Before my parents died and Atticus took his own life, I actually led a quiet, simple life.

My father worked as a chemical engineer so I've inherited my interest in chemistry, narcotics, and explosions from him while my mother was a kindergarten teacher at Kensington Prep, which was one of the reasons why I managed to go to that school since kindergarten for a discounted price. At that time, I went by a different name and a different look. Once upon a time, I had dark brown hair and my full name was Bronte Amory Emerson- sorry, is.

In order to fully complete my transition as a new person into Kensington Prep, I've changed my name by going by my middle name, Amory, which not many people know about, and using my mother's maiden name, 'Scout'. That way, Orson and his friends will not see the connection with 'Emerson' to my past.

I knew deep down in order to be successful in my vendetta, I had to become a completely different person. Not just as a safety net but in order to seep into their ranks and become one of them. I had to talk, look and act differently.

Being in Los Angeles, the town of the rich and famous, and attending Beverly Hills High, an institution that overflowed with hot girls, have made the change from dorky nobody to glamorous Elite a lot easier. On the West Coast, the newly rich and attention-hungry dominated the A-List. The only reason that anyone became anybody was because you were hot with a verified checkmark on Instagram or because your parents were movie stars, had their own TV series or talent agency or ran a studio.

The top of the food chain in New York was demarcated differently, along the lines of old money, relationship to royalty, and/or the arts. You could be an Elite if you could trace your lineage back to Peter Stuyvesant; you could be an Elite if you were the kid of the first-name partner at a Wall Street law firm; you could be an Elite if you were well-reviewed in the New York Review of Books.

One thing that never differed between the two towns was the requirement of looking the part. Luckily, being in LA, a city full of girls always trying to fix something about themselves, has made this easy to pick up on what I needed to do to properly transform. 

When I first moved to Los Angeles, I had only just turned fifteen and yet it seemed as if every other person I've met in Southern California had work done, including a lot of my classmates at Beverly Hills High School. None of them admitted it, of course. But showing up after vacation with a different nose ("I had a deviated septum; that's the only reason I did it"), sudden cleavage ("I just developed late"), or newly toned former thunder thighs ("I'm doing South Beach, plus I found this amazing cream that melts cellulite") was so commonplace as to be banal. If anything, I quickly realized, not having any work done was bound to get you some strange stares.

So for my fifteen-birthday, I begged Veronica to sign the permission slip at the surgeon's office and bought myself the best breasts money could buy, along with fixing my crooked nose. I changed my name from Bronte Emerson to Amory Scout, bleached my boring brown hair into a glossy, golden blonde, and invested in an Equinox gym membership. But I wasn't always this way- minding over my appearance, caring about clothes, or how my butt looked in a pair of jeans.

Before everything was taken away from me, life as Bronte Emerson in Kensington Prep was something truly forgettable. People barely knew I existed, despite the fact I've been in the same school for the rest of my adolescent career. I had maybe two people I've talked to consistently in Kensington and I didn't mind it that way. I prefer to spend my schooling days unknown and anonymous, away from the prying eyes of everybody else, free of drama, safe, predictable, a routine I could get used to. And I liked it that way.

When Atticus committed suicide, I've descended into this surreal, repressed blur of just trying to get through days. I've distanced myself from schoolmates, spending myriads of lunchtimes alone in the library, crying my eyes out, and cursing their names. It unraveled me slowly, worrying my teachers and guidance counselors. First, with Atticus, my little brother, bullied into the grave by Orson Calloway and his deadly mind games played by those too big and too powerful for him.

That car crash with my parents was the last straw. They left me as an orphan with nowhere to go, spent three months shifting between families, aunts, and uncles who have no idea what to say to me except simpering tokens of pity and sadness. It wasn't until the only way I could come out of my grief was the epiphany that struck me on the year anniversary of their death.

The pain and the anguish started to be more bearable when I realized I didn't do this to myself. And I didn't deserve any of it.

Orson Calloway and his friends robbed me of my happy ending.

And so I shall take theirs, one by one.

An eye for an eye.

That way is only fair.

-

"We'll leave her on my bed," I instruct Hadley as we both heave Luciana's immobile body up into Hadley's Manhattan penthouse, bringing her up across the stairs as silently as we can without waking up the maid.

Luciana might be skinny as a stick but she's not easy to carry, weighing like sacks of flour as her head lol around. I can see now why it's so easy for men to take advantage of women when they drug them- you literally can't do anything about it when you're in this state. It's like you're dead.

When we reach my room, which is facing Hadley's, we guide Luciana aimlessly onto my bed and set her on properly. We make sure she's comfortable, of course. We plop the pillow up to support her head and cover her with the blankets. "Make sure you take out her shoes," I advise Hadley, "We're not monsters."

Hadley snorts, "We've drugged her."

"It was what needed to be done," I bristle. I hate having this conversation with Hadley- all about morals and ethics around the situation. She's only agreeing to this plan of revenge, agreeing to help hack for me and do this for me because she thinks it'll give me closure with their deaths, she thinks that it'll help me forget what happened and move on and it's certainly healthier than spiraling down another oblivion of drugs, sex, and alcohol.

To be honest, I don't think I can ever move on. I'm just doing this so they'll finally understand what it's like to be played. What it's like to expose what they really are to the world. This isn't for me. No, this is me doing the world a favour, getting rid of the toxic weeds in society. These rich one-percenters think they can take advantage of the commoners, the weak just because they have money, just because they have the power.

I undo the straps of Luciana Santiago's lace-up shoes and set them nicely beside the bed. Once she's resting comfortably, Hadley and I sigh in a resolute silence. I'm still spinning high on the victory of how I've managed to successfully deceive everyone and activate my first part of my plan while Hadley is probably trying to cope with what she has done, which is being an accomplice in the drugging of a seventeen year old girl.

"I'm going to go to sleep, okay?" Hadley squeezes my shoulder and leaves my side.

As Luciana snores in my bed, I undress and wipe my makeup off. I opt for a silky lace nightgown, loving the satin feeling on my skin. I go through my nightly routine, making sure I wash the oil off, close my pores and massage it with the right formula to reduce wrinkles and discoloration.

Hadley has said I've changed so much ever since the move to LA, a change that has been completely intentional. I was no longer that awkward flat teenager who wore braces and glasses with an overbite and acne. I've transformed into a girl who invests time and effort with my appearance, splurging money I inherited on makeup, surgery, clothes and skincare routines. I studied and observed the girls that ruled the hallways in Beverly Hills, copying the workout classes they attended, the diets they followed, the procedures they've got done, how they dressed. Phase One of my remodeling campaign began six months after my move to LA, after some intense studying of the It-Girl that ruled Beverly Hills. The adjustments began small- starting workouts at Crunch, minor lip injections, and a spring clean of my old tomboy clothes.

By the time I started sophomore year, I got hair extensions from Raymond and began twice-weekly blowouts at Mimi's, got my wide nose reshaped and a new pair of 34c boobs I had my ordinary brown hair chemically transformed into a platinum blonde, enduring three-hour-long rebonding sessions to get rid of split ends. I even helped my acne by buying lé de Peau Beauté's four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-jar face cream. Even Veronica, my dear aunt, pitched in her suggestions. Back then I used to fight my mother whenever she came near my face with a tweezer, now I let my aunt take me to get her eyebrows, legs, and back waxed.

I never cared about how I looked until I needed it to blend in with those I needed to take down.

Unable to sleep, I start to pace my room and look at all the unpacked boxes, all the new clean furniture. Veronica's old apartment is now anything but old; the unmodest five thousand square feet penthouse has just been newly redecorated with the insane alimony money Veronica receives from her unfaithful husband. Despite the sizable monetary compensation, every time some trashy socialite publishes details about her imploding marriage and the new mistress, she sinks in another hundred grand on "freshening up the place".

I couldn't fault her on that, I guess. I'd throw some money at the problem if my ex-husband's new girlfriend is almost as young as the daughter he had.

The end result of Veronica's constant renovations hasn't been all bad. I now sit on my king-size bed with one of the most sought-after views on the island. A bedroom the size of an airplane hanger with an oak canopy bed as the main center of attention. A pink silk quilt that has been handmaid by a seamstress in Kentucky strewn across the white Egyptian cotton sheets with goose-feather pillows populating the headboard. Veronica has outdone herself- my room is beautiful: the hardwood floors dotted with museum-quality, hand-knotted tapestry rugs, antique oak furniture, carefully preserved. A massive closet stocked with racks and racks of beautiful, expensive clothes. I have my own bathroom, which comes with a two-showerhead shower, a jetted Jacuzzi tub, and a bidet. I've got a desk, positioned facing the skyline, along with my laptop and a fluffy white study chair. And yet none of it has been successful in making me feel at home.

Veronica might've been my dad's little sister but I could not think of more different people. My dad and Veronica were the kids of two chemists that lived in a tiny apartment in Queens. They grew up painfully middle-class, however, it wasn't until my grandfather struck gold by inventing a drug that could rapidly reverse opioid overdose. He sold the patent to pharmaceutical companies for billions of dollars and invested the money in various industries, multiplying his wealth by tenfold. And yet, despite all this money, my grandfather has never felt comfortable with wealth. Neither has my dad.

He married my mother, a Long Island native who became a kindergarten school teacher, and worked diligently beside his father until he passed away. My dad has always been the type of man who was never interested in material items, wearing work clothes from The Gap and working out at the musty YMCA gym just down the block from his office even though he could afford much better. All he ever did with the inheritance money he had got when his father passed was buy his family a three-bedroom townhouse in Tribeca and a trip to Disneyland.

Veronica, however, became the kind of insecure new money rich girl who had to advertise her money: the string of beach houses across the coasts of Miami and Malibu, the 90210 husband twenty years older than her, the Botox injections, the gumball-size diamond ring, and the limited edition clothes. While I spent growing up sharing a bedroom with Atticus, having my own room- especially a room this size- has never come naturally to me.

I sit on the table and touch my mouse pad. The computer ignites, engulfing me in light. I type in the password and begin logging into my Facebook. Then I scroll downwards where I open up the hacking app, iWebIn. From there, I can easily see Carmen frantically messaging Luciana's phone with myriads of texts that are highlighted in all caps and exclamation marks.

I try not to smile to myself. Everything's coming together but I don't want to get ahead of myself and become too cocky, too proud. The minute I do, something will come and knock everything down to building blocks again.

I crane my neck to check on Luciana, who is now snoring loudly on my bed, drool dribbling out of her mouth and onto my sheets.

I switch to the other phones, checking Orson's, Phineas's, Parker's- all of them. Parker has followed Carmen's lead, blowing up Luciana's phone with WHERE THE FUCK R U BITCH messages while Orson, being the apathetic little shithead he is, sends nothing, Phineas spares Luciana some compassion and sends her one messages to tell him where she is in a calmer manner than Parker and Carmen.

iWebIn is one of the few hacking sites that I could get a hang on quite easily. Hadley has taught me how to use it and she also told me how coding works- which really isn't truly difficult when you finally understand. Coding is just very scrupulous and annoying. It's all about memory, knowing when to use a hyphen or a semicolon and one mistake can mess the whole thing up. Regardless, it's a skill I'm willing to pick up, especially how useful it is to what I need to do.

Coding and hacking have taught me to know what people are like when they aren't faced with the issue of reality- what they chose to become, what they want to become because the internet helps provide that shield, that wonderful cover of anonymity. And it helps me get an edge when it comes to knowing their weaknesses, their deepest fears, their deepest seeds of humiliation. It allows me to better understand them, what makes them tick. Their insecurities served on a platter.

With my ability of internet stalking and hacking, I have become resourceful at knowing information. Information that can kill, information that gives me power.

There is for instance a very good chance they're hiding an extremely dangerous secret, a secret that could potentially harm their reputations. Maybe even get them into legal trouble. For instance, I've noticed conversations between the group where they refer to something as the 'Helena Thing' but they never fully elaborate what it was. Messages like I can't believe it's been six months since the Helena Thing and Carmen's furtive, indiscreet telling off: We swore we never talk about The Helena Thing.

After watching their messages for a while, admiring in mild amusement of them running amuck, freaking out over the disappearance of Luciana, I decided to try and fall asleep so I settled myself by the window cushion with a book- Peace and War by Leo Tolstoy.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes. I check the screen to see who has messaged me. My heart runs cold when I see the name. I text back: I'll be down in fifteen.

-

"So how was Los Angeles, Emerson?"

Devvon Greene's smile is full of teeth when he sees me emerge from the entrance of the apartment complex. Devvon Greene resembles one of those Wall Street stockbrokers with the way how his collar is slightly crooked from his day of stress at the office. His tie and suit make a statement on how he truly belongs in this side of the neighborhood of Manhattan as if his blood is blue and his living comes from an inherited trust fund. But I know better.

"It's Scout now," I correct him. "Amory Scout."

"Oh yeah," he chuckles, "I hear you go by a different name now. Why? I like your old one."

I roll my eyes. "Cut the bullshit, Devvon."

"I'm hurt," he gasps, clutching his chest, "This is the first time in two years you're meeting me and this is how I'm treated?"

"Fuck off," I snap but the grin on my face betrays me as I envelop Devvon in a massive hug, looking ridiculous as Devvon is a staggering 6'5 while I'm 5'6. People must think I'm like his kid sister or something.

We are relatively alone in the streets, save for the doorman that stands by the steps of the apartment entrance and a few stragglers walking to get home. It's understandable why it's empty. I live in a street full of overpriced apartments and penthouses. It's a Friday night; most would be out at East Houston or Leonard, pouring out the nightlife.

"Miss you, kiddo," he murmurs into my hair and then releases me. "Nice blonde hair, by the way."

"Yeah, thanks," I tug uncomfortably at my blonde strands, suddenly remembering the past. The last time I saw Devvon was at my parents' funeral.

"You look so different," he marvels as we drift from my apartment, strolling leisurely as if we are out for a nice, quaint little walk. "Like there's something different about you."

His eyes are so full of concern, bright and brown in the city lights. I cross my arms and ignore him, "Look, I need to know if you could help me..."

"Help you...?"

"Get a gun."

Immediately, confusion spits on his face. "What?" I have predicted that reaction. "Why do you want a gun, Bronte?"

"Amory," I hiss. "My name is now Amory. I go by that now."

"Fine, Amory," he relapses, rolling his eyes, "Why do you want a gun?"

"None of your concern."

"Um, you're barely eighteen- of course it's my concern. You've skipped a whole fucking line here."

"Never stopped you before," I retort coldly, "You sold Atticus the painkillers he took to kill himself. You have no right to tell me what's your fucking concerns. Look, I just came to you because I need some help retrieving a firearm and I thought I'll give you the business for old times' sake. If you don't want to help me, forget it. I'll find someone who'll get it for me."

I begin to walk away back towards my apartment when he grabs my wrist unexpectedly. "Wait, Bronte- Amory- wait."

"What?" I whirl on him. "Don't waste my time, Devvon."

He sighs heavily, releasing my wrist. "You're lucky that my lease is coming up on me. I'll get you the gun."

My lips twist into a gracious smile. I reach out to squeeze his hand, not a hug, to show him my gratitude. "Thank you."

"You're not being hurt, right?"

His question catches me off-guard. I blink, recoiling at the blasphemy of such a suggestion. I cough out: "Why would you think that?"

"Well, you want to buy a gun."

I laugh, amused at his assumptions, partly because it's cute that he's so worried about me and partly because if only he knew my true intentions. "It's nothing like that," I assure him, lips curling, "I promise."

-

It's mid-noon by the time Luciana Santiago finally wakes up. I have left a glass of water by the bedside and I was working on my laptop when I hear her rise from my bed. Quickly, I switch off iWebin and open up Facebook.

"Where- where am I?" she groans, rubbing her forehead. Her brown hair emerges in a thick rat nest, her makeup has smudged all over her face and she stinks off booze and vomit.

"Hey," I say softly, "I'm Amory, the girl found you passed out in the bathroom?"

"Oh my God," Luciana chokes out, placing a hand on her chest. She looks down to survey herself and scan the whole room, noticing her shoes beside the bed and the dress she still has from last night, "How-what-"

"Look, I found you dead on the floor," I say, feigning innocent, spiraling out a well-spunned lie that I've rehearsed plenty before: "And I didn't know where you lived, who your friends were or anything, and I'm not the type of bitch who would just leave you on the floor so I cut my night early and took you home."

"Fuck," gasps Luciana, her slender hand over her mouth. "I don't even remember anything..."

I chuckle, trying to lighten the mood, "Well maybe you shouldn't have drunk that much."

"I don't even remember drinking..."

"It doesn't matter," I offer her, "The thing is that you're lucky I found you and that you're safe, not raped and left dead in a ditch somewhere."

"True," Luciana breathes out loud. She then suddenly realizes what I've done for her, smiling at me with such trusting nature I almost felt the seed of guilt planting in my gut but I crushed the weeds before any of them could grow into my conscience- or my lack of one. Think of what they did to Atticus, what they did to your parents. "Thank God for you. You legit, like, saved my life. I must've been fucked last night."

"You were."

"Jesus," she shakes her head, "Well I guess it's not a typical weekend unless I end up blacking out. What's your name again?"

I extend my hand out, "Amory, Amory Scout."

"Cool," she shakes my hand, "I'm Luciana. Call me Luce."

I couldn't resist a smirk. "Nice meeting you, Luce."

Luciana- Luce- then proceeds to rise from my bed. She grabs the water I left her on the bedside, gulps it down heavily, and wipes her mouth, which is slicked with glistening wetness. Even with her mussed-up hair and messy makeup, Luciana still pulls off an effortless gorgeousness that doesn't require much enhancement. She picks up the bag I've abandoned on the floor for her to see, clicks it open, and rummages for her phone.

"Fuck, my battery is dead," she sighs, "Do you have a -"

"iPhone Charger?" I finish for her, dangling the white cord, "Yeah sure, just hook it up to my laptop. I'll charge it for you. Also, do you want to shower? You can borrow some of my clothes if you want- I assume you don't want to head back home in that." I gesture to her bandage dress and her strappy heels.

Her smile widens even further, "That'd be great!" she exclaims, "Who are you, like a fairy godmother?"

You wish. "Nah, it's cool. Believe me, I've been there and I get what it's like to have way too much fun. Anyway, I'll get you some clothes."

I place her phone onto my desk and connect it to my laptop, then I lead her to my wardrobe. "Choose what you want."

"No, I can't," Luce nervously twirls her hair with her finger. She's so sweet, which is perfect because that means she's trustworthy and easy to fool. Someone I need to get into an inner circle that could be harder than to break into the Pentagon. "I'm already using your bed and using your charger. I can't just take whatever clothes I want out of your closet."

"Go ahead," I shrug, playing the angle of the unbelievably easy-going cool girl. "It's not that big of a deal."

"You're a miracle," she compliments me, reaching out to squeeze my hand. I jump at the sudden display of affection. "And your clothes are, by the way, so cute."

I beam, cocking my hips to one side, shifting my weight to my left, "Thanks- oh and the shower is over there." I point to the door beside the exit of my bedroom and she nods. Then I leave her to herself to get changed as I head back to my desk.

At the corner of my eye, I wait for her to disappear into the bathroom before quickly activating iWebIn to access her phone connected to my Mac. With the program, I crack her simpleton four-number password and begin to download all of her files through her iCloud into my laptop.

Within five minutes, my laptop has finished uploading all of her contents onto my laptop and breaking into her iCloud, waiting for me to just log in and browse through her whole life. So easy. I close iWebIn triumphantly and stretch my fingers, unable to believe how easy that was. Some people are too stupid for their own good.

As I wait for Luciana to finish in the shower, the door opens and Hadley comes in, dressed in shorts and a simple Physics Aren't Just For Boys t-shirt. "Where is she?"

"Showering," I mouth, putting my finger to my lips.

Hadley nods, understanding. "You got her phone?" I read her lips.

I wave it up in the air and wink. She flashes me a thumbs-up and retreats back into her room, closing my door as she leaves. Soon, Luciana emerges out of my bathroom, hair wet and wearing my black oversized Religion is Cancer t-shirt. She pulls it off much better than I can, as her long legs seem to transcend beyond reality in that shirt while when I wear that shirt,

She twirls to look at herself in the mirror on the wall beside the bathroom entrance, ruffles her hair, and dry it into a towel before smiling at me. "Thanks so much for letting me use your shower," she says, going on profusely, "Like seriously, thanks."

"No problem," I reply, faking a smile to tempt her into a friendship. She grins back and I catch a scintillating gleam in her smile that tells me she likes me. Suddenly, I feel like I'm taken back into seventh grade when teachers told me we were to be chemistry partners. I remember that rush of awe, that adrenaline of being partners with someone of such a status, someone so popular and now to have her smiling at me like she wants to be friends, I'm overwhelmed by the feeling of being starstruck.

After she has finished drying her hair, she collects all of her things but not before she asked if we could exchange numbers and social media contacts. "Now that I have your number," she says before she leaves my door, "I can text you about when we're meeting for lunch because I owe you one, big time."

"No, that's not necess-"

"Bullshit," she cuts me off, shaking her head. "Seriously, if it wasn't for you, I might be dead."

"Not a problem," I breathe out with traces of a smirk in my tone.

"So I'll see you around?" she questions as she steps out of the apartment's foyer into the lobby where the private lift will take her down.

"I'll see you," I promise. 

--