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at my brother, I got into Judy, revved the engine, and headed to Stubbs.

CHAPTER 3
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    Song: The Perfect Crime #2/The Decemberists
    Quote: “Foul whisperings are abroad.”
    â€” Shakespeare
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    As I drove through town, I tried to think about who could have hacked me — and why they would have wanted to. I didn’t come up with anyone.
    At school, I was friends with a lot of different groups of people — the theater kids, the people in my classes, Brian and his party friends — but I couldn’t think of anyone I’d done anything to. I’d heard about other people at school getting hacked, but I didn’t think I’d ever heard of a hacking that was this personal. Mostly, it seemed to be Macy’s, desperately trying to give out gift cards, or girls named Brandee who wanted everyone to check out their Hot Pixx.
    At a stoplight, I realized that in all the profile drama, I hadn’t checked my voice mail. I fished around in mypurse and grabbed my cell. I loved my phone. It was super cute, as right after I’d gotten it, I had it customized and painted pink — the reason, my mother firmly believed, that it acted a little wonky from time to time.
    It looked like I would have enough battery power to call my voice mail. As I turned it on, I looked around for cops. They’d passed a law in Connecticut that stated you weren’t allowed to do anything on a cell phone while driving. This had caused Schuyler a great deal of stress, as she kept forgetting about this. But whenever she was talking and driving, if she heard a siren, she would suddenly remember the law and, terrified the cops had spotted her, would throw her phone out the window. She had lost at least three phones this way, and her father had started buying silver Razrs in bulk.
    My voice mail icon flashed, and, slouching down in my seat, I called it and heard that I had 43 new voice mails. An hour ago, I would have been really excited to hear this, but now I was pretty sure I knew the reason for all the calls. Sure enough, the first message was from a confused-sounding Liz. I sighed, closed my phone, and pulled into Stubbs.
    The Stubbs sign — a grizzled-looking sailor holding a mug of coffee, with a whale’s tail arching behind him — was illuminated, and I could see through the coffee shop’s plate-glass window my three best friendssitting inside. They were in our usual spot, the one in the corner with a couch, an armchair, and a wooden chair.
    Lisa was particularly adept at snagging this spot. She had no shame when it came to getting it. She had been known to spread false information about meter maids, make loud comments about where on the street the couch had been found, and on one occasion I’d just as soon forget, had appropriated a limp.
    I stepped into the coffee shop, which was cozy, always just a little bit overheated, and smelled like fresh-roasted beans, and walked over to my friends.
    Schuyler, all 5’10” of her, was on the right side of the couch, with her ridiculously long legs folded underneath her. She was playing with her long red hair, a sure sign that she was thinking about something. As usual, she was not wearing clothes that would have made her look like the model her stepmother was always insisting that she could be, but had on jeans and what was probably the loosest shirt Abercrombie sold.
    Lisa was sitting next to her, sporting what she liked to call “Montmartre chic” and what Ruth and I called “too much time spent at Anthropologie.” She was wearing black capris and a pink-and-white striped T-shirt with little puffed sleeves and black flats. The flats were a new addition; before her passion for all things French had taken hold, Lisa had usually worn four-inchheels in an attempt to hide the fact that she was only 5’1”. But as we always pointed out (and which she always pointed out was not helpful), her thick black curly hair added an