Face-Slapping10 min read
Stop Acting, Miss Kendra
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"I told you not to brag in the dorm on day one," I said, sliding my battered woven bag onto the top bunk.
"You wouldn't understand," Kendra sniffed, already in full performance mode. "Some people are just born famous."
"Born famous or born loud?" I asked. "Which one is it, Kendra?"
She smiled at the girls clustered by the door like a tiny court. "Valerie, why don't you tell them about your snake-skin sack? Where did you buy it, the farmer's market?"
"You mean the bag my mother braided for me?" I tapped the fraying strap. "It's special."
"Oh please," Kendra rolled her eyes, the kind that said she expected applause. "Aren't you 'Shi Ran'? The online writer everyone loves?"
Her friends squealed. "Yes! You're Shi Ran? You have to follow me!"
"I do have an account," I said, keeping my voice light. "But it's not what you think."
"Not what we think?" Kendra laughed and waved a wrapped chocolate like a scepter. "Here. Imported. You probably never tasted real chocolate, right?"
"I don't feed this chocolate to my dog," I said. "But thanks."
The dorm door closed and whispers followed me the whole way to the bathroom. I couldn't be bothered to straighten every rumor. I had worse to worry about—my profile, my drafts, the two missing weeks when my laptop vanished and someone tried turning my private work into public accusations.
The next day at the mess hall, Kendra circled me like it was a stage.
"Shi Ran, be my friend. Can you follow me?" she cooed.
"You're welcome to follow the real account," I said, holding up my phone with my own feed open. "See? I post my drafts. No agent, no manager."
Her voice hitched. "That's… not possible."
"Sometimes people help," I said. "Sometimes people lie to sound important."
She fled, leaving a ripple of confused looks behind.
That afternoon, the campus hummed with training. During the short lunch pause, Kendra found a louder stage. She loved a crowd.
"Valerie!" one of her companions called. "Did you go out last night?"
I looked over my tray. "Yes. I ate. Thanks for asking."
"You two went to a hotel!" someone shouted. "She must be sleeping with boys!"
"Stop," Yahir hissed, his fingers tightening around mine. He was all pranks and perfume and ridiculous hats, and when he clasped my hand he always made the world smaller. "That's not true."
"Of course it's not true," I said. "But feel free to ask the officer."
The drill sergeant—Torsten Russo—peered over in annoyance.
"What's going on here?"
"Kendra says our Valerie went out with a boy and didn't come back last night," one girl supplied, licking her lips at the scandal.
Torsten's jaw tightened. "You two, come with me. Now."
"This is ridiculous," I said. "We are friends. We didn't—"
"Bring your guardian!" he barked. "Bring a parent!"
Yahir's grin went thin. "Valerie, don't bother. My aunt can vouch. But fine. Let's call the family."
I dialed Clifford. He answered immediately with a steady tone I could read even through the phone.
"Valerie? Are you all right?"
"I am. I'm at school. Kendra's spreading lies."
"Stay put. I'm on my way," he said.
Minutes later, a dark car pulled up and people parted like the ocean. Clifford Seidel moved through the crowd like he owned the ground. The principal, York Madsen, suddenly wore a smile that belonged to someone buying favors.
"Kendra, what's wrong?" York asked, already leaning in to coddle.
She flung herself forward, preening. "Principal York, Valerie is—she went out last night. Isn't she scandalous?"
Valley-level theatrics. York's face clouded exactly how I expected: protective, eager to please any family he imagined was above.
"Valerie," he said, voice kind and condescending. "You must call your parents. You can't be wandering off. This campus has rules."
"I live off campus," I said. "I'm registered here. But I don't—"
"Get your family here," Torsten ordered. "Now."
Yahir's phone went to my brother, and the moment Clifford arrived, the game changed. York's smile faltered. Torsten stood a little straighter. Kendra's lips trembled. I watched it all like someone watching a play from backstage.
Later, after the formalities and an absurdly short shouting session from a counselor who thought theatrics were more effective than fairness, I walked home with Clifford and Yahir.
"Who is she?" Clifford asked, eyes already moving to his laptop, always scanning for whatever might be hidden beneath the surface.
"She stole my old account," I said. "When my laptop was lost last year, someone found it. They used my drafts, changed parts, and accused me of copying. They made a scene online and I stumbled for a while."
"Do you remember her name?"
"I remember a pen name. But I didn't want to pull people into it at the time." I swallowed. "My drafts are mine. Someone used them to make money."
Clifford didn't sigh. He didn't say, let it go. He opened his briefcase like he opened most problems—by collecting evidence.
The next morning, my dorm was broken into. My mother's braided bag lay on the shelf, shredded.
"Who does this?" Kendra screamed when she saw it.
"I do," I said, walking into the room with a basin of water. I lifted it and poured it across her. Everyone woke. The room filled with noise, but my voice was calm.
"You tore my mother's gift," I said. "You used my name, my work, and you lied."
She screamed, then cried, then accused, and soon the dorm swelled with people. The counselor arrived and overreacted—immediate accusation of violence. The campus rumor mill greased itself into motion.
"You're out of control," the counselor said, practically reading from a script. "You will be taken aside. We will handle this."
"Fine," I said. "Do what you must. But I'm not leaving it to rumor."
In the days that followed, Kendra rode the wave of being "a social star." She flirted with Dallas Longo, the student council president. They posed in photographs, shared a few moments, and the campus began to treat her like a deserved trophy. If she had stopped at pretense, this story might have ended differently.
But she didn't. She compounded lies over talentless acting and let other girls drink the wine of her imagined status. She brazenly accepted an Hermes brought to her dorm, signing the receipt with a smile so practiced it was sticky.
I let it happen. I watched the high heels on the stage and the shallow applause. I waited.
"You're going to what?" Yahir asked when I told him my plan.
"Let her star burn brighter," I said. "Then pull the wiring."
"Isn't that dangerous?" he worried.
"Only if we burn with her."
The last day of training came with a parade and a stage. The school had the habit of picking a "model student" to speak. Kendra's campaign had been loud and rehearsed. The principal York had been persuaded—by appearances and a well-placed package—to include her.
Clifford had already done his homework. He had pulled records, receipts, and a chain of evidence that traced the stolen laptop, the phone numbers, the fake accounts, and the quick registration details. He was quiet that morning, but his eyes had a map.
When we arrived, two dark cars eased into the field. People craned their necks. Cameras clicked. Dallas Longo sat in the first row, smiling like someone sure of a yes that had not yet been offered.
"Kendra is speaking next," someone announced. "Please welcome our campus star."
She took the mic and began. It was everything she had practiced—softness, faux-gratitude, a little sniffle. The crowd leaned in.
I walked forward, the sun catching the rim of the sunglasses I wore. I stepped on stage and the music gagged. People turned, their murmurs swelling.
"Is this performance now?" Kendra's voice faltered. "Valerie? What are you doing here?"
I clipped the USB into the soundboard with a calm that made the technician blink.
"Let's hear a side-by-side," I said. "Let's hear the truth."
The screen blinked to life. First, a screenshot of a message board where my writing drafts had been posted without my permission. Then the registration phone number. Then the face of a young woman in a messy internet photo and—finally—the small receipt from a pawnshop where a laptop had been swapped for three thousand dollars.
"Do you remember that day?" I asked Kendra. "When you took my laptop and wanted money to return it? Do you remember telling Yahir—"
"Stop! You're lying!" Kendra shouted. Her voice carried, brittle and bright. "This is slander!"
"Is it?" I said. "Or is it memory?"
I hit play. The feed showed security camera footage from a small computer repair shop. Time-stamped. A figure handing over a laptop. A hand taking money. Kendra's face hovered in the corner of the frame.
"That's me," she squealed. "I—it's not—"
Her words fell apart. The crowd's murmur became a feed of phones and flashes.
"Do you remember the account you used to post for months under the name 'JiangWei'?" I asked. "Do you remember the messages you posted to stoke the flame? Do you remember the phone number you used to register the account?"
The screen showed the registration details. They matched Kendra's dorm phone.
People at the back mouthed. Dallas Longo's smile faded. York Madsen's hand went to his collar as if the weight finally mattered.
Kendra's eyes moved from the screen to me, bright as flint. "This is—this is a setup! You bought those videos! You bribed people!"
"How many ways can someone lie before the truth starts to look like daylight?" I asked, and the room laughed—quietly, but it was real. "You took my drafts. You used my voice to build yours. You forced people to cheer and you fed them favors. You tore a family gift and blamed me. Tonight you will see what really happens when people put on crowns they did not earn."
She lunged for the mic. Her friends pushed her back. Then Kendra moved through phases as if on a stage set:
First, the proud mask slipped—shock.
"No," she mouthed. "No."
Then a quick pivot to outrage. "You're lying!" she screamed, shredding into denial.
Phones lifted. Someone shouted, "Show receipts!"
I did. Text messages that matched names and times. Screenshots of Kendra praising posts that used my text. A voice note—her voice—admitting she had found the essays and copied ideas.
"Please!" she whimpered suddenly, and the room stilled because pleading was not part of her script. The crowd had been hungry for spectacle, but guilt tastes different in public. It is smaller and meaner.
"Don't," she begged, voice thin and cracked. "I'm sorry. Please. I can—I'll fix it. I'll pay—I'll apologize. Please, please—"
Around her, faces changed. Some shrugged, cameras still rolling. Some covered mouths. A boy near the front hissed, "She set us up that night. She told us to clap when she cried."
The chancellor's assistant pushed forward. "We will investigate," York murmured. His tone had the flavor of a man discovering a draft under a floorboard. "No one likes scandal."
"Investigate?" someone laughed. "You hid it before."
Kendra's friends drifted away as the evidence stacked—emails from a PR account, a delivery receipt for the Hermes bag originated from the company to the address Frost had given; a text: 'Sign the package: Kendra Kristensen, with love.' It tied the false identity to a list of lies the way a string ties a puppet.
Kendra slid down the podium. Her face went from flushed to white to wet. Her lips trembled. "Please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
A first-year girl shoved her phone into Kendra's face. "You told us to like and follow and we'd get prizes! You promised to sign my book after I gave you the donation!"
The crowd's voice split: a few clapped in bitter triumph; others murmured sympathy for the person whose life had been made up.
Kendra's expression cracked—her confidence spilled out like water. She tried to stand but hands kept her down. "Get off me," she hissed. "Get off!"
Someone recorded her scream and uploaded it live. Comments cascaded: betrayal, liar, fake. A boy tossed his cap into the air in a little bark of victory.
I walked to her. Up close, she was small, and the makeup that had been her armor now looked like paint cracking on pottery.
"You had me called in for talking," I said softly. "You tried to get me expelled. You thought destroying someone's home-made bag would hide what you were."
She sobbed.
"Do you know what the worst part is?" I asked. "You weren't even trying to make art. You were trying to buy status."
She looked up, eyes swollen. "Please," she said. "I can get help. Please don't—"
"You're not forgiven yet," I said. "You are accountable."
A teacher from the back—Ambrose Dupont—stepped forward. "This is more than school discipline," he said. "This is theft and fraud and harassment. We need to hand this up the chain." His voice had that new-cleanness of someone who preferred truth over favors.
The crowd rumbled. Some cheered; some scowled.
Kendra's reaction followed the pattern I had learned to watch: denial, anger, bargaining, then collapse. Her expression flickered through them rapidly, each change recorded a hundred times.
A girl near the front spat, "You ruined a girl. You pretended to be her. You're a coward."
"Don't say that," Kendra gasped. She reached for me. "You don't know—please."
I stepped back. "I know enough." I turned and walked off the stage, the field loud with whispers, phones, and a slow, building sound like a tide pulling away privilege.
After the assembly, the school investigation moved quickly. York's office was full of boxes and receipts. Clifford had supplied evidence. The education bureau was called in. Teachers who had accepted gifts to parrot Kendra's story were reprimanded and removed. York's complacency was recorded and taken apart.
The public punishment had been more than exposure. It was the unmaking of the support structure—teachers fired, the principal investigated, the student council president forced to step down after a smear of his own emerged. Each person complicit found their life thinner where Kendra's illusion had used them.
Kendra herself fled into the edges of the campus like a storm-tossed bird. At first she tried to bully her way back into the picture, but people turned away. Where she had once found girls eager to flatter her, she now found only empty chairs.
Weeks later, when I asked what became of her, I was told she was admitted to a clinic. They said she refused to accept treatment. Sometimes she sat and typed desperately at the small computer the hospital gave her, telling herself the same stories she had fed to others. Sometimes she screamed that she was a princess and that men in suits were stealing her internet awards.
"Does she know?" Yahir asked one slow afternoon as we walked past the hospital.
"She thinks I'm the villain," I said. "That's the cruelty she preferred. At least now, she cannot do the same to someone else."
"Is that enough?" Yahir asked. "For you?"
"It's not for me," I replied. "It's for the other girls she'll never trick again. It's for my mother, who braided a bag in the one quiet hour she had and saw it shredded. It's for anyone who had to shout alone and be called the bad actor."
Clifford's files were sealed and turned over. York Madsen's office emptied. Dallas Longo kept his head down. The campus ran its slow, necessary thread of consequence through the lives that had participated.
After all that, I moved to a new school. Without the noise, I could write. I kept my pen name quiet and my drafts guarded. I wrote for the people who would read me for the words and not for the manufactured life.
"Do you regret it?" Yahir asked when we sat on a bench with a paper cup of coffee each.
"Sometimes," I confessed. "But when I sleep, I don't have to listen for the sound of people clapping at lies."
He looked at me, amused and fond. "You don't owe anyone a mask."
"Neither does anyone else," I said.
We laughed, held hands, and watched the sun set over a campus that had learned to look twice. My mother's woven bag sat in a drawer in my new room, mended and quiet. Sometimes I ran my fingers over the frayed strap and thought of the odd, hollow gleam of Kendra's smile facing the truth on that stage.
"Will you ever go back?" Yahir asked.
"Maybe to finish a line," I said. "But not to watch someone else pretend."
The End
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