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porthole windows in the gym doors. A different reflex made me reach for the cell phone in my pocket. I peeked through the windows and saw him grabbinghandfuls of clothing, stuffing it all back into the basket. With my phone, I snapped photo after photo.
    To this day, I still don’t know what made me do it. I just know that when I got home and uploaded the pics to my MacBook, the seed of revenge was already growing, sprouting fruit.
    Most of the shots were mundane—a guy grabbing clothes off the floor. But there were a couple of shots where the clothing was very specific (jockstraps) and the expression on his face could be left up to interpretation. Most likely, he was disgusted, right? I mean, dirty jockstraps.
    But a bit of added commentary, say a caption, could suggest something different. Something deviant.
    Something special.
    I waited until his knee healed and he was back in the starting lineup before I launched the site with that deceptive picture that looked like Taylor grabbing bunches of his teammates’ nasty undergarments and sniffing them the way a perfume maker sniffs beakers in a lab.
    The caption I settled on: Most people prefer roses .
    Life at Portside got bad for Taylor after that. Almost as bad as he made things for me.
    The difference was, he deserved it.
    Him and everyone after.

CHAPTER 6
    RUMORS ABOUT COACH BOTTIN’S JOB SPREAD . Everything from him being suspended (which is the most prevalent and likely rumor) to him hiring some underworld cleaner to change his identity so Keachin’s father can’t find him. Either way, the Keachin-Coach thing is all anyone talks about. Even the teachers seem distracted.
    Of the parties involved in the scandal, I’m the only one who shows my face on school grounds. I’m okay during homeroom and Spanish 2, but by ten o’clock, I’m regretting it, barely able to keep my eyes open. All my teachers sound like the adults from Charlie Brown cartoons, Whanh-whanh-waww ing me into a near coma.
    The good news: I’m so tired I stop feeling anxious about the elevated level of attention this story is getting or the person who stalked me while I exposed Keachin. In the midst of my sleep deprivation I think of how it’s just my luck to get a “Secret Adm1r3r” who woos me with incriminating evidence. It makes me chuckle.
    â€œLauren,” says Mr. Thompson, “is there something amusing about Reconstruction?”
    I blink myself back into the moment, and see the kids in my history class stare-giggling. It’s the first time they’ve noticed me this year. You’re slipping, Panda .
    â€œNo, sir,” I say. “There is nothing amusing about this lecture. At all.”
    The class cracks up. Inwardly, I groan, knowing they’re taking it the wrong way. Them and Mr. Thompson.
    He narrows his eyes. “Watch the sass, Miss Daniels.”
    I trudge through biology and lunch—where Ocie regales me with new rumors of Coach Bottin’s whereabouts (he’s seeking asylum in Cuba)—before I catch a second wind in my afternoon elective, Digital Photography.
    I know, I know. Me being in this class when I do the things I do may seem counterintuitive, but it’s another level of Hall Ghostiness. Obviously, Gray would be a student at Portside, likely enrolled in DP at some point. That’s why it’s perfect.
    Everyone who’s ever taken DP has been suspected as Gray, me included. The accusations are quickly debunked when comparing our DP classwork to Gray’s portfolio.
    Gray is a skilled photographer with superior equipment. The DP class takes pictures with cheap point-and-shoot loaner cameras. Quality photos are the exception, not the rule, in here. My technical know-how is enough to squeeze some decent snaps from the raggedy class equipment, but I make sure to turn in mediocre assignments, so as never to raise any eyebrows.
    There’s a sucky element to this charade, though. I