Everyone gathered at the door. Samantha led them into another conference room on the floor. It was filled with lights and cameras and a small stage area in front of a black curtain. There were a bunch of kids Spencer’s age sitting on folding chairs in the back. Samantha had told her there would be an audience, and she’d reached out to her blog readers and mentioned how psyched she was to be on the panel and wondered what sorts of questions they’d ask as audience members. A lot of people had replied; she hoped she’d receive questions half as insightful tonight.
Suddenly, someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Spencer Hastings?”
A tall, athletic, tousled-haired boy had stood up from his chair in the front row. He wore a pale blue shirt, a tie, dress pants, and shiny loafers, and on the back of one hand was a tattoo of what looked like a soaring falcon peeking out of his sleeve. He was one of the handsomest strangers Spencer had ever seen.
“It’s Greg Messner,” he said after a beat. “I’ve emailed you a few times?”
Spencer blinked. “You’re Greg?”
He touched his chest. “You remember me?”
How could she not? This was the guy who’d bolstered her up, telling her that her blog’s message was powerful and uplifting. But Spencer had had no idea he was so gorgeous. “W-what are you doing here?” she stammered, nervously running her hand through her hair. Did it look frizzy? Should she have worn a different dress?
“I saw your post about the panel, and I called to see if I could be in the audience.” Greg ducked his head. “I wanted to support you.”
Spencer’s insides flipped. “Thank you,” she blurted, stunned that he cared so much.
Greg smiled and leaned forward, ready to talk more, but they were interrupted by Samantha as she clapped her hands. “Okay, folks! We’re ready!”
Greg stepped back and gestured for Spencer to go to the stage. “Good luck!” he said excitedly. “You’re going to be great.”
Samantha directed the panel to the chairs in front of the curtain. Makeup artists flitted around, brushing each of them with high-definition-camera face powder. Spencer tried to play it cool, but every so often she peeked into the audience at Greg. He was staring at her every single time. Her heart pounded wildly. Up close, Greg had even smelled good, like the men’s side of the Aveda salon she often frequented.
Not that she had a crush on him or anything. She barely knew him.
“Now, we’re going to be fairly informal,” Samantha explained, standing in front of the panelists. “One of the producers will ask a question, and then anyone can jump in. The audience can respond, too.” She gestured to them, though they all were nameless, uninteresting faces besides Greg’s. “Just be yourselves, and be proud of what you’ve accomplished. Remember, you all are the voices on anti-bullying measures, and we’re very supportive of your efforts. All of you.”
Spencer locked eyes with Greg again, and he gave her another encouraging smile. Then the cameras started to roll. One producer, a thin, graying man named Jamie, asked everyone to share their stories. The panelists went around the room, explaining how they or someone they loved had gone through a particularly horrible experience. The two shy boys had been tormented—one because of his sexuality, the other because he was on the autism spectrum. The athletic girl, whose name was Caitlin, was on the panel for starting an outreach program after her brother, Taylor, killed himself after being picked on violently. And Spencer briefly told her story about Ali, but she mostly made it about her website and how she wanted to help other people share their stories.
From there, Jamie asked more questions about the emotional toll bullying took on people, where bullying stemmed from, and how to stop it. The panel took turns giving answers, and every time Spencer spoke, she felt the weight of her words. Every classroom would see this for years. She was leaving a legacy.
When Jamie asked a question about whether bullying seemed to be on the rise in the age of digital media, the panelists looked at one another. Spencer cleared her throat. “Social media can expose your pain to a heightened degree. On Facebook, everyone sees what you’re going through, not just people who happen to be in the hall when whoever it is tortures you. Everyone can ‘like’ a mean comment about you. It might make you feel like it’s you against the world.”
She passed the microphone, catching Greg’s eyes in the audience. Nice, he mouthed. Her spine tingled pleasantly.
But then someone in the audience coughed. “That is such bullshit.”
Samantha’s eyebrows shot up. Cameras swung around to face the audience member. “Excuse me?” Jamie said, squinting into the darkness. “Can you stand up so we can see you, sir?”
A figure in a bulky red hunter’s plaid jacket rose. He was a dark-haired, square-faced guy with quirked eyebrows and a turned-down mouth that made him look angry. When he glanced at Spencer, his eyes hardened even more. “You people sound like those parents who blame violence on video games. Social media isn’t to blame. Oversensitive people are.”
Everyone on the stage murmured worriedly. Spencer blinked at the figure in the audience, a puzzle piece slotting into place. She recognized his face from a profile picture. It was DominickPhilly, the jerk who was always trolling her site.
Why the hell was he here?
Jamie placed his hands on his hips. “Maybe you’d like to elaborate on that?”
Dominick shrugged, his gaze still on Spencer. “The more power we give this whole anti-bullying thing, the more power we give bullies. You don’t think bullies haven’t been around since, like, the dawn of time? And maybe, I don’t know, some people deserve to get picked on.”