Treadmill

XXV

It's coming today. The thing you've all been waiting for.

So, I hope you're ready.

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"It's out."

"It's out?"

"It's out."

"You're lying."

"Well, I'm reading it right now, so." Celeste retorted, her eyes glued to her phone. Rebecca grabbed her own and pulled up the Chopped website. And there it was, for their Sunday issue, in bold writing at the top of the page: The Story of Kennedy Abrams & Her Scapegoat.

Beneath the title was a picture of Kennedy as Drew Parley, posing for the camera on a Tampa beach at sunset. Rebecca stared at the photo for a second, not sure how she was supposed to feel—the picture, and the fact that she knew she had been the person behind the camera, represented a version of herself that wanted to be included so desperately that she would do anything to gain Kennedy Abrams' favor. Drew Parley and @drewboo seemed like a distant fever dream that had never actually happened. The only proof that it had indeed happened were the pictures that littered Instagram feeds and Pinterest boards, serving as fashion inspiration and confidence levels to aspire to.

Beneath the photo of Kennedy, came the article that Rebecca had spent what felt like a lifetime painstakingly writing out, trying to come up with the best way to write it all out—to put it all down and tell the world what had happened to her, to Hank Wilcox, and even to Kennedy Abrams herself.

This is weird, because it isn't on a blog. And I'm not an incredible writer, which is why I'm as surprised that I have this opportunity as you undoubtedly are. So, I'll try to sound like someone who knows how to write, because this is a story that deserves an amazing writer to tell it. Perhaps the editors will help with that. Will I even get editors for this?

At the beginning of my sophomore year of college, I was at the gym. More specifically, I was on a treadmill. And I think that is where this entire thing started. Me, on a treadmill, falling flat on my face and wishing that the entire world would just drop dead around me so that I wouldn't have to from the embarrassment.

And then my savior walked up to me. Kennedy Abrams, bright-eyed, blonde-haired, and with the most enviable body I had ever seen in my life. I was a little bit in love with her, I'm not going to lie. I had been following her on Instagram for two years and noticing her whenever I passed by her on campus at Clemson University, where we both attend—or, attended, in her case—school. She had thousands of followers on every social media platform, hosted the most infamous parties in the school, and was known among the guys our age as The One Girl You Had to Hook Up with Before You Graduated. It was like a rite of passage to them. And Kennedy loved it.

This absolute supermodel helped me up off the floor and saw my shorts. She saw my volleyball shorts and invited me to play with her and her friends. Could you imagine? The girl you've looked up to for two years, the girl you've been borderline creepy towards with how much you idolize her, casually inviting you to play volleyball with her and her friends after helping you up from arguably one of your most embarrassing moments. I was in love. I was determined to make this opportunity count.

After volleyball came smoothies. After smoothies came party invites. And soon I was no longer a virgin, could no longer say I had never been drunk, and was the coolest person in my own friend group. My new BFF was Kennedy Freaking Abrams. I was on top of the world.