I think of all those notes that are still on my desk and try to inspire the same guilt that came over me when I saw the one from Liz, but it’s impossible. Kara is my legacy, and I don’t regret that because she deserves everything I did to her, and if she didn’t then, she does now. I can’t let her have this.

“This is fascinating,” Anna says dryly. “But I’d like to go home now.”

“I fucking hate you Kara.” It explodes from my mouth, and now I’m the one trembling, because that’s how bad I want to tell her. “You’re pathetic, you’ve always been pathetic, and everything I said to you came out of Anna’s mouth first. It’s hilarious that you have so little self-respect you’d get me kicked out of our group so you could hang around the bitch that never gave a damn about you in the first place.”

“Blah, blah.” Kara opens the car door and gets inside. “This is so over.”

But Anna stays where she is. She stares at me in amazement. “You don’t know when to give up, do you? Even Liz knew—”

“Don’t say her name.”

“Oh, don’t act so hurt,” Anna says. “You should’ve thanked me, Regina. I did it for you. You were that important to me.”

“You’re sick,” I say.

“But you’re the one who sold Liz out so we could stay friends. You let me drive her to the edge. You never once told me to stop. If I’m sick, what does that make you?”

“That’s your legacy, Anna. What you did to Liz. No matter what you do next, all everyone in this school is going to remember is that you’re a horrible fucking person.”

“Like I give a damn what these losers think.”

“Kara’s lying to you. She’s making a fool out of you.”

She laughs. “That’ll be the day. Anyway, see you tomorrow, Regina.”

She gets in the car and burns rubber out of the parking lot.

teenylinks.com/28ccyz

:)

—K

I stare at the e-mail for a half hour, trying to figure out what to do. Kara’s fed the original link into a URL alias site. If I click it, it could send me anywhere. And since the link is from Kara, I know I won’t walk away from whatever it leads to unscathed. A computer virus, maybe. Skeevy porn or worse—it’s total bait.

I have to take it. I back up the computer first. That takes longer than I want it to. The e-mail sits in my inbox the whole time, waiting to be read.

I click the link.

When it takes me to the IH8RA page, I feel a sense of relief. I’ve seen this stupid page. I almost forget it was there. I’ve like grown beyond it, and it’s—

Grown.

THINGS YOU DIDN’T KNOW REGINA THOUGHT ABOUT YOU AND YOU DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT HER…(CLICK HERE TO READ ENTRY) NEW PHOTOS IN THE PHOTO ALBUM!

The comments are bursting, and every one of them has something to say about the new dirt on me. I search for some kind of indication of what I can expect, because I’m too afraid to click the links. I’ll have to, though. If most of the school knows what’s behind them, I have to, so when I walk through the doors tomorrow—

I’ll know.

One comment steals all the air from my lungs.

I hope she fucking dies.

It’s from some freshman I don’t really know named Katie Lang-den.

Someone I don’t really know wants me to die.

I scroll up the page and start with the photos. Every embarrassing moment Anna managed to capture on camera is on display. I try to make peace with the fact that at least half of the school has now seen me at my worst. It’s okay. Everyone at school has been the person who passed out next to the toilet; they just didn’t have Anna hovering over them with a Nikon when they were. Bad hair days. Bad fashion choices. This is ugliness, but it’s nothing. It’s—totally mortifying.

I click away.

Things You Didn’t Know…

Click. I stare at my handwriting. My notes. All scanned in. A gallery. Anna’s ammunition. I couldn’t get them all. I tried. I’d always try to end our notes on stupid, innocuous questions, something she had to answer and send back so I could have them, but sometimes I was careless….

I scroll through them, numb. I’d forgotten the time we tore apart all the girls in our English class. Names down one side, physical flaws down the other. It was a group effort, but I was secretary, so now it gets pinned on me. All the fat thighs, big asses, crater faces, lisps. These girls are still at school, and I have to face them tomorrow.

Guys I’d never sleep with and why. The companion list, also in my handwriting. Written on a boring, sweltering hot day in math class. Ernie Sanders heads it up. Quiet and shy, future astronaut, he tutored me in tenth grade, and my handwriting reduces him to the size—or lack of size—of his penis. I called Carter Anders a Cro-Mag.

I thought it was fun at the time.

Some notes are one-sided conversations, little commentaries on people I didn’t know enough to like. No one who looks at the scanned pieces of paper will notice the way they’re ripped. Anna’s replies, which were always usually more scathing, are hacked off the bottom.

And that’s not all: My secrets are there. Precious thoughts I committed to paper and trusted her with because I was stupid. Worrying about my first time. Whether or not it would hurt. How useless I think my parents are. Why I like it in the dark.

I wrote it all down.

I stop breathing. My head pounds. The screen starts to gray out. I didn’t actually think you could get so mad you could lose the room, but here I am, gripping the edge of my desk and trying to bring myself back enough so that I can click the Report Abuse link and then—

Fuck a truce. Fuck it.

Revenge comes into my head fully formed, so simple and so perfect I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Anna always said to stay above the hate. She’s obsessive about it, because she knows everyone hates her. Don’t let them know you know. Don’t let them see it on your face. Don’t be weak. Never let them know your weaknesses.

But I’ve always known her weaknesses.

I haven’t even cooled by the time I’ve created the fake e-mail and the fake YourSpace account. So easy. My fake name is Alison Raft, and Alison Raft wants to join the IH8RA group. Join, join. Don’t get mad, get even.

I have to wait for Kara or whoever heads up the group—it has to be Kara—to approve me. That takes an hour, but I’ve got the time. As soon as it’s done, I find the option that lets me send out a mass message to the inboxes of every member of my anti-fan club. Everyone in school. I get to work.

TOMORROW AT LUNCH REGINA AFTON IS GOING TO GET A BIG SURPRISE, AND WE NEED YOUR HELP TO MAKE IT HAPPEN!

That will ensure the e-mail gets opened.

And then I just type. I don’t even have to think. I write about Anna’s dad leaving the family for someone twenty years younger and how Anna had to beg for regular visits. I write about the first time Kara had sex—a vacation in Cancun. He was ten years older. The diet pills, the purging, the wig. Everyone knows that, but why not rehash? And the drunken handjob Anna gave Bruce in the ninth grade. How she thought he was small. The chastity ring Kara’s father gave her after she lost the weight. How Donnie passed out the first time he had sex with Anna, because he was so wasted. I write down every doubt and insecurity, the dumb stuff, the mortifying stuff. Things I guarded with my life and that don’t mean anything to me anymore. I give it all away for free.

It’s crude, simple, and effective.

But the most beautiful thing about it is, this is nothing compared to the work they’ve put into destroying me. Nothing. I don’t even have to break a sweat. Anna’s been so untouched for years that she’ll wake up tomorrow and her world will end.

Thank you, Anna. For being so perfect and so ugly.

I sign my name to the e-mail—my real name—and then I send it to everyone.

When I wake up, I head for the computer first .

The YourSpace page is gone.

My first victory. It may be gone, but the e-mail isn’t. It’s in everyone’s inboxes, waiting to be read. If it hasn’t been read already. I can be certain of two people who did read it, and the thought turns me into a face full of teeth. I can’t wait to go to school and see what I’ve wrought. Damage control will be spectacular. Anna won’t have time to think up ways to retaliate, because she’ll be too frantic trying to keep herself above this, recovering her reputation. If she can recover it.

What a beautiful if.

Michael calls and asks if I want a ride. Yes, a million times yes. I get dressed for school and sit at the breakfast table with my parents and I eat. A piece of toast dripping with butter. It tastes fantastic. I can’t believe how great my stomach feels. I can’t believe that’s all it took. Next thing, maybe I’ll get off the antacids.

I can’t wait to see Michael. When I spot his Saturn making its way up the street, I can’t even play it cool. I run outside before he pulls into the driveway, and then I jerk the door open and practically throw myself inside.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” Michael says, surprised. I’m too cheerful, but that’s how good I feel, how happy I am. I should try to get a hold on it, but I don’t want to get a hold on it. I just want to be it. He pulls out of the driveway. I’m not sure whether I should tell him now or wait. Wait. It’ll be a surprise. I lean across the seat and kiss him.

Michael smiles at me and I look away, biting my lip. I feel sick when Hallowell High comes into sight, but it’s a five-minutes-before-curtain kind of sick.

We pull into the parking lot. Michael unbuckles his seatbelt, taking his time, but I can’t wait for him. I get out of the car and scope out the entrance. They’re not there and I want to squeal. They aren’t there; the doors are clear. People are free to come and go as they please. I sent them into hiding. Me. Wow.

I shrug my book bag over my shoulder, and Michael and I walk into school. I’m five feet past the doors when Chelsea Redcliff grabs my arm. I jerk away and edge close to Michael. Chelsea was the crater face in that long list of girls on the YourSpace page. Or the small chest. I can’t remember. She’s neither of these things now, but if she’s angry, I want someone between us.