Sometimes Never, Sometimes Always (28 page)

“It’s the bonfire.”

But it’s not the carnival that the principal, Ms. Clark, is talking about. It’s bullying. Groans echo from the bleachers of the gymnasium where we’re all gathered. She starts by talking about how different the world is from the world she lived in as a teenager, and I feel every person in the room—
teachers included—let out a sigh and settle back into their seats. Nobody is really listening until she finishes this preamble and breaks the real news to us.

“This past week, one of our very own, a member of the Gordon High community, was cyberbullied.”

Loud fake gasps all across the room.

Ms. Clark gives us all a stern look and waits for it to get quiet again. “Cyberbullied,” she continues, drawing out the word, “to the point of attempting to end their life
.
”

There’s a reaction, but this time it’s smaller, more concerned.

“The Gordon High student and the student’s family are in need of our positive thoughts and support right now, and I’d like the cooperation of each and every one of you. Although we can’t release the student’s name, our crisis intervention team decided to call this assembly because students at this school played a role in this traumatic event, which has left one of our very own in critical condition, hovering on the brink of tragedy. Some of you contributed significantly to this student’s pain by making … ”

Ms. Clark pauses, her voice breaking, and I can’t breathe, waiting for her to finish. Is she talking about my blog? Is she talking about Drew? Oh
god.

“Students at our school posted horrifying comments about this student on a website which has recently come to my attention. I want you to know that the administration at Gordon High will be enforcing a
zero tolerance policy
on harassment and bullying of all forms. This is a serious matter. A student’s
life
hangs in the balance because of this website and the hateful comments, and as an administrator—as a
parent
—
I hold every one of you who participated in this bullying responsible, whether you actively commented on the website or linked to it from somewhere else or even gossiped about it offline.” She takes a shuddery breath and the room explodes in murmurs, questions, denials.

It has to be Drew, but I don’t get it. Her life hangs in the balance?
Suicide?
I think back to the last time I saw her, those muddy eyes of hers, apologizing to
me—
as though it wasn’t all my fault in the first place. I should have followed her into the bathroom, talked to her, let her know I was on her side. Was I on her side?
God,
I’m such an idiot. I should have moderated the comments before they got out of hand like that. But how was I to know it was going to get so nasty, or for that matter, that Drew would do something so extreme? I didn’t know she’d try to kill herself. Was she depressed? Looking for attention? Okay, so that’s an awful thought, isn’t it. I’m an awful person.

And then, awful person that I am, my brain starts trying to speculate the method she might have used. How morbid is that? So morbid. But really. Wrists, maybe? Or pills, probably. Her mom does all that international travel, so she’s probably got sleeping pills lying around. Or antidepressants. Seems like everyone’s got some of those lying around. Not a gun, though. I shudder. Seriously, Cassandra, what is your freaking problem? This is Drew Godfrey you’re talking about. A human being. A
friend
. At least, she could have been a friend.

“For the next few hours, certainly, and likely longer, all school computer accounts will be inactive,” Ms. Clark goes on, “because we have reason to believe that at least some of the hateful activity on the website in question was occurring on our own servers. We will be retrieving IP addresses of individual commenters, and several members of the community have already come forward with some screenshots of comments that have been deleted. Our tech team will be working to help us isolate all accounts in question.”

This statement is followed by an even louder reaction. A lot of kids have gone to Divinia Starr’s blog while logged into the school network. Probably almost all of them.

Panic is a cold stone in my belly. Will they be able to uncover the admin of the blog, even though I started it from home? IP tracking, screenshots … I’m sure they’ll also talk to Annika and accounts receivable and try to track down the ad I placed in the newspaper. The stone starts to rotate, slowly at first like a lumbering planet, but it’s clear I can’t stay here in these bleachers, listening to Ms. Clark lecture about bullying. I scramble to my feet, feeling the stabbing presence of a hundred sets of eyes at least, watching me as I flee to the bathroom.

So much for everyone forgetting about my involvement. Do they suspect that I’m the one behind the whole blog, too? It doesn’t matter, since I’m in fact the heartless user who caused all the drama in the first place.

I’m staring into the bathroom mirror, trying to believe that I feel worse about Drew than about myself—about the potential of getting caught, or about people hating me. The truth is, my brain is racing back and forth between the thought of Drew dying, and the thought of Drew dying and it being my fault. Not
all
my fault, I tell myself, but, you know. Significantly my fault.

My hands shake. I run the cold water and stick my wrists under the tap. Then I bring my cool wrists up to my cheeks. My face is hot. Maybe I’m feverish? I gaze into my own eyes, looking for a reason to go home and hide under my covers, but I don’t look sick, just guilty and terrified. I jump when the bathroom door swings open.

“Don’t say one word to anyone,” says Kayla. She holds up a hand to wave away my protests. “No, I know what I’m talking about, Cass. You keep your head down and don’t say a word, and everything is going to be fine. These tech guys are talking tough, but they’re using scare tactics. The truth is, there’s no law against setting up a blog, and there’s no law against accessing that blog from the school servers. If a site is blocked and you hack through the filters, that’s one thing, but you haven’t done anything wrong.” She frowns. “Or at least, you haven’t done anything against the technology use policy.”

“Can you believe it, though? What if Drew dies? I … I should have gone after her.” I shake my head. “Everyone’s going to hate me.” Oh god. What a pathetic, self-centered thing to say. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see sparkles. “I just … I didn’t know she would do something like … ”

“Look, Cass. You’re not responsible for all of this.” Kayla indicates the bathroom, and I look around as if the blog comments are scrawled on the whitewashed walls. Knowing the way these things work, they probably are—scratched into the paint on the metal doors with safety pins, hateful conversations blossoming in black sharpie beside the toilet paper dispensers.

“I should have been nicer.” The spinning stone in my stomach has dissolved into a swirling soup. Even if it’s not my fault, I’m going to be the scapegoat. In like five minutes, the halls are going to be filled with people, and they’re all going to be playing the part of the innocent bystander. They’re all going to be looking for someone to blame.

“You wrote the blog post, and yeah, her email was about you, but you
didn’t
write the mean comments,” Kayla says. “You didn’t plaster that girl’s poetry all over the Internet.” She takes me by the shoulders but I drop my eyes. I can’t look at her. I don’t even know who she is to me, anymore. “So maybe you were a shitty friend to Drew. It happens, you know?” Kayla hunches over, all awkward, and sticks her face in front of mine. “People make mistakes. People even act like really big jerks, and they say and do stupid things, but it doesn’t mean they have to be really big stupid jerks forever, okay?”

I look up. Is she talking about me, or herself? Her eyes are all shiny, and she’s blinking rapidly to keep from having a bad case of raccoon eyes.

“I should have at least invited her to come down to the Cities with us instead of making her lie for me and then sit home all alone,” I say. It’s not that I don’t appreciate Kayla trying to make things better between us, but I can’t think about that right now. “I should have—”

“
Cassandra
. You didn’t make Drew try to kill herself. This goes beyond you.”

I nod. “Yeah, but I didn’t make her want to try to live, either.” I press my cool wrists one more time against my cheeks and brace myself to leave the sanctuary of this bathroom.

Kayla puts her hand on my arm. “Wait,” she says. “I know this isn’t the time to talk about this, and I know it’s not about me, but sometimes people can change.” She nods to the door. “Whatever happens out there, I’m on your side. Where I should have been all along. Give me a second chance?”

I can’t deal with that right now, honestly. I can’t think about my friendship with Kayla or our future, not now. “I hope Drew gets a second chance,” I say.

44. You would fight for …

I pause for a moment inside the bathroom door, listening to the thunder of feet exiting the gymnasium. You’d think maybe the sobering news of Drew’s suicide attempt would subdue the several hundred Gordon High students as they ponder their own culpability or mortality or whatever, but no. They’re almost unbearably loud, and when I gird my loins and merge into the flow of students in the hall, it’s all I can do not to cover my ears with my hands.

And all of them are wailing about how it’s not their fault.

“So, was that your idea of a sick joke, Cassie?” It’s Annika. She grabs hold of my sweater sleeve and tosses her hair, making sure there’s an audience to witness this public accusation. I admit it. I’m impressed by the audacity.

“Yeah, now the whole school is going to get in trouble,” says Britney, but she sounds a little more subdued than usual, a bit of the shine worn off. It’s tough to be perky after you almost kill someone.

“Do you realize that people are going to end up losing their chance to be accepted at their top colleges now, just because you wanted to start some kind of flame war on that stupid blog?” Annika’s voice is getting shriller by the second.

“Yeah, go ahead and pin this on me. Whatever.” Even if it’s more true than she knows, I have no idea why other people saying shit that causes them to be passed over by their precious college choices has anything to do with me. “I didn’t force anyone to go to that blog. I didn’t make anyone say mean things to Drew.” I try for a defiant tone, but my voice betrays me with a tremor. Why do they have this kind of power over me? I spin the lock on my locker and grab my binder for study hall.

“I can’t even believe you have the nerve to stand there and judge other people for saying mean things to that poor girl when everyone here knows that the majority of those comments were from you, Cassie Randall. And all because that
poor girl
was brave enough to call you out on your bullshit act.” Annika’s face is the perfect mask of outrage, and she cheats her body away from me as though she’s performing in a play. I glance over my shoulder and see that it’s close to the truth. A crowd has gathered around us—and they don’t look friendly. I pretend to check my face in the mirror on the locker door, though really all I see is a blur.

“Don’t you have someone else’s life to ruin?” Kayla’s voice surprises me. She’s still here, speaking up for once. Like a friend.

“Don’t you have something skanky to do in a car?” Annika’s perfect composure is dented, even if she’s still on her game with the sharp tongue. I can see it in her eyes.

“What’s the point of this conversation?” I hug my binder to my chest, but today I’m standing up straight. If they want to make this whole thing out to be my fault, let them. I can own it. And as soon as I figure out a way to make it better with Drew, I will, which is more than any of these mechanical girls can say. I’m through being a tool.

“The
point
, Cassie, is that you’re no longer welcome on the newspaper staff,” says Annika with a defiant flip of her ponytail. “Britney and I feel absolutely
betrayed
by this—”

“They’re saying Drew might not ever recover,” says Britney. She looks scared, her mascara-coated lashes gummy with tears.

Annika glares at Britney for interrupting. “By this heartless act that could cause so many people in this school to suffer.” She places a hand over her heart, looking the very picture of sincerity. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of super Christian or whatever, Cassie. First you used her, and then you crushed her spirit. The poor, sweet, innocent girl.”

I push past the huddle of gum-snapping girls and start walking toward study hall. Annika and Britney follow, trailing their minions. Now they’re chasing me. I turn to look at them, and the sight of everyone gawking at this scene—like it’s some messed-up reality TV show and they’re the voyeuristic public getting their kicks from watching everything explode—makes me sick. Are they waiting for me to punch Annika, to come unglued and pull her hair and screech obscenities? Am I supposed to cry and beg her to forgive me? All the crowd really wants is to rid themselves of suspicion and guilt. Can they prove that I was the one who posted the mean things? Can pinning this on me make them feel better about how they laughed, how they passed on the link?