Mom told me, back in the good old days, kids would get detention for steal handwritten tones to one another during class. My older sister told me minors would get detention in her classes for texting. The teenagers my age have gotten in difficulty for texting too — but they primarily get in trouble for airdropping.

If you’re not technologically savvy, airdropping is like sending a mass text — except you’re sending a photo and you’re sending it to people outside of your contact roster. Whatever picture you choose get sent to everyone within a certain radius . .

Kids would airdrop memes in the middle of assemblies, “re making fun” of our principal. Or they would airdrop a snapshot of an important test so everyone in the cafeteria could see the questions ahead of time.

One day, a draw went around of the class bully. It was a black and white yearbook photo. Someone drew red exes through his eyes. They depicted blood puts trickling down his buttock and chin.

Nobody felt much of the picture at first. Unfortunately, airdropping was known for bullying. Angry exes would airdrop nude photos of the girls who dumped them. Jocks would airdrop pictures of penises in the locker room. Sons would airdrop photos taken from the second story, appearing down daughters’ shirts.

That’s all to say, the picture of the bully with vicious red exes wasn’t the worst we’d seen. Not by far.

No one even really talked about it until sixth stage. An announcement used to go across the school talkers. The principal herself spoke into the screeching microphone. She cleared her throat every few convicts, stumbling through the bulletin that Barry Mulaney, our class bully, had passed away.

There were gasps and shriekings and sighs about the airdropped photo. A few children who saved it to their phones proven the principal, exactly in case it mattered. Simply in case there was some kind of murder and the photo was a evidence leading to the killer.

It wasn’t a murder, though. Barry died from a auto disintegrate. He started the working day with spiked orange juice and a seam, drove above the speed limit, and crashed himself into a tree. He was dead by the time the policemen proved up.

The school comprised an assembly in his honor. It didn’t matter that it was supposed to be serious. Some minors airdropped Spongebob and Kermit memes anyway. It didn’t really bother anyone , not even the teachers. Barry was a known bully after all. No one cared about disrespecting his pseudo funeral in the smelly auditorium.

Aside from an RIP sticker plastered to his locker, institution went on as usual. Everyone forgot about what happened. They stopped conjecturing about his death and the strange photo sent hours before we heard the report. They stopped caring…

…until person airdropped a brand-new yearbook photo with exes on the eyes and blood percolating down the necks and chin.

This time, the photo was of me.

The whole class altered in their benches, turning toward me. They waited for me to have some kind of stroke or heart attack, but I flexed my forearms and “ve told them” I was going to live forever. They chuckled and went back to their work.

On the drive home-no one in twelfth grade took the bus-I heard a rattling in my automobile. My brake light flashed. I tried to switch my paw from the gas pedal to the brake pedal, but it clicked against the floor without slowing my speeding. The yearbook photo twinkled in my knowledge. The ruby-red exes. The blood. Dying up against a tree just like the school bully.

I managed to compose myself enough to use the emergency brake. I skidded to a stop in the middle of the route but the other autoes veered around me. I had stopped. I had stirred it out alive.

The police expected it was an accident with no one to blame — until I pictured them the airdropped photo from that morning along with the old airdropped photo of Barry. They reopened the case after talking to me.

It turned out his death was a murder after all.



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