“I’m deleting my Finsta,” Bunny says. Her “fake” Instagram account, the dark virtual underground world of gossip, of cruelty, of humor, of taunting and teasing and laughing, where the faces behind it accept followers they deem worthy of the privilege of seeing who they really are. Where the “real” Instagram is public domain for parents, teachers, and college administrators to dote over: Soccer goals! Prom photos! Family vacations! Not snorting Adderall, blow jobs, and poverty memes. A reckoning is slithering its way into Bunny’s consciousness, however slowly, Audrey’s murder prompting a turning point, forcing her to question the role she played as friend and the legacy she’ll someday leave behind.
Bunny puts the phone down and looks up. Audrey’s boyfriend, Justin Finnigan, plaid scarf, striped tie, khakis, cries into the shoulder of Mr. Muller, the AP history teacher, despite just three days ago hitting sloppy seconds with Lily Anderson in the corner of the Children’s Chapel. Tessa Dawson, also known as Testicles, posted a candid photo of the couple that penetrated the darkest tunnels of the gram for everyone to see, spinning Audrey into a vengeful rage.
“What a douche.” Stan exhales in Justin’s direction, crossing one leg over the other as if in the audience at New York Fashion Week. He swoops his blond hair out of his eyes and to the side.
Their friend Marty Robinson slumps toward them, a long string bean, plaid bow tie, round tortoiseshell glasses, he’s carrying a copy of Kate Chopin’s The Awakening for his AP English class all marked up with notes in the margins and yellow highlighter. His parents are professors at Howard Law School and write books on public policy, though he’ll end up at Harvard. Known as Smarty Marty, the only Black kid in their class, he’s a straight-A student who could take the SATs stoned and still score a 1600 (2400 including the writing section).
“Hey, guys,” Marty says, looming gloom, hand in his pocket, book dangling by his side. Bunny stares at him and Stan nods his head. “Where’s Billy?” he asks.
Bunny takes a deep breath, consumed by Audrey’s death. “He had to go listen to his dad speak at work or something.” She says it so casually, so astonishingly nonchalant, work or something, the naïveté palpable on the edge of adulthood, the familial power in the hands of children who don’t even know it’s theirs.
“Oh, does he know what happened?” Marty asks.
“I just texted him,” Bunny says. More clip-clopping is coming toward them down the stone steps; all eyes turn to the wall and traveling ivy as Chase Cowan and none other than Mackenzie Wallace, Senator Wallace’s daughter, appear before them.
“Yo, Smarty Marty, New Girl is lookin’ for you,” Chase says. Mackenzie, Betsy and Doug’s older daughter, stands with her hands clamped before her, knee socks, stringy hair hiding her bald spots, nose red from the wind chill. She didn’t know Audrey Banks, so she stands with wide eyes, lost and clinging to anyone who will talk to her, just wanting to feel like she’s going through this traumatic bonding experience with all of them.
Chase is the star football quarterback; his dad also happens to be the head of the CIA. He’s got anger issues as a result of his father’s PTSD post-9/11. Chase was born just months before the Twin Towers and the Pentagon were hit. His father, an employee under the director at the time, was summoned on a mission to a base in Afghanistan. He wasn’t in the military; he was an intelligence analyst trained as an interrogation guy. Up and away in a warplane; it was imperative to their survival that upon landing the engine not be heard by al-Qaeda or Taliban local militants, so they turned it off and let the plane glide toward base, only turning the engine back on at the last moment, preventing a crash landing by seconds. Chase’s father was sure they would die. But minutes later, he was led out of the plane to a secret prison. When he returned, he went through a dark period of extreme paranoia, resulting in mostly absence from a lot of Chase’s earlier years. The safe room in their house still exists, though his father doesn’t go in there much anymore. Instead, Chase and his friends use it to deal drugs and get high.
Marty walks over to Mackenzie and puts an arm around her, she’s not sure if it’s friendly or romantic but certainly awkward. “Hey, do you guys know Mackenzie Wallace? She’s new. We have English together.”
“Nice to meet you.” Bunny sticks out her hand because that’s what girls with manners do.
“Ah yes, you’re in Mr. Watson’s calculus class,” Stan says.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Mackenzie smiles, thankful she’s been noticed.
“You still having people over tonight, Putin?” asks Marty.
“Audrey died, the party didn’t.” Stan taps the ash of his cigarette away.
“Jesus, Putin.” Bunny punches him in the arm.
“Too soon, man, too soon,” Marty says, shaking his head.
“Mackenzie, you’re invited to my house tonight. I have lots of vodka to chase our troubles ahvay,” Stan says in a phony accent. His elbow resting on his knee, cigarette in hand like he’s fucking Truman Capote.
“His mansion is dope,” Chase says.
“Secret service making a beeline, put your cig out,” Bunny says, bumping shoulders with Stan. He reaches for the back of the bench, dabbing the ash, and drops the cigarette behind him.
Two men built for the marines, wearing khakis and white polos with clear wires stuck to the backs of their necks, walk toward this group of inheritance survivors. None of them fazed, only annoyed by their encroaching presence.
“There’s a black Escalade in the front circle, belong to any of you?”
“Does it have diplomatic tags?” Chase asks, not giving a shit.
The agents look at each other. “It does,” one of them says.
The kids laugh at them. These agents are on their turf. It’s not the first time government security detail has
