I put sobbing Lydia on speakerphone and open Instagram, where it is every bit as bad as it seems. About halfway through the comments, I open my mouth without thinking.

“Did you really have sex with him in a confessional booth?” I ask, incredulous. And then slap my hand over my mouth, because I am an insensitive idiot.

Lydia’s crying increases in volume. “I … I … I haven’t slept with him at all!” she sobs. “I w-w-wanted to wait a few more weeks. And last night he was asking me to come over ’cause his parents are out of town, and when I said no, he was joking that he knew how to convince me, and when I woke up there were already five hundred likes on this stupid poll!”

I could kill Wickham. I am finally willing to concede that Darcy is only the second worst person in the world.

*

It’s not an easy weekend. Jane brings Lydia over and we spend two days in sleeping bags on my floor like when we were ten. My mother flutters around anxiously, trying to anoint Lydia with bergamot oil. We watch a few revenge flicks but they make Lydia tear up so we switch to chick flicks with nice guys who don’t try to slut-shame you into having sex with them.

We’ve all sworn off social media so it’s only when Jane gets a text on Sunday night that we see the video.

“Thought you might be off social cuz I haven’t seen you posting any sketches on Insta,” Bing texts. “But this might make Lydia feel better. Hope you’re doing ok. B.”

Jane smiles for just a second. So, Bing checks her Instagram every day.

We click on the link.

“Yoooooooooooo! It’s me, White Jay-Z! And this is my audition tape for So You Think You Can Rap.”

Our mouths drop open. It is Wickham, perhaps two years younger, dressed like a Halloween costume of Eminem, plus a giant gold dollar sign on a chain round his neck.

And then he starts rapping.

It is both the best and worst thing I have ever heard. It includes the line, “I might be white, rich and hot but I know pain. Everybody’s gotta dance. Let me hear you say Shane!”

It is pure humiliation, in every sound and every pixel. I feel lightheaded with glee. Nothing could be better.

“Look!” Jane suddenly points, midway through our fourth viewing. “It’s already been watched eleven thousand times!” OK, that is better.

*

At school on Monday, the poll is old news. Everyone assumes Lydia must have posted the video, and are desperate to get more info.

“Did he really send that audition tape in?”

“Does he actually call himself White Jay-Z?”

“How could someone as hot as you ever go out with him?”

She’s like a kid in a candy store. She wallows in the attention. I think she deserves a bit of happiness. Wickham, on the other hand, has taken to slinking between classes, sunglasses on and a cap pulled low. People have taken to calling him White Jay-Z to his face. Even some of the teachers.