Page 31 of Shark Cove

Paradise Preparatory Academy’s headmaster, Dr. Mercado, had a fringe of tailored gray hair around a shiny bald pate, and he always wore bow ties. “It’s my signature look,” he’d often said. Today’s bow tie had tiny, bright green palm trees on it.

Until today, Dr. Mercado had been a benign and distant presence in Malia’s life at school, though she’d heard he could be a hard-ass, and that one of his pet peeves was cyberbullying.

Malia and Harry sat in armchairs in front of his shiny black desk. The window behind him framed a gorgeous view of the West Maui Mountains, sun-kissed by late afternoon.

Malia’s eyes felt heavy and gritty from crying, and under the long-sleeved black tee she wore, her arms crinkled—Harry had covered the gouge marks of her self-mutilation with fresh bandages.

Her mom wasn’t speaking to Malia; her face looked older, the skin so tight on her cheekbones that it seemed to gleam with the bone beneath. “I understand you have some concerns about the website you told me about,” Harry said, when the adults were done with pleasantries. Malia hadn’t said a word.

“Yes. We discovered this extremely toxic student gossip site some time ago when the parents of one of our students complained to the administration and brought it to our attention. We’ve been trying to find out the identity of the “Wallflower” cyberbully ever since, and from our conversation, it seems your daughter knows something about who that might be.”

Both pairs of eyes swiveled to fix on Malia. She stared at the tiny palm trees on Dr. Mercado’s bow tie. They jiggled whenever he spoke.

“Malia. Tell Dr. Mercado who the Wallflower is.” Harry’s voice cracked like a whip. “Now.”

Deny, deny, deny.“There’s a number you can use to communicate with the Wallflower. People send stuff to the guy on text message. I don’t know who the Wallflower is.” Her mother’s eyes seemed to be drilling hot holes in Malia so she kept her gaze on Dr. Mercado. “I texted the Wallflower number the info you told me about Camille. I was trying to help.” Malia bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.

Harry turned to Dr. Mercado. “We’ve been going through a rough time in the Clark house. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Malia’s dad left us a year ago and we’re recently divorced.”

Dr. Mercado grimaced. “I’m sorry. No wonder Malia has been a little out of sorts.”

“I’m just discovering the extent of the problems,” Harry said. “I’ve called her father and he’s coming in tomorrow to help deal with the situation.”

“What?” Malia turned to her mom. Her mouth felt gummy, her vocal cords sore from crying. “Why are you telling Dr. Mercado our private business?”

“So that the headmaster understands you aren’t yourself.” Harry pinned Malia with her gaze. “So that he understands why you’ve been cooperating with this cyberbully.” Her mom’s dark eyes promised to root out further secrets.

Malia looked down, fighting the urge to rip at her arms with her nails.

She was tempted to tell all.

This was her mom’s hypnosis magic, how she got perps to talk.

But Malia couldn’t tell, or the consequences would be dire. She could be expelled, or worse! She was going to find a way to turn Wallflower Diaries around for good; it was the only way she could live with continuing to lie about it. “I may have passed on a few things to the Wallflower here and there, but I don’t know who’s behind the site.”

“Are you sure you don’t know who the Wallflower is?” Dr. Mercado’s tone was steely. “Cyberbullying is an expulsion offense.”

“I provided the stuff about Camille William because I’m worried about her, and I’m glad the Wallflower made the site about finding her,” Malia said.

“Well, we have another student we’re interviewing,” Dr. Mercado told Harry. “A young man. Hopefully, we’ll get some answers today.”

Was it Blake they were pointing a finger at? Would he tell on her? “Who’s that?”

“I can’t say, Malia. I’m sure you understand. But anything you can tell me about the Wallflower, please let me know. Do the right thing and help us shut this site down. It’s hurt a lot of people.”

“It was mostly funny.” Malia’s voice was small. “Not all of it was mean.”

“That’s true. But the meanness outweighed the good by a long shot. If you do communicate with the kid who’s behind it, tell him or her that, will you?” Dr. Mercado’s tie was aquiver with sincerity.

Malia nodded and stared down at the toes of black athletic shoes that showed beneath the hems of her ‘Camille jeans.’

Outside the office, in the deserted hallway, Harry pulled Malia into her arms. “No more hurting yourself. Your dad will be here tomorrow, like I said, and we’re having a family meeting first thing. I’d like you to go to counseling.”

“Oh, Mom. It’s okay. Really. I was just so upset about Camille. I won’t do that thing again.” She patted her arm.

“Too late, my girl. I know a cry for help when I see one, and I’ve got both eyes on you.” She made a V with her fingers from her eyes to Malia’s, back again. “Now give me your phone. You’re grounded from it.”

“Great. I love having a mama cop,” Malia said, the old joke that had ended up on Harry’s license plate. She reluctantly handed over her phone, conscious of the Wallflower one weighing down the pocket of her hoodie.

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