Blood on My Hands

sorry,” I said. “It’s just … Things aren’t always what they seem, okay? Maybe not everyone who’s rich is a bitch.”
    “I didn’t say they were,” Tyler said. “I only said Lucy was. I … I don’t think you’re a bitch at all. In fact, I think you’re pretty nice.”
    “Thank you, Tyler,” I said, and thought, Maybe the night wasn’t a total loss after all .
    I got out of the car and let myself through the heavy wooden door into the house, temporarily disabling the alarm system to give me time to get up to my room. Upstairs, even though I could barely keep my eyes open, it was impossible to go to bed without first checking my messages, and that was where I found the latest from PBleeker, my cyberstalker:
I once heard you say you hated how cliquey school was, but I bet you’d never go out with someone like me. You always act like you’re open-minded and sensitive, but I wonder if, just like everyone else, you judge people by their looks. I know you’re not stuck up like some of those other kids, because you’re always nice and talk to everyone. But how come you only hang out with the people in the most popular clique?
    I shivered and turned away from my laptop, wishing that just this once I hadn’t checked my messages before going to bed. I once heard you say … You always act like … Was PBleeker someone who knew me that well, or was that just part of the mind game he (or was PBleeker a she ?) played? All I knew was that for the past year, PBleeker’s presence in my life had become one more curse, like my period, college applications, and zits.
    I went to bed with the disturbed and uncomfortable feeling that always followed a PBleeker message. Sometimes they kept me awake for hours. But not tonight. At least the evening with Tyler had ended on a positive note. And that, plus my overwhelming fatigue, helped me drift off.