Revenge of the Sluts

ONE

It had all started with a pair of boobs. More specifically, a photo of Sloane Mayer's.

I looked at the email that I had just opened, sent directly to me but not only to me. It had been forwarded, in a way that could only be described as unfortunate, to the entire student body via a LISTSERV. Regardless of whether or not the original sender had sent it to everyone on the student email directory—which, they had—it would have made its way around the student body with record speed. St. Joseph's High School wasn't so tiny that everyone knew everything, but it was small enough that gossip spread rapidly without consideration for the truth.

The facts in this case, however, were fairly apparent. It was Sloane, known for her effortlessly pretty dark hair and reputation for owning her sexuality. She was the person on campus who hiked her uniform skirt up a little bit higher or undid that one extra button. I couldn't blame her; if I had boobs like hers, I'd probably show them off too.

"Holy shit." The guy next to me laughed. I knew we were looking at the same email; it had been a perfectly average Tuesday during a perfectly average week up until now. The email would undoubtedly fuel the rumor mill for at least a few days.

Phones around the room vibrated and let off sharp dings accompanied by students rotating in their seats to look at each other. A girl a few rows over leaned over to her friend to ask, "Did you get it too?"

The first picture was of Sloane, showing off a significant amount of her smooth, nearly flawless skin. There was talk that she got spray tans, or at least visited tanning booths regularly—she had an impeccable year-round tan that was entirely unfitting for Massachusetts winters—but there was a lot of talk about Sloane in general.

The sender hadn't been bold enough to use a personal email. Both the name and the email address were a scrambled list of numbers and letters, probably generated by a website rather than a person. None of the information was immediately identifiable.

As I scrolled, I realized it wasn't only Sloane's picture that was attached. There were at least three different pictures of female students—all seniors, like Sloane and me—in various stages of undress. The photos were flattering but not something I'd imagine were meant for public consumption. They were intimate, revealing faces free of makeup and poor lighting from bedrooms rather than photo studios.

The scroll bar on the side of the screen told me that there were even more images, but I couldn't bring myself to look any further. Even though I'd held the title of executive editor for St. Joe's student newspaper for only about a month, I'd been on staff long enough to know the email was going to be the sole topic of our meeting today. My fingers quickly pressed Delete, pushing away the curiosity that welled inside of me and choosing to, just this once, not act like a reporter.

"Class, please," Mrs. Thompson tried fruitlessly from the front of the class. Getting us to focus on economics was hard enough already but the email was going to make it impossible. "Does anyone remember from last class what the purpose of a tight monetary policy is?"

She looked exhausted and had seemingly aged five years since starting here as a teacher. Mrs. Thompson was young and probably already thinking about how there was enough time left in her life to find a new career. She was used to everyone in class looking at our phones, so it never occurred to her that what had grabbed our attention might be a concern. Part of me wished she would ask, so I could comfortably know that at least someone other than the students was aware.

At least that would be one microscopic thing working in favor of the girls involved.

"Can you believe Alice is on here?" a voice said. "Isn't that Louis's girlfriend?"