Exposed Read Online Free PDF

profile at BlahFest. Under that is a P.S. reading
I’m nobody, too
.
    “Now that has to be a coincidence,” I mutter, running my finger over the line of type.
    But how incredible is it that he’s finishing a line from the poem I quoted in my profile?
    No guy really knows an Emily poem well enough to do that, right?
    No straight guy, anyway.
    Devin’s probably missing that reference, because the only Emily poems she knows are the two I gave her to learn so we won’t flunk the classroom part of presenting our paper.
    After a few seconds of shameless staring, she says, “Daaaaaay-um, Chan. Click that boy’s profile.”
    I don’t waste any time following the link.
    A private profile unfolds on the screen, tagged
Paul Hawkmore
. He lists himself as eighteen years old and asenior at Underwood High School in Burbank, Michigan.
    That’s pretty good.
    Michigan’s what, seven hours from West Estoria? Maybe eight.
    Paul’s other info is definitely phony—all sixes on the numbers, and his street is Louis Armstrong Way. Guess he has PIRs, too, even if he’s eighteen like he claims.
    Under
Interests,
he’s listed
horns
,
jazz
, and
redheads
.
    Devin punches my shoulder.
    I ignore her.
    My fingers move fast as I click on Paul Hawkmore’s message, hit REPLY, and write:
    Thks.
    You have a video at BlahFest Band?
    I sign it,
Chan, Majorette
, with a P.S. of
Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell!
    “Don’t put your real name.” Devin knocks my hand sideways before I can hit ENTER.
    “Ow!” I move my hand back and push hers out of the way. “You did agree this Internet guy thing’s not a bad idea, and I’m only using my first name like he did.”
    “His first name could be Merwood or Spitball for all you know. Merwood Spitball. That sounds about perfect.”
    “You’re as bad as Mom.” I hit ENTER.
    It’s not like we haven’t dodged Parental Internet Rules before, especially with chat and stuff. With thelaptop, I’ve been dodging them a lot more lately, within reason. I’m sixteen, for God’s sake. I know how to protect myself from freaks and perverts.
    Devin snorts after the message sends. “Bet his name
is
Merwood, and that’s a picture of his older cousin or something. Paul Hawkmore’s probably five foot nothing and eighty pounds soaking wet.”
    “You’re just jealous because he likes redheads.” I sit back in my chair, surprised by the sharpness in my voice. “I think that’s his picture. It
is
possible a good-looking guy would like me, you know.”
    Instead of you. It’s not always you, even though you’re perfect.
    Devin stares at me. “Duh? You dated Adam Pierpont all last year. He’s a god.”
    “A god who likes to boink cheerleaders.” I turn back to the computer and try not to feel sick to my stomach. “A god who wrecked my entire life.”
    I so need to be over all that, but it’s hard with the daily reminders I get.
    Irritated with Devin, but more with myself, I turn my eyes toward the bottle of pills on my bedside table. Antiviral “suppressive therapy.” One per day, forever, to reduce my number of herpes outbreaks. I’ll be dealing with herpes the rest of my life, courtesy of the best-looking guy in my class and the biggest pom-pom whore in school.
    And me, not making Adam use protection because I was on the pill.
    Did I actually give that cheating, lying moron a book of poetry because I loved him sooo much?
    Barf.
    I’m such an idiot.
    So much for pretend-friends I thought were real friends.
    So much for boyfriends and dates and self-respect.
    Oh, yeah. And parental trust. That’s still pretty empty, too, even a month into the new school year. If I did produce an actual as opposed to cyberspace boyfriend any time soon, both my parents would probably die of sudden strokes.
    The silence in the room gets heavy, and my stomach twists.
    After a minute or so, Devin says, “I’m sorry I brought up Adam-P. I thought you were past all that.”
    Sure. Like that’ll ever