“I know.”
“So the question isn’t why I’m making a scene, but why aren’t you?”
“The perpetrator or perpetrators behind these so-called Frankengirls do a disservice to what we know is a decent and upstanding majority of our student body.”
“Again, boys’—” Maxine started.
Angeline elbowed her. “We can’t take sides.”
“This isn’t choosing blue or green eye shadow.”
“Never wearing blue eye shadow’s a total myth. It’s really quite flattering. So long as you keep the rest of your makeup palette subtle, you can—”
“You can’t be serious right now.”
“What? The primary’s tomorrow. I can’t risk offending voters.”
“You’re offending me right now. I’m in those pictures. So are you.”
“Rest assured, these ‘Frankengirls’ will not be seen again. We have reported this . . . transgression to the appropriate social media outlets, and seeing as how some of the . . . body parts labeled belong to female students under the age of eighteen, any and all images and moving pictures will be taken down immediately. We would request that if you have posted an image of these ‘Frankengirls’ . . .”
“Did he just use that word twice?” Maxine jolted out of her seat, her wave necklace bouncing against her chest.
Several other girls followed Maxine’s lead, a few raising middle fingers toward the speaker in the ceiling.
“. . . on your social media accounts that you remove it yourself. We will not tolerate such a brazen disregard for the rules that govern this institution.”
“For the rules?” Maxine cried. “That’s what you’re talking about? Rules? Broken rules? To cover your own asses? What about the girls?”
“It’s a joke!” Josh Baker shouted.
“Oh yeah?” Maxine said. “Then you won’t mind stripping to your grubby tighty-whities and letting me take a pic?”
“Chill,” Tad said. “It was a freakin’ pool party. You all chose to be half naked. And hey, Maxine, you should be liking it as much as the next guy.”
High fives at his table, and Angeline rested her hand on Maxine’s and squeezed.
“Misogynistic assholes!” one girl cried.
“Homophobes!” another said.
Boos and yeses erupted throughout the room.
Maxine squeezed Angeline’s hand back. “I’m fine. But you want to defend my honor, then get in the game. This is it, A. This goes beyond hanging bras in doorways and writing ‘cupcake’ on the backs of girls’ shirts. You want to stand out, stand the eff up and do what you’re always saying: Bring it.”
Angeline’s heart beat in her throat. She had yet to prepare her primary speech. But everyone was here, listening, today.
But what should she say? Would being in the photos make people more or less likely to vote for her? She twirled her ring around her finger. Social media had taught her that backlash came like whiplash. And was just as unpredictable.
She scanned the room, lingering on Sammy, who stood under the football team’s questionable SLOTHS GIVE A SLOW DEATH banner, and then on Cat, frantically scribbling in her notebook a couple of tables over. Angeline’s eyes floated to the end of her own table, where Leo sat. Where she used to sit with him.
His expression was neutral, but the tightness of his jaw sent Angeline’s mind spinning. Was he upset? About the Frankengirls? Generally or specifically? Specifically related to her . . . her parts . . . being a part of it? The former meant he was the boy she knew he was, the one she loved. The latter meant he might still love her back.
Angeline inhaled a breath and propelled herself out of her chair. “Frankengirls.” Here, unlike at home, she had only one take. One.
“Frankengirls,” she said louder. “The name’s almost as demeaning as the images themselves, isn’t it?”
Murmurs of assent spilled from most of the female students, encouraging Angeline. “This morning, the walls of our bathrooms and locker rooms were plastered with photocopied images of female students in our school. Or should I say versions of female students in our school. Three of them. Someone took the liberty of designing their perfect physical specimen. They pilfered photos—real photos—off social media and Photoshopped them together like they were creating an avatar. A little of this, a little of that, and voilà! A composite picture. A composite girl.”
Her phone buzzed with a notification. Someone had tagged her on Instagram. She made a show of shaking her head, masking her quick unlock and swipe. It was a pic of her, from right then with a single #femaleempowerment as the caption, posted by Natalie, whose Pinterest look for today was Parisian girl with her nautical-striped shirt, perfectly tied scarf, and red beret. The comments were coming fast.
Angeline lifted her head. “Some of these girls—us, some of us, because I’m there too—wearing nothing but bikinis at a private party. Maybe we could live with that. Not like it, but live with it. But what did this person do? They labeled us. Like we were meat. Shank, ribs, center cut, except it was torso Maxine Chen and right leg Natalie Goldberg and boobs Angeline Quinn.” Maxine rapped on the tabletop. The adrenaline racing through Angeline’s veins spurred her, and she climbed up.
Emmie stepped forward. But every pair of eyes was focused on Angeline.
And their phones.
Notifications were popping up on all of Angeline’s social media accounts.
Screw the election, this will totally bump up Ask an Angel subscribers, she thought.
She projected, using the authoritative tone she’d honed from her YouTube channel. “‘Vote for your Perfect Ten,’ this sicko wrote on the bottom of those images. ‘A multiple choice you can’t get wrong,’ this perv said. And what is our school doing about it? Filing a complaint with social media so the reposts of the pictures are taken offline? So it won’t, what? Get sued? While we’re objectified?”
With purpose but not haste, Emmie strode toward Angeline. She situated herself directly across from her, but Angeline literally and figuratively towered over her.
Emmie raised her palms in the air. “It’s only been a few hours. I’m sure the administration is doing everything it can to identify the culprit.”
“It’s him!” shouted the redheaded girl with the freckles who had taken two of Angeline’s samples. “String him up by his balls!” She thrust her finger at Josh.
“We can’t rush to judgment,” Emmie said calmly. “We need to let the investigative process proceed until it can determine fault.”