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  Attached are two pictures. One is of me in Jack’s car, and from the angle it’s taken at, we look like we’re kissing. Which of course we weren’t. Curse you, optical illusions. The second one is of us walking into Ben & Jerry’s. Dammit. Who could possibly have taken this?

  Just then my phone vibrates with another tweet. It’s a ­follow-up:

  @ThatBitchHarper: Better watch your back, Harper. I have eyes everywhere.

  Oh my goodness. A new set of feelings rolls in. I’m now a confusing combination of infuriated and relieved. Why? I now know exactly who @ThatBitchHarper is.

  As soon as Triple A has finished jump-starting my car and leaves me with a stern warning to turn my lights off next time, I drive like a woman possessed out to the Pacific Coast Highway, convertible top down and sunglasses on. Like a warrior.

  The PCH is long and winding, it feels like it goes on forever, the ocean glittering to my left as I drive past Santa Monica Canyon, Pacific Palisades, Temescal Canyon, Topanga Canyon, all the way to Malibu. Once in Malibu, I have to drive inland almost two miles, up a steep road even more curvy and coiled than the PCH, which now looks like nothing more than a thin line down below. As I drive, I replay every tweet over and over in my mind, wondering how it took me this long to connect all the dots. The personal vendetta quality of the tweets, the way this troll knew so much about me, the bitter, holier-than-thou tone that permeated every word she wrote—it finally all made sense: @ThatBitchHarper could really only be one person, so why hadn’t I seen this before?

  I arrive at a gated community at the top of the hill, where I’m faced with a silvery keypad. I used to spend so many weekends here, so many sleepovers and birthday parties and just regular old Tuesdays. I search my memory for the pass code and am surprised when it comes to me as easily as it does: *799429#

  To my absolute shock, the code works. I can’t believe they never changed it, I think. After a low beep, the iron gate slides open and I drive in, park in front of the biggest of the Spanish Colonial Revival mansions, and ring the doorbell.

  The woman who comes to the door is very pretty and looks almost exactly like her daughter, albeit twenty-seven years older.

  “Harper?” She stares in disbelief.

  “Hi, Mrs. Crane,” I say. “Is Gwen home?”

  CHAPTER 11

  ••••••••••

  Second-Rate Gossip Girl

  Gwen comes to the door in Victoria’s Secret pajamas; pink drawstring shorts and a gray tank top that shows off her perfectly flat stomach. She’s gotten a lot taller since the last time I saw her; her hair is much more blond and there’s a lot more of it, cascading effortlessly all around her shoulders. She never did have to try very hard to look incredible.

  “Harper. What are you doing here? Are you insane?” she asks.

  “I’ll leave you two alone to talk,” Mrs. Crane says, then slinks away.

  “Am I insane?” I try to keep my voice as low and calm as possible, but it’s a challenge. “You’re running a Twitter account designed to sabotage my life!”

  Panic flashes across her face, but she shakes it off and smirks. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

  “It took me a while to figure out it was you, Gwen, because quite frankly I had more or less forgotten about you. For a second there you actually had me believing it was Ellie, after that Jamba Juice tweet. I was furious with her, never thinking to consider who resents me the most: you.”

  “How’d you figure out it was me?” She sighs deeply and crosses her arms in defeat.

  “You tweeted that I’m a wannabe celeb. That’s what you called me on the last day we spoke. Before middle school graduation. And then you called out my rainbow sprinkle cone preference— that gave you away. Nobody else besides you and Jack know that. And I was with Jack. That leaves you. Then it all came back to me, how we used to binge-watch Pretty Little Liars and pretend to be Aria and Hanna. That last tweet made it clear, your Twitter account was an attempt at being A. You wanted to haunt me the way A taunts the girls in Pretty Little Liars. A calls the girls ‘bitches.’ That’s why you call me That Bitch Harper. You’ve been a wannabe A all along.”

  “Ouch,” Gwen quips sarcastically.

  “So why, Gwen? Why do you hate me so much? Just because I had a crush on your boyfriend and kept it a secret? Would you have honestly preferred that I told you? I wasn’t trying to steal him from you, I was trying to make my feelings go away so that I could be a good friend to you!”

  “That’s not what it’s about. That’s not why I hate you.”

  “Okay, then why?”

  “You really want to know the truth?”

  “Please.”

  “Ugh, you’re just a fake nobody and you ruined my life! Okay?”

  “What do you mean, I ruined your life? How?”

  She looks up to the ceiling as if trying not to cry. “You don’t understand. You took everything from me and never had to pay for it. You got famous overnight and I got nothing. I was supposed to be famous, I’m the talented actress. You’re just some nerdy girl who knows stuff about makeup and has too much free time on her hands.”

  “I still don’t see how I ruined your life. I don’t get it. All I did was—”

  “Wait, do you still not know?” She stares, tears practically drying up on the spot.

  “Not know what?”

  “Are you serious? You must know by now.”

  “No! I don’t. What don’t I know?”

  “The day before I looked through your diary, Jack told me he couldn’t be with me anymore. Because he was in love with someone else. You.”

  What. Is. Happening.

  I stare at Gwen for a moment, openmouthed and totally confused. “That’s not possible. He was in love with you. He was obsessed with you. Remember?”

  “That’s what I thought. But it was a lie. He was just dating me because he thought you’d never like him like that. And I liked him, so he settled for me. Even though it was you he wanted all along.”

  “But . . . but . . .” I stammer, “but he told me he just wanted to be friends.”

  “Yeah, I told him if he ever acted on his feelings for you, I’d post a video I have of him falling off his skateboard and crying. Trust me, it’s humiliating.”

  “You’re insane!” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “But wait, you’re telling me he actually liked me even when he said he liked you?”

  “Yup.”

  “But . . . but . . .” I stammer again, “you’re so much prettier than I am.”

  Gwen nods solemnly. “I agree,” she says, “that’s part of why it’s so weird. But I guess Jack has a different opinion. Or maybe looks don’t matter to him or something, I don’t know. Anyways, Jack had broken up with me the day before I found your stupid diary, but I wasn’t telling people yet because I knew it would just be a matter of time before he came to his senses and asked to get back ­together. But then I saw all that sad, sad stuff you had written about him and I knew . . . I knew you wanted him too, and that meant I would never get him back.”

  “So you decided to get revenge with a nasty Twitter account?”

  “Pretty much. You ruined my happiness once; it’s only fair I got a chance to ruin yours.”

  “That’s pathetic.”

  “Not as pathetic as you thinking you actually have a real shot with Dalton James. He’s taking advantage of you, that’s what he does.”

  “Maybe it’s what he used to do, but it’s not what he’s doing with—wait, that’s right, I knew there was something else I needed to know. How did you always know what was going on with me? You knew about my date with Dalton before anyone else did, and you knew I was in Jamba Juice with Ellie.”

  “I have my ways. Are we done here yet?”

  “No, we’re not done here. You’ve been cyberbullying me for the past three weeks, and we’ll be done here when I say we’re done here.”

  “It’s my house, Harper. I’ll have my mom call the cops if you don’
t leave.”

  “Oh yeah? Then I’ll tell everyone what you’ve been up to. I will blow you up, make it so everyone knows what a horrible person you are. You thought I ruined your life in eighth grade? That was amateur hour compared to what this will look like,” I threaten. Whoa—where did all this come from? I sound pretty badass if I do say so myself, but if I’m surprised to hear myself talking like this I’m even more shocked to figure out that I mean every word. I’m not going to let Gwen push me around.

  “Okay, fine,” she says quietly, her voice so soft I can barely hear her. “I hacked into your phone. You do those check-ins everywhere you go. It wasn’t too hard to figure out where you were and with whom.”

  “How the hell could you possibly do that?”

  “It’s not rocket science. Look it up.”

  “Gwen, do you realize how illegal that is? I could call the cops on you. I can’t imagine how you could possibly even begin to—I mean, and you say I have too much time on my hands?”

  “Maybe we both do,” she says then, sounding a notch sadder than before.

  “But how did you get a picture of me in Jack’s car?”

  “I, uh . . . I had someone take it for me.”

  “Who? Tell me.”

  “Ashley Adler.”

  “What? That’s not . . . how do you even know her? I didn’t meet her until high school. You had already transferred.”

  “We met at a party. That part was a coincidence, really. We started talking and realized not only do we both know you but we also both hate you. To be honest, I don’t think her dislike for you is justified—I mean, you didn’t ruin her life. I think she’s just a basic bitch who wants to get invited to A-list parties. Anyway, I told her I’d pay her for any dirt she could get on you. That picture was the first juicy thing she gave me that I could use.”

  “You’re sick,” I say, genuinely horrified. “I can’t be around you anymore. Stop tweeting about me, stop spying on me, and just leave me alone, or I will tell everyone I know all about this and kill your reputation, all right?”

  “Whatever.”

  “I’m serious, Gwen.”

  “Oh, you’re serious? I’m so scared.” Her voice is hard again, mocking me. “I’ve told you everything you want to know. Now get out of my house.”

  I drive all the way home with loud, angry music blaring, absolutely seething that this girl I once called my best friend could be so evil. My first stop is the Apple Store at the Third Street Promenade. Let’s be real, I don’t trust for one second that she’s going to stop hacking into my phone, so I do all I can do: get a new phone and new number. Start fresh. I decide to go all out and buy an adorable black-and-white-striped Kate Spade case to go with it (when life gives you lemons, right?).

  By the time I’m home it’s dark outside and I am exhausted. I flop onto my bed and text Dalton for the first time since I’ve been back in L.A.:

  Hey bae, it’s Harper, I got a new number! I had the craziest day, can’t wait to tell you all about it. How’s the fam?

  No response. But that’s okay, it’s eight hours ahead in London, so he probably hasn’t seen the text yet. I watch a few episodes of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt on Netflix, keeping one eye on my phone the whole time, hoping maybe Dalton will wake up in the middle of the night and decide to check his phone. I doze off for a bit, and when I wake up it’s one in the morning. That means it’s nine in the morning in London, which means Dalton is definitely awake. So why hasn’t he responded to my text? Oh, you know what it probably is? I think. He has no way of knowing it’s really me. That text could have been from some nutjob fan who got his number. Of course he doesn’t want to write back! So I reach for the phone and send a second text:

  BTW this really is Harper, not some nutjob fan who got your number. Really, I swear, ask me something only I would know! Your friend Roger was a jerk to me at Magic Castle on our first date . . . the bathroom floors at our room at the Kensington hotel were heated . . . oh, and we’re both afraid of the clown from The Brave Little Toaster! See? It’s really me :)

  Thirty minutes later and still no response. I’m getting anxious. And, if you ask me, there’s only one thing to do to distract yourself when anxiously awaiting a text: edit photos for Instagram. Duh.

  * * *

  TUTORIAL #7

  How I Edit My Instagram Pictures

  First of all, I like to keep all my photo-editing apps in one folder so I know where they all are and can easily find them. The last thing anyone needs in this life is to go searching for an app during an Instagram editing emergency, am I right? Here are the steps I use to get my Instagram photos looking super on point no matter what the circumstances of my life may be:

  1. The first app I like to use is called Afterlight. Afterlight is basically a photo editor, so you can adjust anything from clarity to brightness and all that fun stuff. It also has a lot of really fun filters that I use for practically all my pictures, not to mention cool texture features, where you can make your pics look like actual old-timey photographs, which I think is awesome. This is also the app where people get those wacky borders for their photos; you can do a regular square border or a circular one or a triangular one, literally any shape you could want. Last but not least on After­light, you can set your photo up to look like a Polaroid pic if you want, which is a super fun throwback to the Polaroid era, which I sadly missed out on almost completely. So, yay Afterlight for re-creating the golden years.

  2. Next is Pic Collage, which I think is fun for making your Instagram pictures look sort of like a page in a scrapbook! Definitely recommend checking this one out.

  3. Now moving on to Lumiè, which is another great app for light ­effects. Once you pick a photo, you can add these cool light ­effects to your photo (my personal fave: sprinkling heart-shaped lights all over a photo).

  4. Picfx is another great one for filters. These filters are a little more intense and severe than the ones on Afterlight, so this is the app you want if you’re going for a dramatic effect with your Instagram photos. Picfx has a lot of cool extra features for creating a vintage, rainbowy, prismatic, or even pixilated look. The sky’s the limit with this one, folks.

  5. Next is PicFrame. I’m super obsessed with frames for my Instagram pictures. I think they add extra flare and help my pics stand out from all the others. There are basically a million unique frames to choose from that are all really dope and provide tons of variety.

  6. Then I have Mirrorgram, which I use for flipping my pictures so that I have the original photo and its mirror image side by side. It shows you the side-by-side images as you’re actually taking the photo, so you don’t need to manually flip or arrange the two different mirrors once the photo is taken. One step, done and done. You can also just upload a photo (instead of taking a picture then and there), and this app will mirrorize it for you! (Pretty sure “mirrorize” isn’t a word, but it’s fun, right?)

  7. If you’re in the mood for even fancier frame options, try Diptic!

  8. A really cool app that not a lot of people use is Over, which I use to write text over my photos before posting them. You can write whatever you want, play around with the fonts and sizes, and just have fun with it!

  9. So there’s Over and then there’s Layover—have you heard of it?! I didn’t think so, most people don’t know about this gem. Layover allows you to layer one picture on top of another picture. SAY WHAT?! It’s pretty cool if you want to layer quotes over your photos; you can select a photo and a quote and the app will blend them together for you in a number of interesting ways.

  You may think these are waaaaay more editing apps than necessary, but I promise it’s all worth it to get the perfect Instagram photos. All you really have to do is download these helpful little apps and play around with them. Have fun!

  You are my everything goals.

  Lots of love, Harper

  * * *

  CHAPTER 12

  ••••••••••

  It Was Noth
ing and She Was a Nobody

  The next day after school I head right back to my bed and paint my nails, each one a different neon color. This is a weak distraction from my troubles—namely, that it’s been about fifteen hours since I texted Dalton and he still hasn’t responded. I know he’s in New York by now getting ready for his appearance on The Tonight Show, and I know that must be a stressful thing to prepare for, but can’t he take just one little second to respond to me? There’s no way he’s that busy or that stressed out. He’s not even an easily stressed-out kind of person! I don’t want to be the kind of girlfriend who waits around for her boyfriend to text, but he’s not giving me much of an option, now is he?

  I keep myself busy with this and that as the night drags on, telling myself no, I will not be tuning in to watch Dalton on television. Yet somehow, as soon as the clock strikes 11:34 p.m., I turn on the TV and scroll to NBC for The Tonight Show. Thank God for dating a famous guy—if he shows up for Fallon, I at least know he’s still alive. What do girlfriends of nonfamous guys do when they’re worried their boyfriends have gotten hit by a truck or something?

  Jimmy does his monologue, but I’m too tense to laugh. When Dalton comes out with a fresh haircut and an enchantingly bright smile, I sigh a deep sigh of relief. Maybe he lost his phone, but he’s alive, he’s definitely alive. The audience goes wild.

  “Welcome, Dalton James! Thanks for joining us, buddy,” Fallon says as Dalton sits down in that big gray chair that always looks so comfy.

  “It’s great to be here, Jimmy. As always.” There’s that hypnotically smooth British voice I love so much. Hashtag swooning.

  “Yes, as always. I think it’s your . . . fourth time here?”

  “Fifth.”

  “Fifth, that’s what I said—pay attention, Dalton.” Laughter, laughter. “So obviously we want to hear you talk about Phantasm, the fifth and newest in the Sacred series, but before we jump into all that, the fans are dying to know, and I gotta ask: Who is this babe you’ve been seen out on the town with? Seems like it’s getting serious and we still don’t know who she is.”