Chapter 4

The day the official SAT scores were released, the world turned upside down.

I logged into my account, my hands shaking.

1580.

Math: 800. Reading and Writing: 780.

A wave of relief washed over me, so intense it almost made me dizzy.

I had done it.

Then, the rumors started.

They spread through the school like a virus.

Tiffany Peterson's score wasn't 1600.

It was 480.

It was a disaster.

A public humiliation of epic proportions.

And she blamed me for it.

The cyberbullying started that night.

It began with a post on Tiffany's Instagram story.

A picture of me from the school yearbook, with the word "LIAR" scrawled across it in red.

The caption read: "Some people are so pathetic they have to cheat and lie to feel good about themselves. Sarah Miller hacked the system to lower my score and raise hers. She's a psycho who has been obsessed with me for years. Don't believe her lies."

It was insane.

It was impossible.

But people believed it.

Her followers, her friends, even people who barely knew me, they all jumped on the bandwagon.

My phone started blowing up with notifications.

Hateful comments on my social media.

Threatening direct messages.

"Cheater."

"Ugly snake."

"You should kill yourself."

They found my address and posted it online.

They found my parents' phone numbers.

My mom's small baking business was flooded with one-star reviews and horrific comments.

My dad's boss got anonymous emails accusing him of raising a criminal.

Our lives became a living hell.

I deleted my accounts, but it didn't matter.

The poison was already out there.

People would whisper and point when I walked down the street.

Someone threw a rock at our apartment window.

My parents were a wreck.

My mom cried all the time.

My dad just sat in his armchair, staring at the wall, looking older and more defeated than I had ever seen him.

I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep.

The words echoed in my head, a constant, tormenting chorus.

Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself.

One week after the scores were released, I couldn't take it anymore.

The weight of the world was too heavy.

The pain was a physical thing, a crushing pressure in my chest that wouldn't go away.

I wrote a short note.

"I didn't do it."

Then I went into the bathroom and swallowed every pill in the medicine cabinet.

The last thing I remember from that life was the sound of my mother screaming.

Later, from somewhere in the great, empty darkness, I learned what happened next.

Tiffany posted a "tribute" to me.

A black and white photo of us from middle school, back when we were still friends.

The caption was long and full of fake sadness.

"I'm heartbroken to hear about the passing of Sarah. Mental health is so important. I tried to be her friend, but she was struggling with things I couldn't understand. I forgive her for what she did. I hope she has found peace."

She played the victim.

She used my death to make herself look like a saint.

She got a standing ovation at graduation when she gave a speech about "overcoming adversity."

She got into a good college anyway, thanks to a hefty donation from her father.

She won.

She took everything from me, and she won.