I don't sleep.
Can't sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Madison in that UCLA shirt. Liam's face when he told me I don't belong. The way they looked at each other like I wasn't even there.
At 4 AM, I'm still staring at my ceiling, phone clutched in my hand. The Sacramento heat is already building, even this early. My room feels suffocating, the air conditioning unit humming its broken rhythm like it has all summer. The blue light from my screen casts shadows that dance across the walls, walls covered in photos I'll need to take down. Photos of a life that doesn't exist anymore.
Seventy-three texts from Liam. I blocked his number, but they came through on Instagram DMs before I blocked him there too.
I'm sorryPlease let me explainIt wasn't supposed to happen like thisYou're overreactingMadison means nothingCan we just talk?
That last one makes me laugh. A hollow, bitter sound that doesn't feel like it came from me. The kind of laugh that hurts your throat on the way out.
Madison means nothing.
Then why is she in your bed?
I open Instagram. Stare at my feed. All those polished photos. All those perfect captions. All those lies. The algorithm serves me exactly what I don't want to see: couple photos, vacation aesthetics, influencer girls with their perfect boyfriends. The life I thought I had.
My finger hovers over Madison's profile.
Her "Upgrade" post has 4,000 likes now. The comments are filled with fire emojis and people asking who the lucky guy is. Each notification is a tiny knife.
Someone tagged me.
@averylane isn't this ur boyfriend's shirt? 👀
My stomach drops.
I scroll down. More tags. More comments. More people connecting dots I didn't even realize were visible.
wait is she dating avery's ex???OMG MESSYsisters dating the same guy? YIKESthis is why i don't trust family lmaooo
Then I see it.
A screenshot. My graduation photos with Liam. Side by side with Madison's new post. Someone spent time on this, matched the angles, circled the details in red. They made it into a goddamn investigation board.
Same shirt.
Same room.
Same guy.
The caption: Sacramento tea is SCALDING ☕️
It has 12,000 likes.
I'm going viral.
For all the wrong reasons.
My hands shake as I scroll through the comments. Hundreds of them. Thousands. People I've never met discussing my life like it's a Netflix drama. Like I'm a character instead of a person. Like my pain is entertainment for their Tuesday morning.
avery deserves betternah she probably knew and is playing victimthe sister is FOUL for thishigh school girls dating college guys always ends like this lolboth of them are messy tbh
I lock my phone. Throw it across the room. It hits the wall and clatters to the floor, landing somewhere between my desk and the pile of college acceptance letters I never got around to framing.
I don't care if it's broken.
I don't care about anything.
But then my laptop pings. The sound cuts through the silence like a gunshot.
An email notification.
Subject: Checking In - Brand Partnership
I scramble off my bed, grab the laptop. My fingers fumble on the keyboard. Open the email.
Hi Avery,
Hope you're doing well! We noticed some recent activity on your social media and wanted to touch base. As you know, our brand values authenticity and positive representation. We're seeing some concerning discussions in your comments section and wanted to make sure everything is okay on your end. Let us know if you need anything!
Best,Taylor - Brand Partnerships
Translation: fix your mess or we're dropping you.
The professional language doesn't hide what this really is. A warning. I've seen it happen to other influencers. One scandal and the sponsors disappear like smoke.
I check my other emails.
Three more. All from different sponsors. All saying basically the same thing. The skincare brand. The clothing company. Even the local Sacramento coffee shop that pays me to post their cold brew.
They're watching.
They're waiting.
One wrong move and I lose everything I've built. Four years of work. Of perfect photos and carefully crafted captions. Of waking up at 5 AM for golden hour shots. Of building something that was mine.
My phone buzzes from where it landed. Cracked screen, but still working. Story of my life.
Text from Zoey: AVERY WTF IS HAPPENING
I don't respond.
Another buzz. A call this time.
I answer. "Zo..."
"WHAT THE HELL." Her voice is sharp. Panicked. "Everyone is talking about it. The screenshots are everywhere. Madison posted WHAT? Are you okay? Where are you? I'm coming over."
"No." My voice sounds dead. Hollow. Like someone else is using my mouth. "Don't."
"Avery..."
"I can't... I can't see anyone right now."
Silence.
Then softer: "Did he really...?"
"Yeah." The word cracks in half.
"I'm gonna kill him. Both of them. I'm driving to UCLA right now and..."
"Don't." I wipe my face. When did I start crying again? The tears are hot and angry and I hate them. "It doesn't matter."
"It DOES matter. She's your sister. He's, was, your boyfriend. They..."
"I know what they did, Zoey."
Another silence.
"What do you need?" she asks finally. "Tell me what you need and I'll do it."
"I need everyone to stop talking about me."
"Okay." Her voice is gentle now. Careful. Like I'm made of glass. Maybe I am. "Okay. I'll... I'll handle it. I'll comment on the posts. Defend you. I'll..."
"No."
"What?"
"Don't defend me. Don't engage. Don't... just don't."
Because defending me means acknowledging it's real. Means confirming I'm the girl who got dumped for her sister. The girl who was practice. The girl who wasn't good enough.
I'd rather let them wonder.
"I have to go," I whisper.
"Avery, please don't do anything..."
I hang up.
Sit back down on my floor. The carpet is soft under my legs, cream-colored and plush. Mom picked it out when we moved into this house after the divorce. Said I deserved something nice. Something that was just mine. Now it feels like everything is tainted.
Open Instagram again.
The screenshots have spread to Twitter now. TikTok. Someone made a whole video analyzing the "tea" with dramatic music and everything. Red circles. Zoom-ins. A timeline of events constructed from my public posts. They're calling it the Sacramento Sister Scandal. It already has a hashtag.
I'm a meme.
I'm a cautionary tale.
I'm the punchline.
My bedroom door opens. I don't look up.
Mom stands there in her bathrobe, holding her phone. Her hair is messy, face bare of makeup. She looks older in the early morning light streaming through my window. "Avery. We need to talk."
"Not now."
"Yes, now." She comes in, closes the door behind her. Sits on my bed. The mattress dips under her weight. "I've been getting calls. Your aunt Linda saw something online. Your cousin texted me. Even my coworkers are asking if you're okay."
I don't look at her. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. And I need to know what's going on."
"Liam and I broke up."
"I gathered that much. What I don't understand is why Madison..." She stops. Takes a breath. "Is it true? What people are saying?"
"That she slept with my boyfriend? Yeah. It's true."
Mom's face does something complicated. Anger. Disappointment. Something else I can't name. Betrayal, maybe. Not for herself, but for me.
"I'll talk to her," she says finally.
"Don't bother."
"Avery..."
"She won't care. She already won." I laugh, and it sounds wrong. Bitter. Adult. "She wanted to prove she's better than me, and she did. Congrats to Madison."
"That's not..."
"Can you please just leave?" I'm not crying anymore. I'm past crying. I'm in that numb space where nothing feels real. Where my body is here but my mind is somewhere else, watching this happen to someone else. "I have graduation tomorrow and I need to sleep."
"You're still going?"
I look at her finally. "Of course I'm going. I'm not letting them take that from me too."
Mom studies my face. Whatever she sees there makes her stand up. Makes her recognize that her daughter has changed in the span of twenty-four hours. "Okay. But Avery? If you need to talk..."
"I don't."
She leaves. The door clicks shut softly behind her.
I sit in the dark and scroll through the comments until the sun comes up. Watch the Sacramento sky turn from black to navy to pink to gold. The colors are beautiful. They shouldn't be beautiful. Not today.
By 6 AM, there are think pieces. Actual articles. "The Dark Side of Teen Influencer Culture" and "When Family Betrays: A Social Media Horror Story."
They're using my name.
My photos.
My pain.
And they're making money off it.
I close my laptop.
Stand up.
Walk to my mirror.
I look like hell. Puffy eyes. Smeared mascara I never washed off. Hair tangled. But underneath all of that, I see something else.
Something sharp.
Something dangerous.
"Never again," I whisper to my reflection. "Never weak again."
The girl in the mirror stares back.
She looks like a stranger.
Good.
Because Avery Lane, the sweet influencer girl who cried over a boy? She's gone.
Whoever I'm becoming? She's going to be a problem.
Graduation is at 3 PM.
I spend the morning in the shower. Washing away yesterday. Washing away the tears and the humiliation and the weakness. The water runs hot enough to turn my skin pink, and I stand there until the tank goes cold.
When I get out, I do my makeup like I'm going to war.
Foundation. Contour. Highlight. The works. Each stroke of the brush is deliberate. Purposeful. I'm not hiding. I'm armoring up.
My hair falls in perfect waves. My dress is white and innocent and lies like hell about who I'm becoming. It's the dress Mom bought me three weeks ago, back when graduation felt like a celebration instead of a performance.
I look in the mirror one more time.
The girl staring back looks confident. Put together. Like nothing is wrong.
Perfect.
Mom drives me to the school. Doesn't ask if I'm okay. Doesn't bring up Madison. Just drives in silence while I stare out the window at familiar streets. We pass the coffee shop where Liam and I had our first date. The park where he told me he loved me. The corner where Madison rear-ended someone last year and Dad had to bail her out.
The parking lot is packed. Families with balloons. Students in caps and gowns. Everyone excited and happy and normal. The June heat shimmers off the asphalt.
I pull on my cap and gown in the bathroom. A few girls glance at me, whispering. I ignore them. My hands are steady as I adjust the tassel.
"Avery." Zoey appears in the mirror behind me. "Hey."
"Hey."
"You look... good."
"Thanks."
She fidgets with her tassel. "Everyone's talking..."
"I know."
"I told Brandon to shut up. And Kayla. And basically anyone who tried to say something."
"Appreciate it."
"Are you really okay?"
I turn to face her. "No. But I will be."
She hugs me. Hard. I hug her back, breathing in her familiar perfume. Vanilla and something floral. Normal. Safe.
"For what it's worth," she whispers, "Madison's a bitch. And Liam's an idiot. And you're going to be fine."
"I know."
I don't know.
But I need to believe it.
We line up alphabetically. I'm between two people I barely know. They don't talk to me. Don't even look at me. The whispers ripple through the line like a wave.
Good.
The ceremony starts. Principal's speech. Valedictorian's speech. Student performances. All of it blurs together. The auditorium is too warm, the air thick with perfume and nervous sweat and the weight of futures being decided.
Then they start calling names.
"Avery Lane."
I walk across the stage. Shake hands. Accept my diploma. Smile for the cameras. The flash is blinding.
The audience applauds politely.
I scan the crowd out of habit. Looking for my family. Mom's there, crying. Dad too, even though they're divorced. Aunt Linda. A few cousins.
Madison's not there.
Of course she's not.
But then I see someone else.
A man. Older. Distinguished looking in a blazer. Salt and pepper hair. Strong jawline. He looks out of place somehow, too polished, too deliberate.
He's sitting in the back, not with any particular family. Just watching.
And when I look at him, he's already looking at me.
Not politely. Not casually.
Curiously.
Like he's trying to figure something out.
I don't recognize him.
But something about his face is familiar.
The same sharp features. The same blue eyes. Ice blue. Calculating.
My stomach drops.
I know those eyes.
I've seen those eyes.
In photos. In Liam's Instagram. In the background of family pictures.
That's his father.
Professor Ethan Parker.
And he's watching me like I'm a puzzle he wants to solve.
I tear my gaze away. Keep walking. Take my seat. My hands are shaking again, but this time it's not from sadness.
But I can feel him still looking.
And for the first time since yesterday, I feel something other than pain.
I feel possibility.