to me with a large smile. It was rare to see things like that in Leighton Fields; a true smile, free of sarcasm or condescension. He gestured towards the stucco house. “This way.”

We made our way up the walk and into the house, which smelled of pumpkin pie and lavender. It was nicely decorated; lots of French revolutionist furniture in mahogany and oak. It had large bay windows and high tapestries, as well as lots of family photos depicting gap-toothed smiles and loving families. My family didn’t have photos up on the wall—but, then again, we didn’t exactly have many happy family memories to share.

“Come on, you can change in my room,” Zach told me, leading me down the open hallway and into his room; one I’d frequented earlier two weeks ago when I’d been trying to dig up information about him.

            “It’s a nice room,” I told him, slowly walking around and openly appraising it; the way I hadn’t been able to upon my first visit. He had an impressive collection of trophies from football and baseball events, and, since I’d last been here, he’d rearranged certain parts of his room. He’d moved the chest of drawers, arranged some random paraphernalia along the top, and made the room more homely and lived-in.

He walked over to the walk-in wardrobe, and the sound of metal scraping against metal filled the room as he searched for a suitable change of attire for me.

“Here you go,” he said a second later, and emerged with a gray hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. It was hardly a set of clothes I’d ever be seen in, but since I was currently sitting in chafing denim, I was hardly in a position to be making clothing demands. “You can use the shower in my bathroom.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“I’m gonna go fix us some lunch, okay?” he said. “What do you like?”

I smiled at his kindness; something that was few-and-far between in this town of smoke and mirrors. “Surprise me.”

I entered his bathroom and shut the door.

What proceeded was a very uncomfortable fifteen minutes filled with sticky clothes, matted hair and a very stubborn pair of jeans that refused to do their rightful job and come the hell off.

But, still, when I emerged from the steaming shower smelling of boy soap and shampoo, I felt a lot better than I had upon entering it.

I could still hear Zach in the kitchen stirring something in a pot, but chose to give him a moment alone in favor of sitting down and taking a moment to recollect myself.

I sat on his bed, and my eyes found themselves drifting to the top of his bedside table, where something had significantly changed. I stared at the photo of the pretty girl with blue eyes and curly strawberry-blonde hair that I’d seen in his bedside table two weeks earlier. My fingers lightly traced the glass of the photo frame, and I thought back to the sweet message on the back of the frame. She looked so light and carefree, her eyes and nose crinkled as Zach kissed her on the cheek, and a pure smile filling her cute features.

For the first time, I felt a pang of remorse for the poor girl in the picture, who had unknowingly been cheated on—and I was the mistress. Flirting was all meaningless and fun and games; until you actually acted on that and made something of it—the way Zach and I had Friday night. And then it got serious.

“Hey, Cammie,” Zach said, drifting closer to the bedroom. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I just made mac and cheese. Safe bet, right?” I heard him stop in the doorway, but didn’t turn to him. “Oh.”

“So,” I said, retracting my hand from the glass. “This is Katie.”

“Uh, yeah,” he said, approaching me cautiously. He held two steaming ceramic bowls of mac and cheese, but I didn’t make a move for it. “That’s Katie.”

“She’s pretty.”

“She is.”

“You guys look like you’re really in love.”

“Look, Cammie…”

“What?” I said, forcing my eyes to stop staring at the picture and turn on him. “She’s your girlfriend, Zach. She’s not a ghost.”

            He ran a hand through his hair. “I know, but…”

“But what? She looks nice.”

“Not always…”

“But sometimes?” There was always that niggling little worm of doubt.

“Yeah,” he said honestly, turning his gaze to the photo. “Sometimes she could be the nicest girl in the world.”

“Tell me, Zach, is she in love with you?”

“It doesn’t matter, Cammie,” he said quickly; almost desperately. “I told you, we’re breaking up.”

“It still matters.” He opened his mouth to protest, but I continued before he got the chance. “She’s a girl that you’re dating. A girl you’ve been dating for years. So, yeah, I think it matters.”

“I don’t love her, Cammie,” he told me, and he seemed almost genuine. “I told you, I’m gonna break it off with her the first chance I get.”

“Yeah,” I said, standing up and hugging the hoodie closer to me. “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately. So far, no dice.”

“Cam…”

I walked towards the door, unsure of my feelings. It couldn’t be jealousy; maybe just the shared anger of a woman scorned.

I turned towards him; to where he sat helplessly on the bed coverlet like he had no idea what to do. “You know, Zach, I’m not really a one night stand kind of girl.”

He looked down at his hands. “I know.”

“Do you?” I asked. “I’m not saying I’m in this for a relationship. I hardly know you, and, to be honest, I’m not looking for that right now. But I know enough to know you’re a good person. And Katie seems like a good person, too. So figure it out. Because Katie deserves better than what you’re offering.”

I started to walk away, but he appeared behind me, his voice defensive and angry. “You’re the one that invited me in to your house.”

“Yeah, with a promise that you were breaking up with her. But here she is in a frame on your bedside table. I may have offered, Zach, but you were the one who said yes.”

I turned around and started for the door. He stood behind me, saying nothing. I stopped at the door, feeling a flash of guilt for his help today. “Oh, and thanks for the clothes.”

I stepped out into the sunlight and felt a small pain growing in my chest. I swallowed thickly and pushed it down, refusing to let it resurface and infiltrate my mind.

He’s just a boy, I told myself, nodding with purpose and striding down the walk. Just a boy…

~          *          ~

Of course, if you spend a day in my life, you’ll realize there are much more important things to focus on than some petty boy drama. Pretty soon you’ve got so much else to be stressing about, that it pales in comparison to everything else.

Like, for instance, finding who’s been pulling these petty pranks on you.

That’s not such an easy task when you’ve managed to piss off pretty much the whole population of Leighton Fields, though. Most people—not just high school students—had the means to access the school and do things like this. It could be anyone from the mayor to a scorned girl at my school to the baker down the street (which, yes, I had helped to keep his OxyContin addiction a secret).

But whoever this person was, they were either weak-willed, or I’d done something bad. Too bad there were way too many options for that.

However, one little clue I had in the whole note-solving mystery was the fact that this person had some knowledge on the events of the fire four years ago; and they had enough means not to take it to the police and expose me for the worthless murderer I really was. But since they still hadn’t stated what they wanted in return, I was left flailing like a clueless fish, eager for answers or amnesty.

I’d spent hours the night before pondering over my secrets board, wondering which face staring back at me had been the one to finally tick over and go crazy with rage. A teacher, possibly. Probably not an authority figure, or someone wealthier; they’d have used more finesse. This was a purely rage-driven hate crime, meaning this person had been so overcome with a darkened rage they hadn’t stopped to think about a more elegant revenge. Easier for me.

Despite the fact I knew that I had possible perpetrators for days, I knew better than to suspect some.

For instance, people like the principal was off the list. He had far too much to lose, and,  if I ever found out it was him (which I would, if it was), then he’d go so far down he’d never have a hope of salvaging his life. He wouldn’t dare.

I’d done deals, manipulated, and blackmailed most of the kids at my school. If you needed test answers, dates, rumors, drugs, money, or anything closely related, then I was your go-to girl, and all the students in Leighton Fields knew that. Looking around the schoolyard and assessing everyone conversing, laughing, luxuriating in the sunlight or just plain studying, I knew I’d helped the majority of these people get something they wanted—and I’d made a hell of a lot of enemies in the process.

Ticking each culprit off was easy, though. It wouldn’t be any nerds; they were all weedy scholarship kids with greasy hair and a mouthful of braces who knew better than to mess with the hierarchy at the school. And the jocks were off too; they hardly had a proper head on their shoulders to concoct such plans. It was possible for the cheerleaders, prepsters, and I was even keeping my eye on the sporty girls in athletic shorts and tennis shoes. Everything turned into a game of observation; minus the fun and with a lot more at stake.

Lost in my own thoughts at lunchtime, and desperate for just a moment of piece, I descended the grassy hills that led to the football field. The sky was a beautiful pastel blue, lined with puffy clouds and a small plane dotting the horizon.

I started down towards the bleachers, needing a moment to collect my thoughts and tick off a few suspects from my list who had successfully been interrogated and had passed my lying test.

I should’ve known that a moment of peace was far too much to ask for.

No sooner had I crossed the lush green threshold of the field that I heard two voices talking—one belonging to Jeremy, and the other a random loner from a few years behind us.

Looking underneath the bleachers, I spotted them, just as Jeremy handed over a plastic packet of powder over to the weedy blond kid.

I stumbled over, unable to resist the chance to comment accusingly.

“Breeding stoners young, are you, Jeremy?” I asked, swinging around the metal and facing the pair. “Word to the wise: You should be more covert in your dealings.”

The kid grabbed his packet, dumped the hefty sum of money into Jeremy’s hand and rushed off before he could get caught, and I clucked my tongue in disdain at the retreating figure. “Shame. He probably could have done something great in his life. It’s now ruined by drugs.”

Jeremy ignored me and started off, and I leaned against a metal pillar and watched him. “No witty remark today, Jer? I thought surely you couldn’t resist the chance to defend your honor.”

“Maybe I’m just sick and tired of the mind games, Camila,” he said, turning back around to me with narrowed dark eyes. “Ever thought of that?”

“I’m not playing games, Jeremy,” I told him, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m through with playing games.”

“Does this have a little something to do with those pranks?” he asked, cocking an amused eyebrow. “Because, you know, I heard something about that. Games aren’t so fun when you’re the one losing, are they?”

“I’m not losing anything,” I snapped, a little too quickly. “And I don’t think it’s any of your business, anyway.”

“You’re the one chasing me down, Cam. Not the other way around,” Jeremy reminded me.

I smiled. “Just making sure you’re not dragging my friend into something stupid and dangerous.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes with a noncommittal snort. “You sound like a jealous girlfriend, you know that?”

My fists clenched at my side, but I refused to show him my anger and frustration. “What? I can’t be worried that my best friend’s gonna get herself involved in some stupid shit that she’s been dragged into by her equally stupid friend? I’d hate for her to wake up in an ice bath in Vegas missing a kidney.”

“I’d never put Perrie in danger. You should know that,” Jeremy said.

“Why?” I asked, forcing a laugh. “Because you’re such a good guy?”

“No,” he said, his voice holding a more serious tone than I’d ever heard before. “Because I care about her. I’d keep her safe at all costs.”

My lips twisted as if I’d sucked on a lemon wedge. “Oh, how chivalrous of you.”

“I’m not trying to impress you, Camila,” he told me. “Nothing I could ever say would. I just thought you should know that I’m keeping her safe.”

“What does she want from you?” I mused. “What are you giving her that she can’t get anywhere else?”

“Some secrets are better left unanswered,” Jeremy told me, once again starting off as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his inky jeans. He turned around and winked. “But, then, again, you’d know that, wouldn’t you, Camila?”

Before I could reply, he pivoted on his heel and started off, leaving me in a dumbfounded silence that seemed to stretch on for a millennium.

I wasn’t sure the extent of Jeremy’s knowledge, but something about his tone of voice told me this was not good.

Jeremy knew something.

And I was going to find out what.