Unmasking

There is no us. Can't you get that through your thick, perfumed, million-dollar head?

Sophia's first impulse was to scream those words. She's on the very verge of screaming now. A desk lamp is out of place, and she wants to scream. A photo frame is slightly tilted to the left, and she wants to scream. Maybe if she turns her head and sees Carol rolling her eyes impatiently at the whole drama, Sophia would finally, really snap and there's going to be carnage, with blood and stomped-on internal organs everywhere.

But thankfully, all the rage bubbles up and fizzles out in a second, which allows Sophia to keep her mouth shut and reconsider the situation. Here's Brad offering help—she has to focus on that despite all the love-hate thing she's feeling right now. Brad speaks on the phone with someone named Vargas; he paces the principal's office deep in the discussion, and all they could make out from the conversation where phrases like "I need it now" and "enhance it" before Brad snaps the clam-shell phone shut. He turns to them, his face quickly shifting back to feel-good niceness—much of it is directed toward Sophia.

"He's arriving here in about half an hour," says Brad, addressing Sophia.

"Who's 'he', Mr. Silverstone?" Principal Yasuhiro leans in.

"Vargas," Brad says. "Our head of security. He's got the video footage from the past 48 hours."

Carol bolts up in her seat. "We have a 'head of security'? Where?"

"Is he related to Ramirez, the security guard at the school gate?" Principal Yasuhiro, the supposedly top-person in the school, seems clueless.

"Yes, we have a security team, aside from Ramirez." Brad smiles. "But they're based at the headquarters downtown, so video surveillance of the school is done remotely."

"We have video surveillance?" Carol squeaks. "Where?"

Brad shrugs. "Everywhere." He points at the smoke detector on the ceiling. "That, for example, is also a high-resolution video camera. My father didn't want to make the surveillance obvious to avoid spooking out people, especially the students or the teachers."

Upon the mere mention of "video surveillance," the mood in the room—particularly among the teachers—becomes uneasy. Guy Mendes loosens his neck tie. Mr. Pope looks at Carol and Sophia and stares up suspiciously at the smoke detector on the ceiling, as if it were a snake about to pounce on him. Sophia says nothing; she'd rather wait and see how this all pans out.

Principal Yasuhiro is stroking his beard and gazing at Brad's face. "I never knew we have that here." He notices Mr. Pope and follows his upward stare at the smoke detector. "Nifty little things, aren't they? What do you think, Carol—"

Beads of sweat form on Carol's pale face—she looks like death incarnate. The stack of files and forms in her arms—a moment later was of maximum importance—sags on her lap. "I, uhh... I think I need to go to the, uhh... Ladies room!"

Carol abruptly stands up and almost trips on a fold on the carpet. But the door barges open, and the wind brings in a tall beefy man, flanked by two less beefy men, clutching what looks like a suitcase.

"Vargas," Brad acknowledges. "Come in. Let's see that."

Vargas acknowledges Brad with a slight nod and places the suitcase, which turns out to be a rough military-grade Dell laptop. He quickly works the keyboard. A few taps and strokes on the touchpad, and a video flickers into life.

"We went backward in time, from the moment you called us up, Sir." Vargas taps a key and the video suddenly gains in speed, the people running backwards. It's comical, like an old Charlie Chaplin silent film.

Everybody tries to peer into the monitor. "Nothing's happening," grunts Mr. Pope.

"Yes, until here—" another tap on the keyboard and the video resumes normal playback speed—"at around 3 AM local time."

On the laptop, a man wearing a hooded shirt saunters into view and lingers in front of the bulletin board. He fumbles with something in his pocket. He begins scribbling furiously on the bulletin board.

"That would be, uhh, Miss Masterson's picture, right?" Mrs. Reyes's voice squeaks from behind Vargas. Vargas nods without taking his eyes off the screen.

On normal speed, this happens in less than a minute—the man's movement seems rehearsed; he knew exactly what he wants to do. When he's finished, he simply walks away as if nothing happened.

Vargas taps on the keyboard, jumping on a different security camera feed. The next time the man appears is in Sophia's classroom.

"Wait!" Sophia's voice seems a pitch higher. "There is a camera in my classroom?"

"It's the wall clock opposite your desk," Vargas says matter-of-factly.

Sophia gasps.

"And also the vase on this bookshelf."

Sophia gasps some more.

"I'm not sure if it's a consolation," Vargas breathes through his teeth, "but every classroom has the same set of security cameras."

Sophia wants to faint; she catches Brad's gaze, and she blushes. Is this even legal? Her mind races through recent memory—those times she'd stare longingly at the boy when he wasn't looking, and that time she touched herself during class—could that have been discernible on the cameras?

Does Brad know all of that?

Brad smiles reassuringly, as if saying "Wait till you see this one." Sophia nods.

On the laptop's screen, the man stands in the middle of the classroom—he's confident enough that he actually switches on the lights. He surveys the walls as if looking for something. He stops before a shelf of books, lingers in staring at what seems like framed photos, then he picks up one and smashes it on the floor.

"He really hates you," Guy Mendes states the obvious.

The man runs a hand against the edges of Sophia's desk, then he opens the drawer and peers into it. He takes out something from his pocket—a cylindrical, red thing that Vargas says is the dildo. He places it in the drawer, seemingly satisfied, closes it. The man turns to leave, but he changes his mind and return to the shelf of framed photos and stoops down to pick up something—the photo he had smashed a moment ago. He stares at it and slips it in his pocket and makes a huge mistake—for the briefest of moments, he looks up, and down the hood goes. His face, finally, is visible.

It's Carol Smith.

Mrs. Reyes groans. "Oh, my God!" The world freezes. All eyes turn to Carol, who is now looking at something on the floor, an ostrich burying her head in the sand.

On the screen, Carol Smith's deed is played and replayed in an endless loop—she looks up, the hood slides down, then she looks at her wristwatch; she looks up, the hood slides down, then she looks at her wristwatch—ad nauseam. It didn't help that the cameras installed around the school are the pricey high-definition type—even the fine lines around Carol's mouth are visible.

The room falls into icy silence. Even Sophia—a moment ago all ready to eviscerate with her bare hands whoever it is that they would find in the footage—is too stunned to speak.

"We won't file charges," Brad Silverstone says coolly, as if he has done these things a million times before, "if you would quit your job right now and leave town."

Carol Smith looks up, her eyes bloodshot. "I'm sorry." She turns to Sophia and shakes her head. "I'm..." She bolts out the room, half-running with a wounded gait. But Principal Yasuhiro runs after her, shouting, "Carol, you forget this!"

Carol turns around; Mr. Yasuhiro is holding out the dildo, his face inscrutable.

"I'm sorry," she sobs. She runs away.