Suddenly LOVEHEATHER Instagram and Snapchat accounts have cropped up. People talk about HEATHER on the student-only Facebook group, everyone tirelessly ranting about how the pranks are great or they suck or WHAT THE HELL IS ALL THIS or FUCK OFF or LOSERS or HEATHER CLAPS BACK or WE ARE ALL HEATHER. It is more than one thing; it’s so many things. Dee wanted to turn the tables on the power dynamic at the school, and at first, I thought this was working, but I don’t know what to think anymore. We have no control over any of it. Who are the bullies, and who is bullied; who is right, what is true.

People steal and humiliate and scream for justice. There is a paranoid whisper gaining volume in the halls and online. It gathers strength, becoming a furious wind of retribution. It howls through the corridors and bangs all the lockers shut. People are called hypocrites and snowflakes and bullies and social justice warriors. No one is safe. No one knows what it is, or how it started, or what it means. If it’s the victims fighting back or a new many-headed bully-monster.

Letters go home to parents, and posts show up on the school’s social media accounts.

WOEPINE HIGH SCHOOL HAS A ZERO-TOLERANCE POLICY FOR BULLYING OF ANY KIND. ANY STUDENT FOUND TO BE PERPETRATING ACTS OF VIOLENCE OR HARASSMENT TO THE STUDENT BODY OR STAFF WILL BE DEALT WITH IMMEDIATELY.

Zero tolerance for bullying. Where were they when I was afraid to go to school?

My mom asks me about it while we’re getting groceries. She is looking at her phone in the middle of the pasta aisle, her cart blocking the way for anyone else.

“What is all this stuff about bullying at the school? Do you know anyone doing that?”

I examine the back of a box of macaroni and throw it in the cart, shifting it so an old lady can get by. “Not really. The school is just being paranoid. They’re probably afraid of getting sued or something.”

“Well, I hope everyone is okay,” she says, doubtfully, “No one is bothering you, are they?” She puts a hand on my back and rubs it in quick little circles.

“I’m good, Mom,” I say, giving her a small smile.

“I know you are, honey,” she says. “You’ve never been a troublemaker. Just make sure that you stand up for yourself, right?” She puts on a tough face and clenches her fist, then laughs, “Or you just call on your old mom.”

“Haha. Okay, tough guy.”

She lifts one of my hands as I put some sauce in the cart and says, “I like your new nail polish, by the way.”

I look at my nails: a bright fire-engine red.

“Thanks.”

*   *   *

Pete talks to our class again, about how this is getting out of control.