Taylor discovers the video during Mass, right before communion.
She supposes she should feel guilty about checking her phone during the service, but she hasn't checked it all morning (which practically makes her a saint) and if she still feels bad about it later she'll just add it to her confession, no biggie. Taylor mouths along with the rest of the congregation. “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.”
The priest drones on. When Taylor swipes open her feeds (past group friend shots, and compliment fishing in all caps, and images of a new dog), there's Mae in a swimming pool with Ethan—a shaky video of shadows highlighted blue. Taylor slides down the volume on her already-muted phone. Bottom halves of nameless kids enter and exit the scene, forming a kinetic backdrop to the main action. Ethan shoves his hands up Mae's minidress. The white fabric balloons in the water, and then the dress is pulled off.
Taylor cups her hand over the screen. This is too much; she cannot watch this in church. The row ahead of her rises to take communion. She turns to her mother plaintively and complains of a stomach ache. Yes, Taylor needs to go to the bathroom. No, it cannot wait. Toes first, so her chunky heels don't draw attention, she races down the aisle and out into the sun.
Outside is ordinary. Neat front lawns and a passing minivan. All feeling and no thought, Taylor feels compelled to take some type of immediate action. She calls Mae. No answer. She calls Ethan but hangs up mid-ring. After the whole drawing incident, Taylor is sure to be blamed for this somehow. Just imagining the conversation makes her cringe: Hi, this is Taylor. Did you know you're on the internet? No thanks. She dials Shelby.
“I know,” Shelby says by way of greeting. “This day is bananas.”
“Did you see the video? I just saw it.” Taylor lowers her voice to a whisper. “In church!”
“'Course I've seen it. Have the police stopped by yet?”
“The police? No!” Taylor needs the world to slow down. All rules governing life and logic have disintegrated. Across the street, an elderly man mows his front lawn sans shirt. Leather folds of stomach spill over jean shorts. “Did you tell Mae?”
Shelby's voice is even flatter than usual. “Nobody can find her.”
Taylor's mind splits in two. The sensible half continues the conversation with Shelby. “Where could she be?”
“Nobody knows. The police will probably come and talk to you about it soon.”
“She's gotta still be at Ethan's, right?”
“She's not there. They looked there.”
The Mae in the video could have been anybody. She wasn't talking or even moving. It's not as though she could have walked away. Somebody moved the body, Taylor's hysterical half thinks. The notion that her friend might be dead is unable to seep into her rational mind and is instead pushed away. “Did one of the seniors take her home?”
“The police don't know any of that. You should tell them if you have any ideas.”
“I'm gonna drive around and look for her.”
“Listen, I can't talk right now. My dad's watching the video.”
When Shelby hangs up, the barrier within Taylor's mind shakily persists. She drops onto the concrete—smooth and stable and reassuring—and digs her forehead into her knees. Think, Taylor, think.