She clicked over to the press release, which linked to a YouTube video. Stand Up: Youths Speak Out Sneak Peek, read the title. Spencer pressed PLAY, watching clips of herself and the others answering questions. The camera panned on the audience, pausing on Greg. Her heart jumped in her chest. Imagine what the organizers would do if they knew he was the ultimate bully, an Ali Cat.
She typed his name, Greg Messner, into Google. The Facebook page she’d looked at plenty of times appeared; it said he lived in Delaware, but it didn’t list a high school and certainly didn’t mention an address. Spencer culled through kids he was friends with; he’d known people from New York, Massachusetts, Maine, Indiana, California, and New Mexico. Not a single person on his friends list was from Delaware—did he live there at all? Then Spencer thought about his story about his stepmother berating and bullying him. Had that been a lie, too?
It was possible his whole persona was a lie, just like he’d made up Dominick. She could just imagine Greg and Ali plotting the whole thing out together, chuckling about how Spencer would most definitely fall for it. But here was the million-dollar question: Why had Greg turned to Ali in the first place? Because of some twisted, psychotic affliction? Had Ali promised him something?
The church bell chime she’d set as her ringtone began to blare, and she lunged for her phone, eager for answers. The caller ID listed a 212 number. Spencer picked up.
“Spencer!” a familiar voice rang out through the receiver. “It’s Alyssa Bloom! How are you?”
Spencer blinked. It took her a moment to remember that Alyssa was the editor from HarperCollins. “I-I’m fine,” she said, sitting up straighter. “How are you?”
“I’m doing really well.” Ms. Bloom sounded like she was smiling. “And it seems like you are, too. I saw that you were part of an anti-bullying video. And your blog is doing incredibly well.”
“Thanks,” Spencer said shakily. “I’m really glad you think so.”
“That’s not all I think,” Bloom said. “Listen, I’ve spoken to some other people at the office, and we really think the concept you created in your blog could be turned into a book. If you’re interested, I’d like to offer you a two-book contract.”
“What?” Spencer’s legs felt shaky. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not one to joke around about these sorts of things. It’s the right time to come out with something like this, Spencer. And you’re the right person to tell these stories. Now, as for an advance . . .”
She rattled off an astonishing sum of money, so surprising that Spencer plopped down on her butt and stared blankly across the room. It was happening. Really happening. She was going to get to write a book—two books, actually. Hopefully they would be meaningful and helpful, and something good could come out of all of A’s abuse.
But suddenly, the images of the other kids on the stage for the anti-bullying video swam into her mind. And then she thought of the kids who’d emailed their tales. Some of them were in such horrible living situations. A lot of them were lower-class. A lot of them wanted the right clothes or shoes or accessories to fit in but couldn’t afford them—and that was the stupid reason why bullies targeted them.
The trust they’d put into her. The honest, earnest support they’d given her when they found out she was in that video. They didn’t have to. They could have felt jealous that they hadn’t gotten the attention instead. Which made her think of Dominick’s—or, really, Greg’s—words: You’re just doing this to capitalize off of what happened to you.
Was she?
“Spencer? Are you there?”
Spencer cleared her throat and pressed the phone to her ear. “This all sounds wonderful,” she said. “B-but I’m wondering. Maybe everyone who contributes could be coauthors, too. I can’t accept all that advance money for myself.”
Alyssa Bloom chuckled. “You can split up the money however you like.”
She gave Spencer some more details, mostly about deadlines and on-sale dates and possible book tours. Spencer barely heard her, her heart was pounding so hard. She probably said “thank you” a hundred times before she hung up. Then she sat quietly on her bed, taking even breaths. She was already thinking of the stories she wanted to include on the pages. She couldn’t wait to tell the contributors that they’d profit from this, too. After all they’d been through, they deserved it.
Take that, Ali, she thought with satisfaction. She thought she was so smart with her minions and her video loops and her quick-escape tricks. But here was something wonderful that had happened, and Ali hadn’t squelched it. Maybe she was losing her touch.
Ping.
She glanced at her phone again, wondering if it was from Ms. Bloom—she’d said she was going to follow up with an email. But it was a Google Alert for “Ashland, PA.”
She shot up and looked closer. Google didn’t link to the pool house story. Instead, a headline read YOUNG MAN FOUND DEAD BEHIND ASHLAND’S TURKEY HILL MINI-MART.
With shaking hands, Spencer opened the link to a website for the Ashland Herald: OFFICIALS FOUND THE BODY OF A YOUNG MAN FACEDOWN AT THE CREEK BED BEHIND THE TURKEY HILL MINI-MART IN SOUTHWEST ASHLAND EARLY THIS MORNING AFTER GETTING A 911 CALL FROM A MAN WALKING HIS DOG. POLICE DESCRIBED THE MAN AS DARK-HAIRED AND DRESSED IN A JACKET, A SHIRT AND TIE, AND WINGTIP SHOES, AND WITH A TATTOO OF A BIRD ON THE BACK OF HIS HAND. A DRIVER’S LICENSE WAS FOUND ON HIM, BUT FAMILY MEMBERS HAVE NOT BEEN REACHED TO IDENTIFY THE BODY. CAUSE OF DEATH IS UNCLEAR.