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  Jason stared at him blankly, but his mind flashed to Jenna, the night in the car outside Troy’s house. How easy it had been, how natural. It was strange to think she’d been the one he’d been falling for all along. How many hours ago had he discovered Lacey’s profile on her computer? Everything seemed so black-and-white at that moment, but here, in the fuzzy light of exhaustion and revelation, Jason wasn’t so sure. It was strange to think Jenna was the one he’d been falling for the whole time. The one who’d written the messages that made his breath shorten and his heart jump. All the secrets were finally out in the open, but there were some things he still couldn’t get clear.

  “C’mon, kid,” Officer O’Leary said after he didn’t answer. “Let’s get you home. One thing the Internet hasn’t changed is how much one of those hurts.” He gestured to Jason’s bruised and swollen eye. Jason blinked, and as if on cue, waves of pain reverberated through his head, causing him to wince.

  “Thanks,” he managed, as the gruff, graying man helped him to his feet.

  By the time he stepped outside the station, the sun was rising. Rakesh was sitting in the front seat of Mrs. Adams’s car, and Jason could tell from her expression that she was right in the middle of one of her epic tirades, but she paused, mouth agape, when Rakesh spotted Jason and waved him over. He tumbled into the backseat, dazed from the daylight.

  “Oh, Jason, you must be so tired. I’ll take you straight home.” Her voice was thick with concern. If he weren’t so numb from the wild events of the past twenty-four hours, he would have marveled at the rare occasion when Rakesh was in trouble for something while his involvement would go unpunished. He had no idea how Rakesh had convinced the police not to call his mother, but he was deeply grateful. He thought his brain might sputter out if he had to go through the whole story again.

  The next thing he knew, Mrs. Adams was shaking him gently. “Sweetie, we’re at your house.” Her face loomed above him, and he lurched backward, startled before he realized he’d fallen asleep against the window. “Are you sure you don’t want to come over and sleep in the guest bedroom for a little while? Rocky says your mom will be home soon, but I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  “No, it’s fine,” he said. The words felt heavy as they passed through his gravelly throat. “I just want my bed.” He sounded like a cranky toddler, but he didn’t care.

  When he got upstairs, he reflexively planted himself at his desk chair and logged in to Facebook. When his screen lit up with the missed messages from Jenna, he felt his body sag a little.

  “What am I doing?” he mumbled. Officer O’Leary had been right: There was nothing more than confusion waiting for him online. So he shut down his computer, turned off his phone, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Does she know that’s what you’re wearing?” Rakesh couldn’t mask his skepticism. He sat on Jason’s bed in a narrowly cut black suit.

  “She won’t care,” Jason answered without taking his eyes off his reflection. He’d found the tuxedo T-shirt in a thrift shop months ago and bought it even though at the time he was vehemently anti–school dance. But here he was, about to get into a limo that would take him to a darkened gym where a DJ would no doubt be blasting LFMAO and Ke$ha. If there was anything he’d learned, it was that things didn’t usually work out the way you expected.

  “So she doesn’t know?”

  “Does Meg know you’re wearing a tie so skinny I think it might be anorexic?”

  “Adrian Grenier wore this tie to his last movie premiere.”

  “The guy from Entourage? Is that supposed to be a selling point?”

  “Jason, it’s a first impression. Which means you have to impress her.”

  “It’s not a first impression,” Jason protested. “We’ve hung out before.”

  “Yeah, but not on a date. Don’t you think it will be weird enough without your hipster wardrobe choices?”

  Jason didn’t answer. He couldn’t deny it was weird that he and Jenna were going on a date. He had flirted with her before, but that was when he thought she was Lacey. When they first became friends, there was a small spark, but it was buried beneath his devotion to Lacey — and then extinguished completely by Jenna’s betrayal. But the weirdest part about tonight was that Jason wasn’t nervous.

  In the days after Max’s arrest, Jason had wandered around in a fog of grief and sadness. The girl he’d fallen in love with was gone forever — worse than that, the girl he’d fallen for was an invention of a murderer and brought to life by someone he thought was his friend.

  At school, Jason was no longer invisible. Lacey’s story had circulated like the plague, developing twisted strains with each retelling — Rakesh recounted one version he had heard that involved Jason wielding nunchucks to knock a gun from Max’s hands. Of course Rakesh had no problem inflating his own heroics, and he made sure to correct any recount that didn’t properly recognize his athleticism or bravery. Kids in the hall looked at Jason with newfound respect, but he was so lost in his own thoughts he barely noticed, let alone cared. He stayed off Facebook and e-mail, and rarely checked his phone, and messages from classmates he barely knew inviting him to parties or offering a shoulder to cry on all went unanswered. And then just as everything was beginning to settle down, he came home to find a thick envelope, his name etched across the front in round neat letters, the return address one “J. Merrick.”

  He was the first one home that day, and his stomach somersaulted when he found the letter in the hall beneath the mail slot. He smuggled it up to his room unopened and laid it carefully on the bed, looking down at it anxiously, as if it might explode in his face at any minute. The wanting to know, the not wanting to know — he hadn’t felt like this since Lacey. Who was Jenna. Who had sent the letter that was in front of him now. Finally, he ripped the envelope open.

  Dear Jason,

  I can’t tell you how many times I started this note — there are like 12 tabs in my browser open with e-mails and messages to you. If I could figure out how smoke signals work, I’d probably try to contact you that way too. I wanted to write you before I figured out what Max did, and even more after. I have so much to say, and I don’t know how to say any of it, so let me start with this:

  I’M SORRY.

  I’m sorry I pretended to be Lacey, I’m sorry I lied to you, I’m sorry I almost got you killed by Max, I’m sorry I haven’t written you before now, I’m sorry I ruined everything, I’m sorry about everything. Actually, wait, that’s not true. There’s one thing I’m not sorry about. I’m not sorry I met you.

  What I did was wrong — it was crazy and it was stupid, and if I’d known how dangerous it was, I would never have let Max talk me into it. I don’t expect you — or anyone — to understand, but I loved Lacey so much. She was like my sister, and when she died, I lost a part of myself so big I felt like I would never heal. And the thing I couldn’t get over was that her death didn’t make any sense. I had so many questions: What was she doing on the balcony? How could someone just fall off? Why wasn’t anyone acknowledging how messed up everything was? And then I ran into Max at Sam’s one day, and he asked me how I’d been. Everyone had been tiptoeing around this horrible thing that happened, and he was the first person who said Lacey’s name aloud instead of whispering it like even the word Lacey was some shameful secret, and I just lost it. He let me sit in his car and cry and he was the only one who would listen to me when I said I thought something terrible had happened, something no one was talking about.

  Of course, now I know why, and it makes me sick to my stomach to think about how much I trusted him, how much LACEY trusted him, and how evil he was. He was the one who told me about Troy, and as soon as he did, I wanted to go to the police, but he said no one would believe it. He said we had to prove it. It was his idea to hack into Lacey’s Facebook account, and if I hadn’t been so devastated, I would have realized how insane it all was, but everything was already so mixed up that it seemed like a good idea. So we did. When we fo
und your message, he said you’d be perfect, and I believed him.

  This is going to sound crazy, Jason, I know, but when I pretended to be Lacey, it was like she was still alive, like I still had her in my life. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I need you to understand, everything I did was out of love for her. I felt like I had my friend back. And then I started getting to know you — technically, I guess, Lacey did — and that’s when I started to realize it wasn’t going to work out the way I wanted to. Because while I was pretending to be Lacey, I was starting to like you. Like like you. But I couldn’t do that to my best friend — even though “my best friend” was me pretending to be my best friend — and I knew you’d never forgive me once you found out the truth. And I didn’t even know what the truth was anymore. You’d send me these videos and when I’d write back, I’d be sending you MY response, not the one I imagined her having. Suddenly this thing that had seemed so necessary and sensible seemed like the nightmare that it was.

  That day that you found her profile at my house I was scared about what you were going to do, but I was relieved because I didn’t have to lie to you anymore. Lying to you was the worst part.

  I still have so much more to say, but this is too long already. So let me just say one more time I’m so, so sorry. And thank you for saving my life. It’s like I said, I don’t expect you to forgive me — I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself — but I needed you to know this stuff, because I also couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t tell you how special I think you are and how much I care about you.

  Yours,

  Jenna

  PS: I’m sorry I stole your song (poem?). But it was good. Really good. PLEASE keep writing.

  When Jason was finished reading, he sat very still. He was waiting for the anger to flare up inside him, to feel the sting of Jenna’s deception anew. But to his surprise, the only thing he felt was warmth flooding his chest. He realized he was smiling. For the first time, he had some clarity. And Jenna liked him. Like liked him.

  He sat down at his computer and began to type.

  You’re the one who saved my life.

  As soon as he’d sent the IM to Jenna, the familiar anticipation of waiting for a response crept into his body — his chest ping-ponging, his stomach flip-flopping, all of it vaguely pleasant.

  Jason

  It had begun with two little words with Lacey, and this time it only took one.

  In the days and weeks that followed, they slipped into an easy correspondence, writing and IM’ing frequently. They mostly avoided the topic of Lacey, but not always — Jenna told him how Troy and Luke had been different in school, nicer to strangers they passed in the hall, more respectful of kids in their classes. Jason told her how he sometimes had nightmares about Max, but he left out the scariest part, which was that he was unable to rescue her.

  “So when are we going to hang out?” Jenna asked when they were Skyping illicitly one night. Jason had been grounded ever since his mom had come home to find him bloodied and bruised and fresh from a trip to the police station. She was so shocked when he first recounted everything that happened that she punished him indefinitely, but lately she’d eased up, allowing him to use his computer for non-school-related things and not pestering him when he hung out with Rakesh after school.

  “There’s this dance,” Jason answered.

  “Jason Moreland, are you telling me you’re going to spend a night in a gym decorated with cheesy plastic palm trees listening to Top 40?”

  “I am if you are,” he answered, trying to mask how desperately he hoped she’d say yes.

  “Yes! But only if you promise me you’ll actually dance.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he laughed, but even then he knew if it was important to Jenna he’d do it.

  When Jason told Rakesh his mom had granted him permission to go and he’d secured a date, Rakesh whooped with joy and then quickly booked a limo and assembled a group. Before he headed off to his first school dance, Jason checked himself in the mirror one last time. For a brief moment, his mind bounced reflexively to Lacey. Instead of wondering about her approval, though, Jason felt an overwhelming sense of sadness for the dances she would not attend, the nights out she’d never enjoy. But he shook those thoughts from his head, and surveyed the face before him. The bruises had faded entirely, and his hair wasn’t too floppy. For once the light wasn’t bouncing off his glasses. Part of him wanted to snap a photo to post to Facebook, but the only person he wanted to impress wouldn’t be checking her news feed — instead, she’d be hanging out with Jason.

  Ready for more cyber scares? Turn the page for a sneak peek at WICKEDPEDIA by Chris Van Etten.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The tools have taken over.

  That was the observation Cole Redeker made as his bus sputtered through an early November slush to the front entrance of Springfield High School.

  It was the sight of the new BMW in the student parking lot that cinched it. The driver and his passenger bounced out in sync, their Axe Dark Temptation body spray unfurling around them like fallout. Cole was well acquainted with these guys: Greg Truffle and Scott Dare. This particular subset of soccer player was so devoted to the kicking of balls that they were compelled to play year-round, indoors and out, home and away, in cleats or barefoot, dividing their remaining hours between the popping of collars and the buying of braided belts. Cole had frittered away the summers of his junior high years on the fringe of this duo of mom-anointed “nice boys,” manning the midfield and dabbling in the preppier arts, a fact that his friend and personal provocateur Gavin would never let him forget.

  Back then, Cole’s mom had signed him up for the summer league in the dual hope that he’d spend less time in the kitchen experimenting with pie crust recipes and expand his social circle beyond Gavin, who at thirteen had already begun to exhibit certain qualities guidance counselors deemed indicative of the “pre-slacker.” Chief among them: Playing bass in a terrible jam band. Nothing raises the hackles of the PTA crowd higher than a Grateful Dead cover.

  Gavin was honored by her disapproval and upped the ante every chance he got, purposely leaving behind hacky sacks at Cole’s house for her to luck upon.

  “Thanks, Mrs. R!” he said when she offered one up, asking if it was his. “I was wondering where I’d left that. Can’t seem to focus these days. Do I smell brownies?”

  But social engineering was not Mrs. Redeker’s forte. Cole and Gavin’s friendship blossomed, as did her son’s interest in (and knack for) the culinary arts. She willingly submitted whenever he presented her with a new baked confection, and learned to tolerate Gavin, if barely. “Only because I haven’t rubbed off on you,” he complained. “Yet.” Despite Gavin’s best efforts at corruption, Cole still scored straight As, still headlined the debate team, still sat first chair sax, still trained seeing-eye dogs, still turned water into wine . . .

  “If preparing to get into college were a profession, you’d be CEO.”

  “It is a profession,” was Cole’s doleful response. His parents had assembled a war council to shepherd him into an Ivy League institution of their choosing: an SAT tutor, a private admissions counselor, and a doctoral candidate hired to edit his college essays. “By the time I get accepted, they won’t have any money left to pay tuition.” Which had a great deal to do with the reason he rode a bus to school instead of cruising up in his own BMW, or perhaps more realistically, a Kia.

  A tasteful, nondescript Kia that would get the job done and never, ever draw attention to his connections and wealth, which wasn’t a problem, anyway, because he lacked both.

  But not for long, he daydreamed. And with good reason. Cole Redeker did not have his own credit card, but he did have ambition to spare and, more important, the tools to achieve it: brains and patience. Expertly wielded, they would win him acceptance to a top-tier school, and after that, a six-figure salary and all the time in the world to dabble in his chef’s kitchen. To hell with BMW. He’d have a Ferrari, a Lamborg
hini, and an Alfa Romeo — the more vowels the better. But stepping off the bus that cold Monday morning, forced to take an undignified leap over a puddle of sludge in front of which he was sure the driver deliberately parked, he was confronted with the BMW — and its flawless German engineering, moonroof, and leather interior. Suddenly Cole felt that his strategy to bide his time for the benefit of his future was doing his present a grave injustice.

  Whose parents go out and buy their son a brand-new BMW in the middle of the winter (in a recession!) for no good reason except maybe to rub it into the faces of people whose parents can’t?

  Tools’, that’s whose.

  Gavin’s two favorite phrases:

  1. It’ll be fun. I promise!

  2. Told you so.

  Cole was fond of neither. The first was usually what Gavin trotted out to tempt

  Cole into aiding in some mischievous, vaguely criminal act. The second was how Gavin invariably greeted him the day after Cole declined to take part and the deed was done. Often Gavin displayed proof that the so-called fun was had. Examples included: a neck brace, shaved eyebrows, or the dental impression of an alpaca on his butt. Sometimes, however, Gavin’s wordplay surprised Cole. Sometimes he switched it up.

  “Greg and Scott are idiots? Told you so.”

  This was not one of those times.

  They were on their way to Mr. Drick’s honors history, a rare shared class and Gavin’s sole academic interest.

  “Don’t act like this is news,” said Gavin. “You know what those two are like. Remember how you used to be Greg’s ‘friend’? Look at how that turned out. Look at your miserable excuse for a life now —”

  “I’m aware, thanks,” Cole said sharply. He needed no reminder of the humiliation he suffered at Greg’s hands. He wore it like a noose.