"On a scale of one to ten, how in the mood are you for some juicy drama?"

I hide out in a random single-user bathroom in the central building, wanting to make sure no one will hear what I'm about to say. This conversation could work over text, if I had anyone to text. Maybe it's my fault for surrounding myself with a social circle so small that my best bet for gossip is my older sister—over the phone.

"A fat fucking ten," she says. "Anything to get my mind off wedding dresses. I swear, I'm starting to see white lace in my sleep, Whitney."

"Okay, great. Well, believe it or not, there is something weirder going on in my life than my secret fantasies of kissing my trainer and sudden love of running outside in ninety degrees."

"Wait, what?"

"I know right, me running? It's still hard for me to believe."

"No, what the hell, Whitney. I'm talking about the first point. Last time we talked you told me you guys could barely hold a conversation."

I laugh sheepishly, eyeing the door's lock. "Yeah, well, you could say things have...progressed. But that's not what I'm here to talk about. I'm calling to finally tell someone about my indirect encounter with a moron—or some morons—living out their great big Pretty Little Liars fantasy with me."

A pause ensues. "Is that the crappy show about four high schoolers trying to figure out which letter of the alphabet keeps sending them stalker notes?"

"Funny how it hits home right now." I laugh humorlessly. "Get this: over the last two-and-a-half, almost three, weeks, I've been finding these small pieces of paper with fake-threatening messages written on them in my room. They all say slightly different things but have one central theme that I am one, a bitch, and two, a whore."

"What the fuck? How are you so chill about this, Whit?"

I laugh, shuffling the pieces of paper in my hand. "Because the notes are almost funny when you actually read them. Here let me tell you what these last two say."

The first: If only you'd known that I wouldn't have given a shit about you had you kept your nose in your books and not in my boyfriend's pants. – X

The next: This isn't so fun anymore. Maybe because you can never change the fact you're nothing more than a boyfriend-stealing bitch. – X

"Boyfriend?" I can imagine Poppy blinking on the other end, a blank look washing over slim face. "Did you even date anyone in high school?"

"No. But that's exactly the problem." I pause and rub my fingers against my throbbing forehead, the symptoms appearing out of nowhere this morning. I usually don't get headaches, let alone this near-migraine-level pain. "The first few notes were vague enough that I thought maybe they apply to me, but now I have no clue what this dumbass is going off about. But, to be honest, if she's anything like this in real life, maybe I should have stolen her boyfriend—for his own sanity."

She lets out an airy laugh. "Is there any chance these notes aren't meant for you? Don't you have a roommate?"

"Yeah, I thought that for a second, but get this, I found two of these in my makeup bag and my pillowcase. I don't think this person could have made it any clearer." I release a small sigh, adjusting my position on the uncomfortable toilet lid. "Look, I could just let this go, and I bet it won't matter at all when I come back home. But you know that's not like me."

"No, I couldn't imagine ignoring something like this either." She sighs. "Look, if these notes are intended for you, you have to think a little deeper. Did you at least get close to any guys in high school? Or know someone who would spread a rumor about you dating someone?"

I almost shout Willow but have to hold myself back, remembering she would have spread the exact opposite kind of rumor, about how I'm such a woebegone virgin, all but destined to be single for life.

"I can only think of one guy, my senior homecoming date, Jonah. We never talked once before the start of last year. He was this sort of chill guy, not popular but not a total outcast—on the golf team of all things, but not that that matters. One random day in September he gave me an offhand compliment, and the next thing I knew he was asking me to be his date."

"Was he the type of guy to sleep around?"

I shake my head, even though she can't see me. "No, ironically, or maybe not, he only dated Willow before me for half of sophomore year, but their relationship was all for show: winter formal, prom, the works. I can't even count the number of times I overheard her talking shit about him with her friends when he wasn't around, since her locker was right behind mine that year."

I hear a thud outside the door and almost fall off the toilet seat. Holding back any sounds, I crane my neck forward to hear anything, but the hallway goes silent again.

"Whitney, are you still there?"

"Yeah, sorry about that." I run a hand down my face and release another sigh, trying to get rid of the unrelenting pressure in my head. "To get back to my point, I thought there was some correlation between Willow and Jonah asking me to homecoming, but she didn't say anything that night. Or the three months afterwards when he—respectfully—tried to get into my pants more than one time."

"Is there even a respectful way to do that?"

"Nope," I say, cringing at the memories. "Come on, do you think I'm getting anywhere with this?"

She lets out a breath. "It's hard to say, but I think you need to stop believing that Willow girl was always so straightforward. What if she did push Jonah your way but didn't say anything because she was too busy making up a lie to someone about your relationship to benefit them? Or better yet, piss them off?"

"And what would she have gotten from that? It's not like anyone at school was dying to date Jonah, or they'd have snatched him before he even had a chance to mess with my head."

She huffs. "Oh, come on, Whitney, I may be old now, but I was in high school at one point—heck, I went to the same school as you. Seventeen-year-old private-school girl is just the long way of spelling psycho bitch."

I don't know how much I buy that theory, but then again, it's not like Poppy is trying to convince me our own mother is behind this. Willow isn't that implausible of a choice for the architect of my own torment.

"So, are you saying she's writing these notes?"

"Not necessarily. But she has to be involved, Whitney. It's not like you guys graduated five years ago."

She's right; high school seems to be fresh in everyone's minds around here, and so is the pettiness I thought we'd all leave behind. Whoever the culprit, it's clearer that the situation that prompted these notes involves much more than one person, which means that maybe I need to start doing some good old-fashioned stalking of my own.

"Thanks for the help, Poppy," I say and exit the stall, "but I think I have an idea."

***

"Whitney, Whitney," someone hisses, nudging my side.

I haven't focused for a minute of this yoga session, too busy conceiving different versions of the story behind the notes. Every time I closed my eyes in the middle of a pose, another flashback from high school plagued my mind: of Willow, her mother, of Mina, her teammates, and Jonah.

At one point, I was a step away from declaring my neighbor's golden retriever the mastermind of this scheme.

I sigh. Even though I know I'm getting nowhere, I like it better in my imagination, because it distracts me from dull ache in my muscles, oddly different from my usual post-workout soreness.

"What are we supposed to be doing?" I ask, blinking to unblur my vision.

"The sun salutation," Martina says, stretching out her back and raising her hands up in the air. "Supposedly."

"And take a deep breath in and exhale as you bend down to touch your toes," Cassidy instructs gently, and everyone bends down, most girls tugging at their shorts that had ridden upwards. I hadn't seen this trainer before this session, but she's the human definition of sunshine, large smile never seeming to fade. "Alright, let's stop here," she orders at last, and I inwardly cheer, as we've been going at this nonstop for the last thirty minutes. "Today we're going to have a little fun, so gather into a circle on the ground."

Everyone stands up and shuffles past each other in an attempt to form a somewhat circular pattern. I plop down at the last minute, right between Willow and a girl trying to get something stuck in her teeth out with her finger.

"Since a lot of you still seem to be strangers, I thought another icebreaker could be useful," Cassidy says, picking up a small beach ball. A couple soft groans sound across the room, echoing my own sentiments about these kinds of games. "I'll throw this ball to someone and ask them a question, and then she'll answer and throw the ball to someone else, who will ask her own question. We'll continue until we run out of combinations. Make sense?"

We nod, and she smiles, throwing the ball to Joanna.

"Least favorite exercise?" she asks.

Joanna looks to the side, trying to think. "Jump squats, for sure," she answers, and a chorus of yeses erupts through the room. Joanna looks around the room and throws the ball to Willow, who deftly catches it.

"Favorite food?"

Willow fiddles with the ball in her hands, running her fingers over the smooth surface. After much deliberation, she replies, "Coffee."

"Does coffee even count as food?"

Adriana, of course.

Willow tosses the ball to Martina instead. "Do you like being a twin?" she asks, seeming genuinely interested in the answer.

"Uh...didn't have much a choice being one, did I?" she mumbles, evading the question, and throws the ball to her twin to ask her the same question.

"It was fun as kids. Less fun now." Adriana looks around the room to find someone novel to throw the ball to. She gives up after a moment of deliberation and tosses it to Natalie. "How do you have such nice handwriting, Nat?"

I scoff at something nice finally escaping her mouth. Natalie lights up in delight, while a figurative light bulb glows over my head.

Nice handwriting? Does this mean I can cross her off my list of suspects?

"To tell the truth, I copied this girl's handwriting in fifth grade because I hated mine. Guess it stuck." Natalie trails her big brown eyes across the room and pauses on my face, the edges of her lips curling into a mischievous smile. The ball comes flying at me, and I lunge forward to grab it, not wanting to be the first one to miss.

"Did you really come here because you were bullied in gym class all throughout high school?"

As multiple curious pairs of eyes turn to me, heat fans across my cheeks, forcing me to duck my head down. Willow's eyes widen into saucers, shocked for the exact opposite reason.

"I—um, I..." I begin rambling, outraged that no one has said anything.

How the fuck does she even know anything about me?

Martina clears her throat. "Are you really one to be talking since you follow my sister around like a lost puppy all day?" Her eyes bear a devilish twinkle as she adds, "I wouldn't be surprised if you're just projecting right now...Nat."

With the drop of Natalie's jaw, the attention is no longer on me, bursts of giggles popping up across the room, following stares directed at her pathetic self. I breathe out an internal sigh of relief, knowing I was too astounded to come up with anything remotely snarky on the spot.

"Can I be excused from this game?" I ask Cassidy.

Before bothering to hear her reply, I chuck the ball at Natalie's head, not expecting it to ricochet off her bun and strikes Adriana in the face—an equally satisfying target.

Hearing the door slam shut behind me, I run down the hall with the dwindling strength I have today and step out onto the grass to inhale the fresh air, anything to calm my fiery nerves. Muttering curses to myself, I continue across the camp to nowhere in particular—just as far away from my humiliation as possible.

Turns out Miranda was right, after all.

This camp is full of bitches.