I look up to see a couple of guys tearing down flyers from lampposts. And a couple more, farther up the path, doing the same. Christopher’s friends? There’s a knot in my stomach. A sudden thought: If Christopher finds out about the show, would he be pissed enough now to screw us over? I hesitate, watching the messages slide by from my friends, all full of glee, and me too, but.

we should be careful

we should back off and just avoid him

don’t just let him bully you, Katherine writes.

no. i’ll avoid

will he avoid you

I don’t know how to answer that.

will he stop sending the photos?

i guess we’ll find out

I’m not really smiling anymore as I head to class through a sea of dick pics.

15

The next two weeks feel like ten minutes.

On Saturday we’re stuffing envelopes with invites. They’re stunning. A small card with a soft black background, an aura of gold around the sweep of my back, the words Dirty Little Secret curling down in red. Instructions brief: Tell no one. Join us. An Instagram handle. We’ve already made an invitation list: all genders, only arts-program people we think we can trust—only seniors, no exes, no one with grudges against any of us. When it’s nearing senior curfew, Katherine and Nevaeh distract our resident assistant so I can slip the cards into chosen students’ mailboxes without being noticed. Then I run over to distract Jack’s RA as he slips behind the desk and distributes the boys’ batch, and then it’s done.

In the middle of the night, I wake up restless and open Instagram.

Fourteen friend requests already.

I sit up, beat my heels against the mattress, push my face into the pillow because I’ve got to make noise.

Sunday morning we wait downstairs in the boys’ dorm lobby with breakfast from the campus coffee shop while Taylor drags himself out of bed. Nevaeh goes down the list to accept the requests, one by one.

“Okay, then,” she says. “I guess now we see if they actually send the money. Could I have coffee, please?”

I hand her the to-go cup.

When Taylor finally bounces out of the elevator, his hair wet and standing straight up, he’s waving his phone at us.

“Look at that!” he says, pointing at the screen, beaming.

“Your phone is off,” Nevaeh observes.

“That is a black screen,” Katherine affirms.

“Look at what?” I ask.

He grunts, pokes at the screen, and turns it back to us triumphantly. “There!”

“That’s your boyfriend on FaceTime,” Nevaeh says. “Hi, Damien!”

“Hi, gorgeouses!” Damien says, his voice tinny through the speaker. We all wave.

“No!” Taylor says, punching at the screen again. “I’ll call you back!”

“That was mean,” I say, pulling my hat on.

“Okay,” he says, frowning at the screen. “Here!”