Page 11 of All Signs Point to Malibu

She does look good though. I can begrudgingly give her that. Not the same adorable team mascot desperate to fit in that she was ten years ago. Success agrees with her, I guess. I’d be happy for her if she hadn’t stolen mine.

Mrs. Miller stands and addresses the loud, rowdy crowd. “Settle down...okay everyone...”

The students continue to ignore her. She wasn’t kidding about teenagers being assholes. But who could blame them? This time of year, I’d been itching to be outside too, not stuck in a classroom. I’d never been studious...unlike Cliff. Valedictorian, top of his class, ambitious and driven, my brother was going places. He should be standing here delivering an inspirational speech.

Coach Green, dressed in a team logo’d tracksuit, stands and lets out a long, loud whistle. Everyone settles.

Mrs. Miller sends the man a smile that looks like a little more than just gratitude. Something definitely going on under the bleachers there. “Thank you, Coach Green,” she says.

He winks at her and she blushes.

“Continuing our career week festivities, we are lucky to have two of Maple High’s very own alumni here today for a special double presentation,” Mrs. Miller says, gesturing for us to take a podium and mic. “We have Warren Mitchell, professional football player and winner of two championship rings...”

Jocks in the crowd cheer and I can’t resist sending Hailey a look. That’s right. They love me.

“And we have Hailey Harris, influencer and life coach to the stars, to provide some inspiration.”

Of course, the social media–obsessed cheer for her. Which is arguably double the crowd. She shoots me her own smug look and I can admit it’s warranted. The applause is definitely louder and goes on seemingly forever.

Kids these days are brainwashed.

“Who’d like to start?” Mrs. Miller asks, looking back and forth between us.

I gesture Hailey forward. “Ladies first.”

“In other words, you have nothing prepared,” Hailey mumbles under her breath as she reaches into the pocket of the curve-hugging pants and takes out what looks like a dozen pages.

Most likely a snore-fest. I’m not stressing.

“Or just saving the best for last.”

Hailey shoots me an icy glare, then smiles confidently as she turns to address the crowd. “Hello, students and faculty of Maple High. It’s an honor to be back in these old familiar halls. I think we all know the impact social media has on our lives...”

“Stress, anxiety, self-confidence issues,” I mumble behind her back.

Hailey ignores me but her spine stiffens as she continues. “With so many people vying for attention and recognition these days, any successful business or professional requires that their brand be distinguishable from the competition.”

“At the cost of putting their entire personal life on display.” I tried to shut up. I did. But I have this inability to not call out bullshit when I hear it.

Hailey swings toward me, a fiery look in her light blue eyes.

Uh-oh. I’ve angered the beast.

“Online personas are usually avatars of ourselves,” she counters.

Okay, for the record she started it.

I approach the mic but keep my gaze locked on her. “So, it’s all fake?”

I hear her teeth clench so hard, I’m expecting a tooth to fall out when she speaks. “No,” she says slowly, as though I’ve had too many concussions to comprehend the single-syllable word. “It’s deciding how much of ourselves we want to reveal, how vulnerable we choose to be. It’s up to us to decide what aspects of our lives the public has access to.”

“I’m just saying people—especially young adults—need to be more active, interact with others in real life, not through altered personas.”

“Real life requires an edge. It’s not all fun and games. Even athletes need the exposure that social media provides.”

“Then why are you having such a hard time adding sports clients to your roster?”

One point Mitchell. Zero Harris.

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