Chapter 15: The Rumor
Simon caught up with Sarah before she made it to the exit.
She was moving with purpose — not rushing, but not browsing either. The kind of walk that had a destination already selected.
"Sarah."
She turned. The smile she gave him was pleasant and completely neutral. "Hey. Simon, right?"
"Right." He kept his voice easy. "Can I ask you something direct?"
"Sure."
"What's your actual interest in Chuck?"
A beat. The smile stayed, but something behind it recalibrated. "I'm sorry?"
"You came in for a thirty-second phone fix that any of us could've handled," Simon said. "But you waited specifically for Chuck. You stayed through the whole recital thing, which had nothing to do with your phone. And now you're leaving your number." He shrugged. "I'm just curious what you're after."
Sarah looked at him with a new quality of attention — the kind that assessed rather than charmed.
"I thought he seemed nice," she said.
"He is nice," Simon said. "That's not what I asked."
Another beat. Then: "I really do need to go." She glanced toward the Nerd Herd desk, where Chuck was still occupied with the family. "Give him this for me?"
She held out a folded piece of paper — a number, handwritten.
Simon took it.
"Nice to meet you, Simon," she said, and walked out.
He watched her go. CIA or NSA — he wasn't certain which, but the read was clear enough. The Intersect was loaded into Chuck's head and the agencies were running their play. Sarah Walker was not just a customer.
He filed it. Nothing to do about it tonight.
Chuck was grinning when he got back.
Simon handed him the number. "She had to leave."
Chuck looked at the paper. The grin expanded. "She left her number."
"She did."
"She — yeah." Chuck tucked it carefully into his vest pocket like it was something fragile.
Simon opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "Chuck—"
"Yeah?"
He looked at Chuck's face — the uncomplicated happiness of someone who hadn't been looked at like that in a while — and chose his words.
"Just — be careful. With her." He kept it gentle. "Not every person who seems interested in you is interested in you, you know? Sometimes people have angles."
Chuck's expression flickered — a flash of something older and more complicated moving through the cheerfulness. Stanford, probably. Things that had cost him.
"I know," Chuck said, quieter.
"I'm sure she's great," Simon added. "I just — watch how things develop. That's all."
Chuck nodded. "Yeah." He looked at the pocket where he'd put the number. "Yeah, you're right. Thanks."
Simon patted his shoulder and went to work.
Wednesday morning hit differently.
Simon knew something was wrong before he parked the truck. He could feel it in the way people moved through the Neptune High parking lot — that specific social electricity that meant information had been distributed overnight and everyone was still processing their reaction to it.
He found Meg at her locker.
The number 46 had been written on it in red marker, large and deliberate. Around it, in smaller writing, words he didn't bother reading past the first two.
Meg was standing in front of it with her arms crossed and her jaw set, trying very hard to look like she was fine.
She wasn't fine.
When she saw Simon, something in her face cracked just slightly — not collapsing, just acknowledging — and she stepped into him before he could say anything. He put his arms around her and felt her exhale.
"They're saying I took the purity test," she said quietly, against his shoulder. "That that's my real score. Forty-six. And they wrote it everywhere — my locker, the bathroom mirrors on the second floor—" She stopped. "Simon, I never took that test. I would never—"
"I know," Simon said. "I know you didn't."
"Everyone's looking at me."
"I know."
She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were red but dry — she'd decided not to cry about this, which was its own kind of courage. "What do I do?"
Simon thought for exactly one second. "We get someone who's actually good at this."
He found Veronica at the main entrance, backpack on one shoulder, already scanning the building with the practiced radar of someone who absorbed social information automatically.
"Veronica."
She looked at him. Then at Meg, just behind him. Then back.
"I already heard," she said.
"Can you find out who did it?"
"Yes." No hesitation, no qualification. "It's sloppy work — whoever set this up left a trail. The test email has a forwarding timestamp that doesn't match the distribution window, which means someone injected fake results into the chain before it went wide. Twenty-four hours, maybe less."
"What's your rate?"
Veronica looked at him with the specific expression of someone who had been waiting for that question. "Two hundred."
Simon stared at her. "Veronica—"
"You're not paying for the work," she said pleasantly. "You're paying for the urgency premium and the fact that you asked instead of Meg asking." A pause. "If Meg asked, I'd do it for free. But you asked. So."
Simon reached into his wallet and handed over two hundreds without further argument.
Veronica pocketed them with the smoothness of someone who had conducted this transaction before. "You'll have something by end of day."
She walked away.
Meg watched her go. "Did she just — was she always like that?"
"She's been like that since eighth grade," Simon said. "But she's also the best. Trust the process."
He found a bathroom on the second floor, located the markers that hadn't fully dried yet, and cleaned off what he could with paper towels and hand soap while Meg waited in the hall. It wasn't perfect. It was something.
By lunch the situation had metastasized the way rumors did at Neptune — fast, detailed, and creatively embellished beyond any relationship to the original facts.
Meg sat across from Simon with her tray barely touched, recounting it in a voice that was doing its best to be steady.
"Someone's been calling me all morning from blocked numbers," she said. "Hanging up when I answer. I got three emails before third period with — things — in them. And in the hallway before fourth, two girls I don't even know said something when I walked by." She set her fork down. "I know it's just words. I know it's stupid. But it's—"
"It's not stupid," Simon said.
"I know who I am," she said, more to herself than to him. "I know what's true. It's just — it keeps coming."
"It's going to stop."
"When?"
Before Simon could answer, two guys from the lacrosse table walked past — third-tier social climbers with the specific fearlessness of people who had never had anything real to lose — and one of them said something under his breath as they passed. The other one laughed.
Simon was on his feet before he'd consciously decided to stand.
He covered the distance in four steps, got a hand in each of their collars, and lifted. Not violently. Deliberately. Just enough that both of them were on their toes and very aware of the physics involved.
"Hey—"
"Look at me," Simon said. His voice was quiet. Quieter than the moment warranted, which made it more effective, not less. "Both of you. Look at me."
They looked.
"If I hear either of your voices saying anything about Meg Manning for the rest of the year," Simon said, "I will make the remainder of your time at this school very, very uncomfortable. And I will do it patiently and consistently and without losing any sleep over it." He let the pause run. "Are we clear?"
"Yeah," one of them said. "Yeah, we're clear."
"Good."
He released them. Both of them sat down hard, which they probably hadn't planned.
Simon stepped up onto the nearest bench.
The cafeteria, which had been doing a reasonable impression of normal background noise, went very quiet very fast.
"I want to be straightforward with everyone," Simon said, at a volume that reached every corner of the room. "Meg Manning is one of the most decent people in this building. Whatever's being passed around about her is false, and whoever put it out there knows it's false." He looked around the room slowly. "If I find out you're part of it — spreading it, forwarding it, saying it in a hallway — I'm going to remember. And I keep good records."
He stepped down.
Complete silence for about three seconds.
Then the cafeteria returned to its normal level of noise, in the careful way of a crowd that has collectively decided to pretend something didn't happen while also definitely having absorbed the message.
Meg grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the exit. "Simon—"
"I know."
"You can't—"
"I know."
"You could get suspended."
"I know." He let her pull him through the doors. Once they were in the hallway he stopped and turned to face her. "I know. I'm sorry. I couldn't—"
"I know," she said. Her voice had changed — the strain was still there but something else had come in alongside it. She put a hand on his chest. "I know why you did it. Just — next time, warn me first."
"There won't be a next time."
She looked at him. "Simon."
"There won't be a next time," he repeated, more carefully, "because Veronica is going to find who did this and then it'll be over."
Meg held his eyes for a moment, then nodded.
The school handled it with the administrative efficiency of an institution that hated making decisions. Simon was called to the vice principal's office at the end of the day, informed that standing on cafeteria furniture and making statements was not appropriate conduct, and given a formal verbal warning that would be noted in his file but would not affect his standing.
Given that the underlying incident involved a targeted harassment campaign against another student, the school seemed content to call it even.
Simon said yes sir, thank you, and left.
"Dom." Simon found him in the garage after school, head under the hood of a Challenger. "I need a favor."
Dom surfaced. Read Simon's face. "Talk."
Simon explained — the locker, the phone calls, the cafeteria, the size of the situation. When he finished, Dom was quiet for a moment.
"What do you need?"
"Tomorrow morning," Simon said. "I need you to bring the crew. You don't have to come inside. Just — drive through the front of campus once. Slow. Windows down."
Dom considered this for about four seconds. Then: "What time's school start?"
"Seven forty-five."
"We'll be there at seven thirty."
Simon exhaled. "Thanks, Dom."
Dom waved it off and went back under the hood.
Mia was at the grocery counter when Simon came in to collect Meg, who had been there for the better part of an hour. The two of them were on stools with tea, talking in the low, unhurried way of people working through something real.
Simon caught Mia's eye over Meg's shoulder.
Mia gave him a small nod. She's okay. I've got her.
"Meg." Simon came to stand behind her, put a hand on her shoulder. "I've got to get to the Buy More. Will you be alright here for a couple hours?"
Meg reached up and covered his hand with hers. "Go. I'm fine."
"I'm serious — call me if anything—"
"Simon." She turned to look at him. Her eyes were clearer than they'd been all day. "Go to work. I'm with Mia. Everything's fine."
He looked at Mia.
Mia pointed at the door. Go.
Simon went.
The Buy More was busy. It was always busy on Wednesdays, which Simon had not been warned about and was still adjusting to.
He changed, clocked in, and spent four hours being helpful to people who needed electronics explained to them, which was fine, and four hours being a visible presence of functional normalcy in a day that had been neither functional nor normal, which was what he actually needed.
Chuck asked twice if he was okay.
Simon said yes both times.
Morgan asked zero times, but brought him a Red Bull from the break room fridge without being asked, set it on the counter, and walked away without making it a thing.
Simon drank the Red Bull and clocked out at seven.
Tomorrow, Dom's crew would drive through the Neptune High parking lot in formation, and the social calculus would shift, and Veronica would have a name.
One day at a time.
[Support Goal: 500 PS → +1 Chapter]
[Support Goal: 10 Reviews → +1 Chapter]
Your review helps the story grow.
P1treon Soulforger (20+chapters ahead)