It was me.

  The words are crawling across my skin. I open my eyes and it’s still there. A shadow more than a living thing, but still, maybe it is real. People believe in ghosts. And demons.

  “Go away,” I say, but I don’t know what I’m saying it to. The thing or my broken brain. Because, yes, people do believe in ghosts and demons. But not me. Me, I’m hallucinating. That happens when you don’t sleep. You see things that aren’t there. You hear things that aren’t there.

  Me. Me. Me. Me. Meme. Meme.

  The words linger in the air, like humidity, and they stick to my skin.

  And I suddenly realize I do know who the Boyatee is.

  All of us know him.

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 8

  TEN DAYS AFTER

  GRAYSON

  IT’S HOLLY’S LAST GAME, and I’m here to support her, sitting in a lawn chair on the hill with all the frothing-at-the-mouth soccer parents. Not really my choice. Meeka told me she was going alone, and I was worried about her, so I had her pick me up. But I made sure we came late. There’s only so much soccer I can stand.

  I don’t know what it is about Meeka. Whatever she wants, she gets. From everybody. She’s the opposite of pushy about it. It’s not like she’s tossing promises around. Sometimes she doesn’t even ask. You want to please her, simple as that. She’s super strong and super vulnerable at the same time, if that’s possible. Anyone who’s met her would back me up on this. Teachers, parents, kids—we all want to make her happy.

  So here I am, in the thick of it. Even though I don’t know what to tell her about Gus. About Cole and the Cavalry. About the posts and pics. All this nonsense spinning in my brain. Cole is dead and buried. No doubt about that. But someone out there is using his name.

  Now the evidence is gone. It’s all gone. And I don’t just mean the picture of us. I mean the whole fucking site. Everything on TheCavalry.net is: 404 Error: The page you’re looking for can’t be found. There’s nothing to show Meeka, and I can’t prove a thing if there’s nothing to show. Obviously, she’d believe me, because I don’t ever bullshit her. But she’d also believe I fucked things up. That I did something wrong to lose the only evidence we have.

  Long story short, it’s best if I handle this myself. Only, I don’t know how to do that. And it’s ripping my insides apart.

  I brought the horseshoe with me, and it’s in the pocket of my Carhartt. I’ve been gripping it, squeezing it, hoping it will give me luck when all it’s been giving me is cold metal on my cold hands. I’ve got no answers, nothing I can do but sit here, watching soccer and trying to keep my head together.

  Our team is getting their asses handed to them 5–2. The two goals are Holly’s, adding to her record. The game is almost over and she’s still going like a rabid dog, chasing down every play, never stopping. Meeka cheers each time the ball touches Holly’s foot, or knee, or head. So do most of the parents. They’re whistling and shouting her name like this is church and she’s Jesus. I’d never say Holly isn’t a great player, because she is. If she could live her whole life on that field, she’d be as perfect as everyone thinks she is. But that field is a tiny place and the world is a big one.

  The world is full of top athletes.

  The world is full of murderers too. Serial killers. School shooters. Domestic abusers.

  The world is full of memes.

  Holly, Meeka, Logan, me—we aren’t even a little bit special.

  I remember this one meme called Bubble Girl from when I was a kid. It was a picture of some chubby little chick holding a plastic container of bubbles. She was running along, looking weird as hell. Tons of people Photoshopped it and made it look like she was running from Voldemort or a T. rex or whatever. And it was funny. I remember laughing my ass off at the little dough ball. I never made one of those memes myself because I’ve never been good with things like that. But I probably would’ve if I knew how.

  That girl was everywhere for a while, but what about now? I never see that meme anymore. I can only picture Bubble Girl as a kid, even though she’s probably seventeen or eighteen now. Like me. That meme lived out its life—they all do, right?—but maybe not in her head. I bet she got sick of seeing people clowning on her like that. Might have even quit the internet. Sure, there’s a chance she got over it, and now laughs it off like it was no big deal, pretends to get on with her life. Doesn’t mean it didn’t change her forever, though. While it didn’t even make a dent in anyone else’s soul. We all laughed and moved on.

  She’s like us. She isn’t any more special than any of us. Because no one cares about her anymore. And soon they won’t care about Holly’s soccer skills or Logan’s stupid charity or my art. They definitely won’t care about our meme or Cole or what we did to him. Which is so disturbing, because it’s the only thing that matters right now. It’s my entire life.

  As the crowd cheers and groans, Meeka taps me on the shoulder, leans in, and whispers, “I’m not buying it.”

  “Buying what?”

  “It’s gotta be Gus who started it, right?” Meeka says. “Who else in school could it be?”

  Good question, and I don’t have an answer. Could it be Gus? Was Gus pretending to be Cole? Posting on the Cavalry as the Dank Lord of Memes? It’s possible. But if he goes by Emperor Augustus online, then why would he be responding to his own post? Doesn’t make sense.

  It’s a lot more likely that he was checking out his old friend’s site and stumbled on the pic. The post said Meme This Shit, so he memed that shit. Then shared it in school. Exactly like he confessed to.

  “Gus is harmless,” I tell Meeka, because I know that’s the truth. “I think we gotta look beyond school. Like, what about Cole’s online friends? Social media, forums, shit like that?”

  I say it because now I’m wondering how many other people have access to the Cavalry. Swamp-ass gamers Cole met playing MMORPGs or some shit.

  “He didn’t have any online friends,” Meeka says, and she says it like she’s sure of it.

  “Really?”

  “He was a troll. Trolls don’t exist to make friends,” she says, and then jumps from her chair and cheers as Holly dribbles the ball down the sideline and passes it to Krystal in front of the goal. Krystal gets stuffed by the goalie.

  “Awwww!” go all the parents. They’re so mesmerized by the game that we could be talking about blowing up the Capitol dome and they wouldn’t be paying attention to a word we’re saying. At least I hope not.

  Meeka sits back down and says, “What did you like about him?”

  “Who?”

  “You know . . . Our Old Friend.”

  Jesus. What a question.

  “Is that something you really care about now?” I ask.

  She shrugs.

  Come to think of it, it’s not exactly a bad question. Your friends can become your enemies in a heartbeat, and then you forget why they were your friends in the first place. It forces me to think about my history with Cole.

  I always sort of knew Cole, but I only started hanging out with him sophomore year. He was giving away some old wires and scrap wood on Front Porch Forum and I took it all. When we were loading up Dad’s truck, the two of us got talking about movies for some reason. Next thing I knew, we were in his trailer watching this Liam Neeson movie where he’s fighting wolves, and Cole’s mom was by the stove dancing to old punk songs and making us home fries. She was letting us drink PBR tall boys and laughing as we yelled and swore at the movie. It was nothing like my house, and it wasn’t like anyone else’s house either. The Westons weren’t pretending to be anyone other than who they were, and they didn’t seem to give a shit about who I was.

  That’s always been my problem. I don’t fit with the rich kids or the poor kids and there aren’t many people around here who live in the middle. I don’t know, maybe that’s not true, but it feels like it is. Feels like everyone has always judged me, except for the Westons.

  But things changed.

  After he lost his mom, Cole changed. His obsession with Meeka gave way to other obsessions. That Cavalry bullshit and who knows what else. Dark thoughts and impulses. I know people get all broken apart when they lose someone, but most don’t become dangerous. Cole wasn’t like that before, and that’s why doing what we did was easier for me than it was for Holly, Meeka, and Logan. They didn’t realize how far off the rails he’d gone. But I knew there was no getting him back. I loved who he was, and that’s why I hated what he had become.

  “He was a good kid,” I tell Meeka over the crowd. “Until he wasn’t.”

  “Yeah,” Meeka says, and then she puts a hand over her mouth. There’s a tear in her eye. Two tears.

  She leans into me and all of a sudden I’m whispering, “It’ll be okay, it’ll be okay.”

  That’s when the whistle blows. That’s the game. The parents rush the field to hug their kids. I want to get going, but I don’t know where to get going to. Meeka has me feeling so many things right now.

  “I’m treating Holly to dinner after this,” she says, and she sniffles and forces a smile. “The Little Kitchen. For a farm-to-table feast. You should come. We should talk.”

  “You should drive me home,” I tell her.

  Her face twists, like she’s tasting something sour. “Oh. That makes me so sad.”

  Here we are again. I don’t know if I can turn her down, even if I wanted to. Is it her mouth? The way it seems to be holding back secret words? It’s like she’s daring me to do something without even saying it. And it’s always something I suddenly realize I actually want to do. I throw up my hands in defeat.

  “They better have deep-fried things, because I’m not eating quinoa or whatever,” I say. The Little Kitchen has been around for a while, but I’ve never been there. Meeka likes it, so I can guess what they serve. Every time I’ve eaten at her house it’s all quinoa, or farro, or one of these other “healthy” grains that people stopped eating back in the dark ages when they realized rice and bread taste a shit ton better.

  “It’ll be delicious,” she says. “Guaranteed.”

  I don’t bother calling her out on that bit of BS because I’m committed now. And when I’m committed to something, I don’t back out.

  HOLLY

  THE DRINKS COME OUT: seltzer for me, kombucha for Meeka, and Boylan Red Birch Beer for Grayson. We’re in a booth in the corner. The waitress has already taken our order, but she lingers a bit, making small talk. “You guys have a big night planned?” and other similar questions that go right through me. We’re polite, or I am, even though we all want her to move along. I think she’s being so friendly because her younger sister is someone in our class. I can’t remember who, and I don’t care.

  When the waitress finally returns to the kitchen, Meeka raises a glass. Actually, a mason jar with a little handle. It’s that kind of place.

  “To the champion. Long may she reign.”

  I don’t know about that. Maybe my record will last. As for me, I’m not sure I ever want to play again. Will I even be allowed? Do prisons have soccer teams?

  Meeka starts clinking her jar against my jar and Grayson’s jar and I can’t help but think about who’s missing here. Logan. The kid loves a toast. If we get through this ordeal, he’ll be the guy who’s always raising a glass at weddings and saying something sappy. Making people cry or cringe.

  If we get through this ordeal. That’s a big “if.” I texted Logan, told him to meet us here, but haven’t heard a thing back. And that worries me. He’s been more careless than ever. I’m not sure what other mistakes he’s capable of.

  “We are all so very, very proud of you, babe,” Meeka says after she sips her drink. “You surprise us every day.”

  “Thank you,” I say softly as my hair falls over my face. I suppose it looks like I’m being coy, but really, I’m super nervous. A few more goals to add to my total did nothing to relieve the feeling that I have ceded all my control. To a person named Thedlom, whatever the heck that means. I haven’t heard back since the WAIT FOR IT meme. Which means my only option is to . . . wait for it.

  Grayson slams down his jar on the distressed wood table and says, “Are we really fucking doing this?”

  Meeka pulls back, lip curled, as if Grayson spit on the silverware. “Doing what? Celebrating our friend?”

  “Holly deserves to be celebrated,” Grayson says, and then he waves his hands around. “I’m talking about this. Acting normal.”

  “Isn’t that how we should be acting?” Meeka says. “Nothing has happened yet. We should act like nothing has happened, right?”

  I check the room. The Little Kitchen is pretty packed for a Tuesday night, and plenty loud. I try to focus on the conversation at the closest table. I can’t make it out, and they definitely aren’t whispering. Logic tells me nobody can possibly eavesdrop on us. Still, I try to keep my voice low and calm.

  “But, Meeka, things have happened,” I say. “And we need to discuss those things.”

  “Oh, I’m all about discussing,” Grayson says.

  “Without Logan?” I ask.

  “I’m fine with him not being here,” Grayson says.

  Meeka leans forward and whispers, “He wasn’t even in school today. Not AP English. Not art.”

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “That’s not good,” Grayson says.

  “To say the least,” Meeka adds.

  “Do you think he’s . . . ?” Grayson doesn’t need to finish his thought.

  “I don’t think he would turn us in,” I say, because I don’t. At least not yet. He’s got too much to lose.

  “But if he’s out there playing boy detective right now, I’m not super confident he won’t fuck things up,” Meeka says.

  A truer statement has never been spoken. And I add my own truth to the mix. “Good thing I’ve been playing girl detective, then. Because I have a lead.”

  I’m not even going to ask what the others have been up to, because I’m sure I’ve made far more headway on this than anyone. Like group projects in class. One kid usually carries the load. And that kid is always me.

  Meeka scoots closer and says, “Okay, spill.”

  “I plan to,” I say. “But first, some ground rules.”

  “Oh great, exactly what we need—rules,” Grayson says, because why would Grayson ever want to follow any rules?

  I ignore him. I hold up a single finger and say, “First rule. We don’t use his name out loud in here. In case someone is listening. We should never say that name in public again. We should call him something else.”

  “Logan?” Grayson asks.

  “No,” I say, pointing down. “The other guy.”

  “I’ve been calling him Our Old Friend,” Meeka says.

  “Works for me,” I say.

  And Grayson says, “Whatever.”

  I hold up two fingers. “Okay, second rule. Whatever steps we take next must be agreed upon. Logan is off doing whatever he’s doing. And that’s not good. We need unity.”

  Meeka nods. And Grayson says, “That’s more than fine by me. I’m all about unity.”

  I hold up three fingers. “Third and final rule. Don’t focus on how or where I got my information. Be thankful that I have it. Then help me figure out what to do with it.”

  By the sour looks they’re giving me, I can tell this rule doesn’t sit well. Tough luck. I’m not telling them every little detail of what I’ve done because they don’t need to know every little detail. They only need to know the result.

  “Just spill, Holly,” Meeka says. “Spill.”

  And I respond with a single word. “Thedlom.”

  They don’t say anything. The chatter of the crowd—like ravens cawing or raccoons snickering, like things that pick dead bodies apart—it fills their silence. Neither Grayson nor Meeka knows what I’m talking about. It’s probably best to explain.

  “It’s a name,” I tell them. “Of some meme-obsessed creeper. And I’m hoping one of you might know who he is. Do you know someone who goes by the name Thedlom? Like online. Thedlom?”

  Grayson’s eyes narrow in recognition. “Wait a second. Spell it.”

  “T-H-E-D-L-O-M,” I say.

  And he says, “Holy fucking shit.”

  It’s at that very moment the waitress places plates of food in front of us. “Now that’s the attitude I like to hear!” she says. “Our apps are amazing, right?”

  We all shut up.

  LOGAN

  THEY HAVE THEIR APPETIZERS.

  The waitress is laying it all out. Crispy roasted Brussels sprouts and butternut squash and ricotta bruschetta. I’m betting that’s what it is. It’s a seasonal menu and those are seasonal staples here. I know because my family comes to the Little Kitchen a lot. We appreciate their sustainability.

  I doubt the others can see me. It’s bright in the restaurant, and it’s dark out here in the parking lot, where snow is starting to fall, and fat, fluffy, beautiful flakes are collecting on my shoulders as I lean against my car. I’m peering back and forth at my friends and my phone, where there’s a version of our meme from Paul Baker’s Tumblr on the screen.

  The meme says: DUCK, DUCK, DUCK . . . GOOSE.

  I faked sick today and hid out at home. No napping, but maybe that’s for the best. I’m thinking more intuitively and creatively. There’s a buzz in my head and it’s taking ideas and turning them over and upside down and inside out and showing them to me in ways I might never have seen them if I were well rested.

  Maybe it’s another form of hallucination, like lucid dreaming. Whatever it is, it’s helped me piece together a theory. More than a theory, actually. A truth. Derived from looking at version upon version of the meme, watching videos of the Boyatee, and being open to a universe of possibilities. What I discovered is this: