Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
She doesn’t finish, but I know what she means. Once videos like this have been unleashed to the world, they take on a life of their own. My life could be ruined already.
The silence stretches. Someone starts playing The National on the café speakers, and the guy in the window seat starts tapping out the rhythm with a spoon. The world has gone on without me, and I am sitting here, trying not to shatter.
I grip the edge of the table, trying to anchor myself to something. “Can you please just see who’s got it? Who’s spreading it? What people are saying?”
Kayleigh nods, serious again. “I’ll do what I can.” She finally reaches across the table, lays her hand over mine, and gives it a squeeze. It’s warm, almost feverish. “It’ll be okay, MK. It’ll pass. These things always do.”
I want to believe her, but I don’t. Again, I think about the way people looked at me this morning—the undisguised curiosity in their eyes, the knowing smirks, the cold little pockets of silence. I think about my own face, cut and pasted onto someone else’s body, doing things I’ve never done. I think about Kent, and how nothing will ever be private again.
I watch Kayleigh pack up her bag and walk out, her boots leaving wet prints on the tile, her hair swinging in a bright wave behind her.
I sit there for a long time, hands curled around the cooling cup, watching the world through the steamed-up glass.
Deepfakes. The word is a stone in my stomach.
I close my eyes, and the world outside goes blurry and cold.
19
THE DEEPFAKES FROM HELL
MARY KATE
Istep out of Grounds & Glory and the first thing that hits me isn’t the cold but the silence. The sidewalk seems frozen as I make my way back onto campus. I zip my vest up to my neck and jam my hands in the pockets, like that’s going to save me, and start walking fast down the main drag. My boots clack on the frozen cement, and I focus on the rhythm—left, right, left, don’t think about the world burning down in your phone, just move.
But the world won’t let me off the hook that easy. Before I’ve made it three steps, I clock the way some girls by the library stoop fall quiet as I approach, a little ripple of stillness that travels through the puffer jackets and ponytails and doesn’t even bother to pretend it’s about something else. I keep my eyes ahead, try to look casual, but my mouth tastes like battery acid and the skin on my neck tingles, like it knows it’s being watched.
At the bike racks, there are two guys in sweats. I recognize one from a club meeting long ago, but he looks straight through me like I’m glass. The other one, a jock with a jaw so square it probably gets stuck in doorways, glances up and grins, then leans in to his friend and whispers something. They both laugh, low and brutal. I tell myself it’s not about me, but I know it is.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket. I don’t look at it. I keep walking, fast, wishing I’d remembered my gloves. The cold is so sharp it’s almost soothing. I breathe in through my nose, count to four, out through my mouth, count to eight. My therapist called it box breathing, but the only box I can think about right now is the one they’re trying to shove me into.
Halfway to the parking lot, I have to pass the central quad. The fountain there is dry for winter, but they’ll fill it with water soon. In warmer months, it’s where everyone sits and eats lunch or sunbathes or sneaks a smoke between classes. Now, it’s mostly empty—just a few kids hunched against the cold, or playing chicken with the campus security who cruise by every half hour.
I’m almost past it when it happens.
A guy in a battered North Face and a faded baseball cap leans against the wall, lighting a cigarette with a hand that shakes a little. He looks up as I pass, then tips his chin and says, “Hey, slut.” Not loud, but just enough that I know I’m meant to hear it. I freeze, just for a second. My face goes hot. I feel the burn all the way to my ears.
He grins, all teeth. “You hear me, right? Thought you liked it rough. Let me know if you have some free time because I’d like a taste of those big tits and wet pussy too.”
My body moves before my brain does—I keep walking, head down, fists jammed deeper in my pockets. I’m breathing hard, and I don’t notice the tears in my eyes until one slides down my cheek, blurring my vision.
Behind me, another voice: “Whore.” It’s a girl this time, but the hatred in it is just as thick. I don’t turn around. I just keep moving, fast as I can without actually running.