Face-Slapping12 min read
How We Turned a Lie Into a Public Reckoning
ButterPicks17 views
I still remember the way his room smelled like cheap cologne and old pizza when I found them. It was supposed to be a surprise—his birthday present wrapped in tissue, my hands shaking because I wanted it to feel right—but the surprise landed me in the doorway of a scene that told me everything I needed to know.
"Who is she?" I said.
"She's just a friend," Jackson Hassan said without looking up.
"Just a friend who takes off her shirt in your bed?" I said.
"Let's not make a scene," Keira Davies said, sitting on the edge of the mattress as if she owned the room.
I closed the door so hard I thought it might break. "This man is not for me. Have fun," I said, and I left.
"I spent the whole night at the empty theater," I told the darkness, and I cried until my throat hurt. The next morning, Emilia Martin and Jaylee Laurent were waiting for me in the dorm hallway with dark circles under their eyes and a pot of instant coffee.
"You're not alone," Emilia said. "We will get this back for you."
"Back what?" I forced a laugh. "My dignity?"
"Okay, not funny," Jaylee said. "But we will."
A few days later, one of our mutual friends sent me a screenshot. Keira had posted on her feed: "Everyone who knows me knows I'm straightforward. My relationship with Jackson was pure. When he confessed, I was surprised—don't be mad, Emerald. This is my last public response." She smiled in the photo, a bag with a big brand letter sitting on the table beside her.
I felt sick.
"That woman called herself my 'senior' to make herself look innocent," I told my roommates. "And he liked the post. Of course he did."
"Let her keep the bag," Emilia said. "You need to check something for me—did you leave a canvas tote at his place? The class funds are in there, remember?"
I had. I reached into my bag and pulled out my bank slip with the study group deposit number, and then I realized my canvas tote was missing. One thousand and some change. I texted Jackson from a borrowed phone.
"Send it," I wrote.
Silence. Then the borrowed phone buzzed. A high, sweet voice on the phone said, "Big sister, please stop bothering my senior. You keep this up and you make a scene."
"Senior?" I almost laughed. "Okay, sister. Guess what? If you stole my bag, give it back. If you don't, tonight I'm going to your house and I'm bringing witnesses."
"You're not coming to my house," she smirked.
"Watch me."
That night Emilia and I went to his apartment. I knocked. He answered in a T-shirt that had seen better days. He was annoyed at me, like I had interrupted his sleep.
"Where's my tote?" I asked.
He rolled his eyes and went to a drawer. "Here—pay me the shipping if you want it back."
I found my bank slip on the table and flung it at him. "You keep boasting about being a 'rich kid' and you can't even leave a thousand alone? You were using me for favors and stories."
He took out his phone and showed a payment code. "Here. One thousand seven hundred. Take it and leave."
Emilia tapped his phone screen with a grin. "There. Done."
On our way out, Keira muttered, "Trash." She didn't look up when she saw the torn canvas pieces in the trash can by the staircase. She didn't expect to be called a liar. She didn't expect us to talk back.
The next day, I walked into class and felt everyone quiet. My counselor called me into his office.
"Emerald Blanchard," he said, "this campus is a place for freedom, but your reputation matters for your recommendation. There have been complaints." He folded his hands like a judge. "Professor Lewis is involved. This could affect your application."
"Who complained?" I asked.
"People you don't know," he said.
I swallowed. I had been planning to apply to the lab of Bowen Lewis. He had been one of the professors I admired. But now accusations were floating around—Keira had been telling a version of the story where I was stalking Jackson, where I had crossed boundaries.
"Believe me," I said, "I am not this person."
Emilia and Jaylee stepped out of the corridor like armor. "We live with her. We know the truth," Emilia said.
The counselor's face softened a bit but his tone stayed firm. "Prove it to me if you can. This isn't something we take lightly."
We walked out of the office and I felt something like a plan settle between us. If one lie could stain my future, then a better truth could clear it. But we would not plead. We would show.
Emilia, my roommate and the one who could read people like open books, said, "We will give them a taste of their own medicine."
"How?" I asked.
"With performance," she said. "And a little social pressure."
Jaylee had a contact. She knew people; she wasn't one to stay quiet. Elliana Chaney—our friend who did makeup and mimicry for fun—had done a celebrity likeness that once got a real actor's attention online. She could play a part. We called our little group "The Anti-Scum Squad." The name made Jaylee laugh so hard she cried.
"What's the game plan?" I asked.
"We let Elliana be the 'idol' who charms Jackson, make Keira jealous, make them fight, and let their own lies come out," Emilia said. "We gather proof. We show the world."
"That sounds risky."
"Scum is risky," Emilia said. "And you want them to stop, right?"
We spent days rehearsing. Elliana styled herself simply—no heavy makeup—because Keira liked to say she was the naturally plain one with a glamorous look. Elliana cropped her hair into the same soft waves as the actress Jackson admired; she used a scent—citrus—Emilia had in her umbrella handle. It was silly, but it would work. Keira loved brands and spectacle. We would give her a spectacle she couldn't control.
On the day we let Elliana step in, we followed them like shadows. Elliana acted shy and startled when she "accidentally" brushed against Jackson. "Oh, sorry," she said, her voice small. "I didn't mean to."
Jackson's friends hooted. Keira's hand tightened around his arm like a badge. Elliana smiled at him as if the world stopped. I stood behind a column and watched Emma—no, Elliana—spin the scene like a thread.
At the mountain trail rest, Jackson looked at Elliana in that way of someone who collects pretty things. She gave him a tiny look back. Keira's smile held, but her eyes flicked and searched for a map.
"Jackson, you're so lucky to have someone like Keira," Elliana said, loud enough.
Jackson shrugged, "Just leave it. We're all friends here."
At dinner, Elliana tipped the boat. "You know, Jackson seems like someone who would make a lot of promises he doesn't keep. Lucky girls should grab their chance." She toasted them and wangled a seat that put her near Jackson.
Keira watched, face tight. Jackson was polite but distracted. His hand slid away from Keira's like he was avoiding a small burn. After dinner, the gang pulled a group chat. Everyone liked Elliana's posts. Everyone complimented Keira's dress. But Jackson didn't add his name to the compliments.
I felt my jaw tensing. "Is this working?" I whispered to Emilia.
"Watch," Emilia whispered back.
They invited Elliana to a group. Keira wanted her there so badly she asked. Elliana let her in.
Months of patience—of small lies, slight misdirection—built into a moment. Keira's pregnancy changed everything. I only learned about it by accident when I bumped into Keira at the hospital. She was with one of Jackson's friends, and she looked different. She had swollen cheeks and soft hair, and an obstetric record tucked in her hand.
"You're just jealous because you lost him," she sneered at my mother, who was with me for a checkup. "You're just his housekeeper."
I slapped her.
She didn't expect it. Neither did the kid with her.
"I know what you are," I whispered into her ear. "Three days. Go explain to Professor Bowen Lewis, or I'll make sure everyone knows the truth."
I didn't use my final word: I didn't tell her I had proof that she had used another man, Jacob Dalton, before. I kept the ace for later.
When our plan pivoted, everything changed. Jaylee called an old friend—her friend knew Jacob Dalton. I met Jacob in a club. The place was dim and loud and smelled of beer and smoke. I played a stupid part: I said I was pregnant with a man named Jacob's child. It was a lie designed to prompt a reaction. Jacob's face registered surprise. Then he softened when I told him Keira had seduced or trapped him. He listened.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"Tomorrow, three o'clock. City library," I said.
Jacob agreed to come.
The library would be big. It would be public. Keira wanted grandeur. She wanted a live-streamed proposal. That is exactly where we would unravel them.
On the day, the library closed for a private event. Flowers lined the floor. The red carpet led to a small stage. Keira arrived in a white dress and walked like a princess. Jackson stood nearby in a suit that was too rigid for his guilt.
Elliana arrived early and slipped into the crowd. I waited at the back with Emilia and Jaylee. Garrison Dominguez and Van Duke—two kids Jaylee knew from around town—stood at the door like extra witnesses. My phone buzzed: Jacob Dalton and a group of men were outside, ready.
"You're sure about this?" Jaylee asked. Her voice was small.
"Yes," I said. "Now."
The ceremony started. The emcee tapped the microphone. Cameras streamed online. Jackson got down on one knee. Keira's smile shone.
"Everyone, I want to—" Jackson began.
Elliana moved like prey. "Jackson, I have to say something," she said, throwing her voice with just the right soft note to crack his confidence. Then she produced a fake "proof"—a mock text and a staged voicemail—evidence we knew would unsettle him.
Jackson's face crumpled a little. He tried to smile and failed. Keira tightened around his arm like a lifeline.
At that moment, I slipped out and unlocked the employee door. Jacob Dalton and his men flooded the entrance. People gasped. The livestream caught it all.
"Stop!" Jackson shouted. "What are you doing here?"
Jacob stepped forward and pointed at Keira like someone who had been holding in a hot secret too long. "Keira Davies," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "you told me you were single. You told me you wanted only me. You lied. You used me."
Keira's mouth opened. "That's not—"
"Look at her," Jacob spat. "She pretended to be something she's not, then she pulled me into her scheme. And now she's using two men for her gain."
Someone in the crowd started to film with a phone. The chatter grew into a roar.
"Stop it! Stop it!" Keira cried. She went white. "You can't say that!"
"Tell them what you told me," Jacob demanded. "Tell them you asked me to be the father so you could trap a rich guy."
Keira's face moved through stages: denial, anger, then panic. She reached for Jackson like a drowning person reaching for a log.
"This is outrageous," Keira said. She tried to turn the accusation toward me: "Emerald, what's your role here? Are you the bitter ex? Are you setting people up? Are you—"
"Keira," I said, very quietly, "you called my mom a servant in a hospital. You mocked a woman's dignity. You picked someone to be a father and sold the story when it suited you. You used men; you used others. You deserve to be confronted."
People started whispering. "She always was pretentious," one woman said. "Did you see those branded bags in her photos?"
Keira lunged at Jacob. Someone pulled her back. Jackson was trembling. He didn't know which way to look. The emcee tried to quiet the room, but the scene was already viral—comments exploding on the screen, live viewers growing by the minute.
"That's enough," Jackson said at last. He tried to sound angry, but he sounded empty. "I didn't know."
"You didn't know?" Jacob peered at him. "You pretended to be clean. You pretended to be honest. You didn't stand up for her when she lied. You played both sides."
"Stop!" Jackson shouted back.
"Tell them about the bank slip, Jackson," Emilia said, suddenly stepping forward. "Tell them you hid Emerald's bag."
"She stole my heart," he blurted, voice breaking. "Not—"
"No," Keira cried. Her voice broke and then got louder: "He's lying! He's lying!"
A circle of phones captured her sobs. Cameras panned. For a full minute the only sound was the livestream crackling and people talking. Then someone from the audience—one of Jackson's father's business colleagues who had come as a favor—stood up.
"This is appalling," he said. "I want to hear from both men. This is about trust." He nudged security over. "You can't assault people in a library. Someone call the police."
There was a struggle. Jackson shoved someone in the crowd and a fight broke out. Jacob was shoved and hit his head on a column. Blood pooled. People screamed and phones filmed everything.
I wasn't there to watch violence. I stepped forward and called an ambulance for Jacob. "He's hurt," I said. "Call 120 now."
The emergency lights flashed like a bad dream. The police came. They took statements. The livestream captured whispered rumors turning into facts. Keira was pushed to the floor by a group of women who had seen enough. She curled up, hands to her belly, and sobbed, "I'm so sorry!"
"Sorry isn't enough," a woman said, leaning down. "You used people. You humiliated a classmate. You hurt a child who doesn't even know what is happening."
The cameras zoomed in on Keira's face. Her expression changed from arrogant to raw. She tried to speak but people kept taking videos. Someone shouted, "Shame! Shame!" Others clapped ironically. A few recorded her and cheered.
"You're being cowardly," one of Jackson's father's associates said as he pulled out his card. "If this is true, your arrangement is disgraceful. I won't be part of this. My company withdraws its cooperation."
The news spread. People in the library widened into a ring. One by one, people who had been polite to Keira before found they no longer wanted to be near her. Her comments section filled with accusations. Jackson's name trended for all the wrong reasons.
At first, Keira's face flushed with fury. "You can't do this!" she yelled at me. "You set us up!"
"No," I said. "You set yourself up."
The police asked questions. Security escorted some of the younger men out. Jacob was taken in an ambulance with a concussion, and I signed a statement with trembling hands. I saw Jackson standing alone outside, face wet with something like regret, but his phone buzzed with messages from people who had laughed at his posts, and he looked smaller than the man I had left.
The punishment scene was public and ugly. Keira's reaction went through denial to rage to pleading. Jackson's went from arrogance to confusion to pale shame. The crowd's reaction was a mixture: surprise, gossip, applause, disgust, and the constant clicking of phones. Cameras kept rolling.
After the chaos, things happened fast. Jackson's father withdrew support from his small family-run factory after the video and the injuries became a business liability. Friends who had once hung on Jackson's charm vanished. Keira's online persona unraveled; sponsors pulled posts; people whom she had tricked turned their backs.
I watched on my phone as comments piled up. "She played both men," one viral headline read. "The 'pregnant influencer' scandal." Memes made of Jackson went up. People who once liked his posts reposted the humiliating video with mocking captions. The internet did what it does best: it amplified and punished, sometimes brutally.
Two months later, Keira came to me, belly showing, her cheeks hollow. She had been blocked by Jackson. She walked to my apartment and put down in front of me a humble paper bag.
"She came to me," she whispered. "Jackson blocked me. He's… gone. I didn't expect this."
"How are you?" I asked, looking at her.
She looked at her stomach and started to cry. "I thought this would secure me a life. I was wrong. I'm scared."
It wasn't a moment of triumph. It was a moment of truth. I could have shouted at her. Instead I said, "You made choices. They hurt people. Now you deal with them like an adult."
Keira flinched, then nodded. "Do you hate me?"
"I don't have to hate you to see that you need to make things right," I said.
"Will everyone remember me like this?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "But some people will forgive. Some won't. You have to try to be better."
She left, and people watched her go. Some mocked her. Others whispered that maybe she would go home and change. The public punishment had been as brutal as the shame machines of the internet could make it. But it had also opened a path for accountability.
Later, I visited Jackson in the hospital because I wanted to see the shape of consequence. He lay in a cheap hospital bed with an IV drip and no visitors. His father had left town. The business partners had shifted their deals elsewhere. He twitched whenever someone played his old videos on a phone in the corridor—memes, jokes, and comments filled his feed.
"Did you lose everything?" I asked.
He blinked slowly. "I lost what I thought mattered," he said. "I was a fool."
"And Keira?"
"She called me once," he said. "I don't know what to do. People hate me."
"Good," I said, softly, "for the lesson."
I left him in his small room and walked outside into the cold light. The city moved on. Jaylee's contacts introduced me to Professor Bowen Lewis's department at another school. He called later and apologized for the messy interference, but he respected my honesty. I decided to apply elsewhere—sometimes a different road is better than the one you expected.
We had dinner as a small group that night: Emilia, Elliana, Jaylee, Garrison Dominguez, Van Duke and me. We toasted with cheap beer.
"To the Anti-Scum Squad," Emilia said, voice bright. "To bad decisions and better comebacks."
"To the citrus umbrella," Elliana joked, holding up a small umbrella with a faint orange scent. We all laughed.
"You did the right thing," Jaylee said to me. "We all did. You'll get into the program you want."
I smiled and felt a warm, steady thing in my chest. The wound of betrayal had been opened and cleaned in front of the world. The world had judged. The world had seen. But I had my friends. I had my integrity, and I had the truth.
Months later, I walked past the stairwell and saw a torn canvas bag discarded in a trash bin under the noon sun. Once, that bag had been filled with money and lies. Now it was shredded into strips. I picked up a small blue thread and let it run through my fingers like a broken memory.
"People will try to wear you like a brand," I told the thread, "but some things you cannot buy back. You have to build them."
That night, as I closed my eyes, I could still smell the citrus umbrella on the side table. The city buzzed outside. I was ready for the next step. I had reclaimed my story, piece by piece, and I knew how to protect the things that mattered.
The End
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