Item one on today’s to-do list was confronting Phoebe Pratt. The rage I’d felt toward her Friday night had mostly abated, but I wanted to make it clear my life wasn’t up for gossip in the paper, and I needed to talk to Tess about my column anyway—it was item two, actually. Each task I needed to accomplish today was typed into my phone, color-coded and waiting for a simple tap to cross it off. God bless technology. “Just the girl I wanted to see,” Phoebe Pratt said, stepping into my path. Her dark hair was up in a loose bun, and she wore her usual cat-eye glasses with crystals. “I was looking for you, too, actually.” Now that the woman was in front of me, her red lips stretched into a spiteful smile, the heat was instantly back in my veins. What happened to respect for colleagues? Or at least a little girl solidarity? She lifted her blinged-out iPhone between us, and I noticed the recording app on her screen.
