Four Photos and a Screen Name

The crisp November morning feels full of possibility until I board the bus and half the students start giggling and whispering.

“It’s her!”

“Shut up, she’s looking at us!”

Derek’s the only person willing to make eye contact with me, sitting in the back holding our usual seats. His face is pale, jaw clenched. There’s a sympathy in his eyes that makes my stomach drop.

“Hey Riley,” he says solemnly.

“I’m afraid to ask what’s up,” I whisper as I slide into the seat next to him.

Derek doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. The pair of girls sitting in front of us begin to hum the melody of an intensely familiar Lily Abbot song before giving into laughter. Cold realization creeps up my spine. Everything slows down. I forget how to breathe. The only thing that breaks my trance is my need to know. I retrieve my phone, but before I can tap the RealTime icon Derek’s hand clasps my wrist.

“Maybe it’s better if you don’t,” he says with zero conviction. He knows there’s no stopping me.

When I open the app, my mentions are off the charts. Almost all of them are comments on a single duet @PrisMac made with my latest post just 30 minutes ago. Priscilla McMahon, who built her popularity by tearing down everyone else at school, has apparently chosen me as her next target. Now that I think about it, I should’ve seen this coming. I’ve caught her staring and glaring at me a few times over the past couple weeks. I suck in a breath and tap Play.

On one side of the screen is me, dressed in black, standing in my warmly lit bedroom. I sway in time to Lily Abbot’s latest ballad “Does She Know How I Feel,” mouthing each word as if they’re written upon my heart — because they are. It’s a simple post, though admittedly not my style. But yesterday, after sitting behind Aubrey Clark in physics listening to her profess her love of Lily Abbot to a friend, I couldn’t help myself. I was feeling cute and crushing hard.

Aubrey and I share enough mutuals on RealTime, so I figured the algorithm would eventually serve her my video. She’d see a (hopefully cute) fellow Lily Abbot fanatic and immediately seek me out to become best friends, and then more. At the time, it felt a subtle, low-risk, high-reward way to signal I was into her. In my fantasy Aubrey even duets my video as a way to reciprocate, to let me know she’s been crushing on me, too. I hadn’t considered what would happen if my school’s most popular student stumbled across the video first.

In Priscilla’s duet, my video is juxtaposed with one of her also clad in black. A stupid black wig that looks nothing like my hair sits on top of her blond locks. Instead of swaying and lip-syncing, she looks up at the yearbook photo of Aubrey she’s crudely added as the video’s background. Her index and middle fingers press against the sides of her mouth, her tongue fluttering between them.

I’m an openly queer kid in rural Wisconsin. Being bullied over my sexuality is a daily occurrence. I’m one of the “lucky ones” with supportive, loving parents and a true best friend in Derek, which is to say I’ve got a great support system in place that helps me deal. But Priscilla’s duet feels different from what I’m used to. It’s not just going after my identity; it’s targeting how I feel about someone else and putting it on blast. I’m fine with everyone knowing I like girls — but I’d prefer the actual girls I like hear it from me, not through the lens of some bigot’s bullying.

“Everyone knows Priscilla’s a huge bitch, Riles,” Derek says, as if he doesn’t know everyone’s happy to laugh at anything so long as it’s not themselves.

Johnny and Alvin, the two meathead jocks sitting across from us in their matching football team hoodies, form peace signs with their fingers and hold them out toward me, scissoring them together until they die laughing. Derek flips them off and takes the aisle side of our seat to shield me from more obscene gestures.

The heat radiating from my cheeks could fry an egg. It only gets worse as I imagine what Aubrey might do or say when I see her in physics later today. Physics! Priscilla sits one seat over from me and Aubrey during that class. She must’ve been more observant than I gave her credit for to have noticed my pining.

Derek offers me an escape hatch. “Wanna take a sick day? My throat is starting to feel a little funny.” He clutches his neck. “Yeah, it’s like, closing up. I can barely breathe now. It’s probably best I go home and watch movies all day. You’ll need to be there. Don’t let me die alone.”

I shake my head. If I ditch it’d only tell Priscilla and her acolytes how effective her duet was. It’s in my best interest to ride out the storm.

I press my forehead against the bus window and let the cool glass soothe my flushed skin. Trees and houses crawl by in silence as I’m escorted to my own personal hell for the next seven hours.

* * *

The morning isn’t turning out as bad as I thought it would. Sure, a few idiots giggle when they see me, and I hear the term “rug muncher” whispered behind me in civics class. I’ve been through worse.

However, each minute closer to fourth-period physics (and Aubrey) turns my stomach.

Derek isn’t in physics, but he still races over from gym class —sweaty and unshowered — to walk me to class. I don’t know what Aubrey’s reaction to seeing me is gonna be, but I’m glad Derek is here.

I’ve been running through all the various things I could say, desperate to maintain the cool and aloof persona I’ve been trying to cultivate around Aubrey. The only thing I come up with is to try and play it off with a “seen any good RealTimes lately?” Pathetic.

We round a corner and there she is, striding toward the classroom door. My heart rockets into my throat and obliterates my ability to speak. The only thing I can process is how perfect her curtain bangs look today. Derek gives me a gentle “say something” nudge.

Aubrey spots me.

For a second, there’s a recognition in her eyes and I’m unsure if she’s happy or terrified. She grimaces. Grimaces. She puts her head down and scurries past me without a word.

I stand there, head buzzing with embarrassment. Derek sucks air through his teeth. Tears well in my eyes, and before I know what’s happening, my friend is leading me by the hand past the classroom door.

That’s when I hear the laughter. I look over my shoulder; there’s Priscilla and her entourage, giggling in my wake. Priscilla seems particularly pleased with herself until she sees my mascara begin to run. Her brow creases, and I think she’s about to open her mouth and say something when the bell rings and her friends usher her into the classroom.

Derek and I head for the football field. On the way, I stop and tell the school nurse I’m going home with bad cramps. I wonder if she’s heard what’s actually happened to me because she lets me go with a solemn nod and no questions asked.

* * *

Derek returns to our spot under the football field bleachers with a haul of my vending machine favorites — Flamin’ Hot Fritos and melon Powerade.

“Maybe she knows you drink this crap and that’s why,” he jokes, handing me the plastic bottle of sugar water. He balks. “Sorry, too soon.”

He sprawls out on the grass, resting his head on his backpack, knowing I don’t want conversation right now. I just need someone close by.

My phone buzzes, reminding me I should mute my RealTime notifications. I open the app to do so and notice one of the alerts is coming from my account page, not my mentions. I have nothing better going on, so I tap it and a text box appears.

Congratulations! You have been randomly selected to participate in the RealTime FaceSwap™ closed beta.

With only four reference photos, turn yourself into anyone with a RealTime account! Opt in now and get ready to have the most advanced AI filter on any app at your fingertips!

I’ve never been one to use facial filters, but at the moment I’m pretty desperate for anything to take my mind off of the last few hours of reality. I tap “yes” and swipe over to the video interface. My tear-swollen, mascara-streaked face stares back at me through the front-facing camera. Sure enough, a new option awaits me in the filter menu. I select “FaceSwap” and am prompted to select four photos of my “subject” from my camera roll: front and back, and left and right profile. Most of my photos are of Derek and me goofing off, so I make him my lab rat. I choose the pictures that best match the directions and am then asked for my “Subject’s RealTime account handle (required).” Weird, but I type in @DerekDaBigD (no, he doesn’t listen to me when I tell him how cringey that handle is) and tap Submit. I watch a little spinning circle graphic churn for a few seconds, and then Derek’s head pops up on screen where mine should be.

This isn’t the usual filter that looks like it crawled out of the uncanny valley and onto your face — this looks real as hell. Like that deep-fake stuff from YouTube but running off my phone. I turn my head side-to-side, and the Derek on my phone screen does the same. I widen my eyes and open my mouth wide. Phone Derek mirrors me perfectly. The effect is so striking I have to look over at Derek to make sure he’s still napping on the grass and not pranking me somehow.

It dawns on me that I can now record a video as Derek. I hit record and look around before saying softly into the camera “I, Derek Nelson, hereby renounce my fandom of the Milwaukee Bucks basketball team. Also, Giannis is mid.”

I save the video, snickering to myself as I play it back and watch an utterly convincing Phone Derek recite my lines word for word. Seriously, had I not just created the video on my phone, you could convince me it was really him.

I text the video to Derek. He startles awake as his phone buzzes and I watch as he opens the message. His eyes narrow at first, then go wide. “The hell?”

I hold up my phone. “New RealTime filter,” I say. “I apparently got selected to participate in the beta.”

Derek is aghast. “This is a filter?” He crawls over to me and I walk him through how it works.

“That’s, like, scary good,” he says. “They got all this out of just four pics? How does it get my voice from a photo?!”

“The RealTime handle,” I answer with realization. “The filter must mine the subject’s posts for more information. Audio from videos.”

“That feels super illegal.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Do you read the Terms of Service page every update? They could slip in a clause letting them harvest our organs and 99 percent of the country would unknowingly agree.”

Derek shrugs. “Didn’t say it was illegal. It just feels super gross.”

I consider the ugly consequences this FaceSwap thing could produce if given to the wrong person. “Yeah, it could be pretty dangerous, huh.”

I get a supportive pat on the shoulder from Derek. “Priscilla’s lucky Riley Jones isn’t an asshole. You could do some real destructive retaliation with that filter.”

I smile and nod, and Derek returns to his backpack pillow. He’s right. Priscilla is lucky. I know better than most how bullying feels, and as much as she deserves comeuppance, I’m incapable of inflicting that kind of pain on someone else.

* * *

I dream about Aubrey spurning me. Everything about the moment is etched into my memory — the way she looked away, how she sped up to get past me, the white-hot surge of embarrassment boiling up from my chest into my face. I jolt awake, eyes wide and staring at the star field my nightlight projects on my bedroom ceiling.

I close my eyes and my mind just starts replaying the cursed memory. Unable to sleep, I wind up brainstorming ways I could use the FaceSwap filter to hypothetically teach Priscilla a lesson without bullying her. Surely there’s a way I could use it to make a point without being vicious or cruel. A.I. is used for awesome things all the time; just the other day I saw an MIT student use it translate voice to ASL imagery in real time.

A smile curls the edge of my mouth as an idea innocently floats onto my train of thought. I turn it over in my mind and decide it’s perfect. I mentally remove the hypothetical tag from my plotting.

I just need to snap four photos of Priscilla McMahon.

* * *

“I need you to take some photos of Priscilla and say it’s for the yearbook,” I whisper to Derek the next morning on the bus.

His brow furrows. “Why?”

I’m not gonna lie to my best friend. I hoist up my phone and wiggle it. He sighs.

“I thought we were in agreement over you being too good a person than to use that for revenge.”

I straighten my posture and cross my heart. “This isn’t about revenge. It’s about showing Priscilla who she could be. Who she should be.”

He deadpans. “And you’re gonna do that by impersonating her on social media?”

I tell him the specifics of my plan, and to my surprise he doesn’t totally hate it.

“It’s not the worst idea I’ve heard,” he says, “but doesn’t using that filter on someone without their consent give you the ick?”

I shrug. “The ends justify the means. It’s not like I’m stooping to her level or anything.”

Derek’s not convinced, so I clutch his arm and press my cheek into his shoulder. I peer up at him with my most imploring expression. “Please, dude? I’ve had a real rough 24 hours.”

He relents. “Okay, okay. She’s in algebra during my yearbook period. I need more classroom pics for the spread I’m working on, so I’ll go there. You just need four?”

“Front, back, left, right,” I say.

He nods.

* * *

My phone buzzes a few hours later. Derek’s texted me the photos. It’s Mr. Rush’s algebra II class, taken from all angles. In the middle of the room sits Priscilla, her wavy blond hair popping against a perfectly coordinated maroon cardigan and khaki skirt. Her eyes are narrowed a bit as she grapples with numbers and letters, but the pictures should do the trick.

I’m excited. I believe in my plan, and if I pull it off no one’s going to be talking about me for much longer.

The final bell releases us from school for the day, and I head to the waiting bus. Derek stays late on Tuesdays for basketball practice, so I claim a seat to myself in the back and let my social pariah status keep others away from me. I spend the ride home creating a new, anonymous RealTime account and uploading Derek’s photos that I’ve cropped down to just Priscilla’s head. When prompted, I punch in the handle @PrisMac and let the app work. Within a few seconds, Priscilla is staring back at me from my phone screen. The filter is flawless. Now all I have to do is create some content.

* * *

I board the bus the next morning and like the last couple days, everyone’s glued to the phones, whispering and giggling. This time, though, no one pays attention to me as I walk down the aisle to Derek.

“Something new has everyone’s attention,” I say nonchalantly.

“It’s got over 6,000 views already,” Derek whispers, an edge of concern in his voice. “The entire school’s seen it and then some.”

Before I can reply, I hear Johnny and Alvin snort as they play back a video.

“Hi everyone, it’s Pris,” a somber Priscilla announces from an anonymous RealTime account. “New me, new account.” Everything about the video is convincing: she looks just like she did yesterday, and I made sure to sway my head side-to-side while recording to mimic her mannerisms. “This is an apology to Riley Jones and Aubrey Clark. I posted a really insensitive video the other day about them, and it led to some not very nice things being said. I understand now that sexuality is, like, a spectrum, and we should all try harder to be less homophobic and stuff because, in the end, I believe we’re all a little bit queer so we’re just hating on a piece of ourselves. Okay byeeeee.”

I can’t prevent a smug smile from spreading across my face. Thanks to me, my tormentor is preaching tolerance to all of Washington High.

The good feeling lasts the entire morning until I hear someone say Priscilla didn’t come to school today. She’s absent the rest of the week.

* * *

It’s Monday morning. I’m eating breakfast and refreshing Priscilla’s RealTime account hoping for an update. Nothing. She did take down her duet of my video, but there’s been no post from the queen of content since my anonymous video went up. I check the accounts of her clique, and it’s business as usual for them — Tanya Schafer even hosted a holiday party. Priscilla doesn’t appear in any of their posts.

The chorus of quiet whispers in the back of my mind grows. A girl is ditching school because of what you did. That’s what bullies do.

I shake my head, as if the physical action can knock the thoughts away. Sure, maybe Priscilla had to deal with getting called out for being an jerk, but it’s not like there was anything vicious or mean-spirited about it. Even so, I can’t escape the feeling of having done something horrible.

Thanks to my coercion, Derek is also feeling guilty. We barely talk on the bus, both glued to our phones in the hopes that Priscilla will post something to alleviate our fears. As we turn the corner into the school’s bus roundabout, a flash of crimson in the parking lot catches my eye: a red Chevy Suburban with a Wisconsin Badgers window flag flapping in the breeze.

Derek notices, too. “Is that Priscilla’s mom’s car?”

We both scramble off the bus and make a bee line for Priscilla’s locker, hoping to find her there. It’s slightly ajar. Derek pulls it open. It’s cleaned out.

I’m ready to spew my entire breakfast out all over the floor as the first-period bell chimes. Derek pats me on the back and mumbles something about how he has an exam to get to. The crowd of teens thins out, leaving me alone in the hallway. I try and gather myself and head to class, but wind up sitting on the floor, leaning up against the row of lockers. I close my eyes and focus my breathing like I’ve been taught.

I remain like that for a few minutes, until I hear the patter of footsteps from the other side of the hall. I look and see two sets of platinum blond curls bobbing behind Principal Silverman as he leads Priscilla and her mother into his office. Before she goes inside, Priscilla looks down the hall and sees me.

Even though I’m far away, I can still make out the bruises across her face.

* * *

By the end of the day, everyone’s heard that Priscilla McMahon has withdrawn from Washington High. Everyone has their own theories about why — expelled for bullying, got pregnant, caught with drugs — but I’m apparently the only one who saw her purple and green skin.

On the bus ride home Derek’s already distressed enough, so I don’t tell him. He asks me why I think Priscilla left. I just shrug and wonder aloud if her family is moving or something. Mentally, though, the image of Priscilla’s injuries has usurped the one of Aubrey scurrying past me as Most Haunting Thought. It’s permanently carved into my mind’s eye.

That night, Dad comes to get me for dinner and finds me curled up and sobbing on my bed. Supportive and non-judgmental as always, he talks me down enough that I can catch him up on what happened. It feels nice to tell someone other than Derek, but I can tell by the way Dad winces through certain parts of the story he’s pretty disappointed in me.

“What do I do?” I ask, desperate for some parental wisdom.

To my dismay, Dad’s lips press into a firm line, and he says, “I’m not sure, kiddo.”

Tears well in my eyes again, so he quickly adds, “I can’t say I’m happy about you impersonating another student, but I’m much more concerned about the abuse you think she’s being subjected to. We don’t have all the facts, so we don’t know if your video is what provoked all this. Even if it did, you aren’t the one who hit this girl.”

“I-I have to kno-ow,” I stammer, trying to speak through the heaving and shuddering of my chest.

Dad shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll go over to this Priscilla’s house and have a talk with her parents. If this is all related to what’s been going on between you two …  I should’ve been in contact with them earlier.”

“Can I come?” My question is more of a demand than a request. “I’d like to apologize.” I look up at Dad and can see his resolve melt at the sight of his distraught daughter.

“You’ll stay in the car until I say so. Cool?”

“Cool.”

* * *

My heart thumps against my chest as I watch Dad rap his knuckles on the McMahons’ door. He steps back and waits patiently in the warm beam of the porch light. The door opens a crack, and I can hear muffled voices as Dad introduces himself. The door swings open and Priscilla’s mom steps out and pulls the door closed with soft care, as if to make as little noise as possible. I can’t make out much of their conversation, I just see the fog of their breath swirl in the cold night air.

Dad turns to the car and motions for me to come join him. I slink out of the passenger seat and make my way over. Hello, Mrs. McMahon. I’m not sure how but I’ve ruined your daughter’s life.

Mrs. McMahon’s eyes narrow in judgement at the sight of my undercut, septum piercing, and baggy clothes. The bigoted apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Dad folds his arms and says, “Riley, can you explain to Priscilla’s mother what you did?”

I shuffle my feet and look up at Mrs. McMahon. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to get anyone in trouble. I just wanted to show Priscilla how tolerance looked on her.”

“Riley,” Dad says sternly.

“Okay, okay.” I pull out my phone and walk Mrs. McMahon through how I created the video. I can see her eyes glaze over when I say the words “deep fake” and “A.I. training,” but when she sees the FaceSwap filter in action, she stills.

“I wish you’d told us sooner,” she says softly, wiping moisture from her eye. “It’s too late now. What’s done is done.”

“I just told you the video is fake,” I respond. “Priscilla never said those things.”

Mrs. McMahon sighs. “My daughter is gay, Riley.”

She may as well have sucker punched me.

“I’m observant. When she confessed to me how she felt a year ago, it didn’t come as a surprise. But my pastor teaches us to love the sinner and hate the sin, so I told Priscilla to fight this corruption. God wouldn’t give her a struggle she’s incapable of winning. Even so, we kept it a secret from her father. He can be blinded by passion.”

The wheels within my mind turn just enough to put two and two together. “He found out because of the video.”

She nods. “As soon as Priscilla’s brothers saw it, they began teasing her, saying she loved queers so much because she was one. Michael overheard them, and when he asked Pris about it, she told him—”

The front door swings open. A clean-shaven man clad in slacks and a button-down shirt looms in the threshold. His gelled hair is neatly parted, horned-rimmed glasses resting on his nose as he peers out at the visitors on his doorstep. His jaw clenches. Every part of him clenches.

Mrs. McMahon falls silent and bows her head submissively. Dad takes a protective step in front of me.

Priscilla’s father looks me up and down and bellows, “This is the dyke that turned my girl to sin?”

Dad bristles. “Do not speak to my daughter like that.”

Mr. McMahon sizes Dad up and takes a step closer. “It’s a free country and you’re on my property. I’ll speak however I please.”

“She faked Priscilla’s video,” Mrs. McMahon says quickly. “She came to apologize.”

He grunts. “Don’t lie. Pris confessed she’s been in love with some girl at school. Most people in this town raise their kids right, but obviously some indulge the sin, exposing all our children to—”

“Michael, please,” Mrs. McMahon interjects, earning an open-mouthed glare from her husband. She quiets back down.

Dad seems to sense nothing productive is going to come out of this and begins to shepherd me back toward the car. I’m thankful for his guiding hand on my back, because I’m too stunned by the revelation that Priscilla had been crushing on a girl at school to think (or walk) straight. Had it been me? Aubrey? The only thing clear to me in this moment is that Priscilla’s bullying was rooted in her own self-hatred. She’d been trapped and hurting, and I’d tossed a grenade into the middle of her life.

“We’re not letting you corrupt our daughter anymore!” Mr. McMahon calls after us. “She’ll be in safe hands at Shepherd’s Grace, far away from sinners like you.”

Dad whirls around. “If you can’t hold a conversation without being disparaging, don’t speak to us at all.”

Mr. McMahon is undaunted. “Y’know, I should sue over this video. Defamation of character and all that.”

“A lawsuit would only bring more questions as to where your daughter’s bruises came from,” Dad says, standing his ground, “and why they match the ones across your knuckles.”

Mr. McMahon opens his mouth to respond but thinks better of it. He sneers. “Priscilla had a fall, that’s all,” he growls. He takes a step back, though, no longer as eager for confrontation. “She told the School Resource Officer herself, so you best keep your liberal lies to yourself. Now get off my property.” He shoves his wife back inside and slams the door so hard it shakes the porch light.

Dad and I are both pretty rattled as we climb back into the car and back out of the driveway. Just before we pull away, I see a silhouette in a second-floor window of the house, watching me. I press my hand to the car window, but the figure turns and leaves.

* * *

A month later, and I’m sitting in physics. Aubrey no longer sits in front of me, having requested a seating change. At this point, I don’t blame anyone for wanting to be as far away from me as possible. Even Derek’s been keeping his distance since I told him about the confrontation with Priscilla’s parents.

I feel my phone buzz, and when Mrs. Chase isn’t looking, I sneak a look to make sure it isn’t a RealTime notification. No, I haven’t deleted the app yet. After Dad and I got home from Priscilla’s that one night, I sent a RealTime message to @PrisMac spilling my guts about everything and begging for her forgiveness. She never replied, but I hold out hope one day she will, even though the ultra-conservative Christian boarding school they shipped her off to doesn’t allow cellphones or personal electronics.

Speaking of RealTime, turns out the FaceSwap beta was just as illegal as Derek predicted. No little clauses in the terms of service could protect RealTime when people started using the filter to create everything from fake revenge porn to NSFW video of politicians. I just wish the filter had been taken offline before I ruined Priscilla’s life with such ease.

The bell rings, and when I step out into the hall Derek is waiting for me.

“Hey,” he says amicably. My heart flutters with hope. Him talking to me again is a good sign.

“Hey,” I reply.

“I just got out of yearbook and overheard Lucy Tanner say Priscilla’s mom left her dad. It’s apparently all everyone in their church can talk about.”

Secondhand pride for Mrs. McMahon fills my chest. “Good for her.”

“Apparently she’s moving to Florida and taking Priscilla with her.” Derek’s face screws up with emotion, tears brimming. “She’s gonna get out of that place, Riley.”

The relief is palpable. I can’t imagine what the past month has been like for Priscilla, in large part because imagining it makes me think of how I directly caused it. I wonder if she’ll message me back once her mom busts her out. I wouldn’t blame her if she deleted my message sight unseen. That’d be the least of what I deserve.

But I’ll keep my DMs open just in case.