“I’m not interested in being part of your group.” I tug a paper towel out of the holder and dry my hands as Bridgette and her crew stare in disbelief.

Out in the hall, I find that my hands are shaking. I ball them into fists and stuff them into my blazer pockets. Before I can push away from the wall, three guys stroll past. One stops and backs up until he’s standing in front of me.

“Hartley, isn’t it?” The boy’s taller than me by a couple of inches and broad in the shoulders, with a thick neck and big lips.

“Yes.” I search his face for a sign of recognition, but my mind is blank.

He reaches down and lifts the hem of my skirt with his phone. “What you got under there?”

I slap my skirt down and jerk out of reach. “None of your damn business.”

“Oh, do I have to pay before I look?” He tosses a smirk over his shoulder to his waiting crew, who appear highly amused at this dildo’s antics. “What’s the going rate for a peek at the puss? Fifty? A hundie? Don’t worry. I’m good for it, aren’t I, guys?”

It’s impossible for me not to turn red, but I’m only one part embarrassed to about three parts enraged.

“If you’re so good, then you wouldn’t have to fork out any cash to get in a girl’s pants, would you?” I sweep past him, my heart pounding so hard that it’s going to break through my ribcage at any moment.

I tense, ready for the moment he grabs my wrist, but he only mutters that he’s “better than anyone you’ve had.”

My tolerance for abuse and bullshit has reached its max meter, so I avoid the lunchroom, opting for a health bar from a vending machine near the library. This day has sucked and it’s only half over. My head’s pounding, my ribs hurt, and my hands are still shaking from my encounter with the boy in the hallway. I wonder what I have to do to get expelled from Astor Park. Cheating only gets you a suspension. I would know, right?

I let myself wallow in self-pity until the health bar is gone. I toss the wrapper in the trash and push open the library door. What I need is answers.

I find an unoccupied computer and open a Word doc. On the blank page, I start listing all the “facts” that I’ve picked up, assigning each a number based on a scale of believability. Five means I’m convinced it actually happened. One means hell frickin’ no.

Dated Kyle – 1: I only have his word for it.

Slept around – 2: More than one person has mentioned that I’m kind of, well, free with my charms.

Hooked up with Easton – 5: Okay, maybe not hooked up, but there’s something there. A guy doesn’t show up at a pastry shop at ten at night, give you his jacket, and drive you home without having some connection.

Bran drove you home, my little voice reminds me. He said we were friends, didn’t know if I dated Kyle, but confirmed I had been suspended.

Cheated – 5.

I look at the bare list. I know four things about myself? What about the food I like to eat? Or the music I like to listen to? Why don’t I have any friends? I stare at the cursor, blinking blinking blinking...

The light bulb turns on. This is the twenty-first century. There’s no one alive that doesn’t have a digital history. I must’ve taken pictures of myself. I must’ve have memorialized what I ate and the cute outfits I wore and the fun places I hung out at. Once I find my accounts, I can piece together my memories—no matter how shitty they are.

I start opening browser windows, typing in the addresses for every social media site that I can recall. I run search after search, using my name, my birthday, my address.

There are many Hartley Wrights on the Internet but none of them are me. There’s a Hartley Wright in Oregon who is a nurse, and another one in Georgia who knits. There’s a Hartley Wright three years older who attends UCLA and looks like she’s living the best life, what with her squad of friends, extensive closet, and super-hot boyfriend (although not remotely as hot as Easton Royal). But there are no accounts for me.

How in the world is this possible? It’s like someone deleted everything associated with me.

I’m able to locate my cousin, Jeanette, but her profile is private. Quickly, I make an email account and sign up for Facebook so I can send her a friend request. She doesn’t immediately reply. I slump in my chair. Like me, she’s in school. Unlike me, she’s not skipping classes.

I drum my fingers on the desk. The lack of information seems so odd. Maybe I just don’t know how to do an online search. It’s not like I’ve ever looked myself up before, and I can’t remember searching others, either. I think…I think I’ve always been a head-down, keep-to-myself person. It’s possible that there aren’t any pictures out there because I didn’t have a lot of friends in that school up north. I sense that I’m not someone who takes many selfies, probably because I’m not in love with my chubby face.

Maybe I didn’t hang out and party, but instead stayed in and read books. That would explain why I’m in some advanced classes here at Astor even though I don’t feel particularly smart.

Sighing, I close all the browser windows and think of my next course of action. I still need a phone. I’m going to have to ask my parents for one. I wonder if I had a job at the boarding school. Do I have any money? There wasn’t a wallet in my desk and my purse is missing.