The Wrong Side of Kai

by Estelle Maskame

  I stare at Dad now, totally mute. He loved her so intensely that he can’t seem to grasp how to continue through life without her. It’s like he’s stuck in limbo, frozen in an endless, eternal loop of time. He can’t seem to step out of it and move forward. At least Kennedy and I are trying.

  Dad returns to the wall, trying to place the painting back where it belongs, and I feel my throat clenching tight as my eyes sting with tears. He wants so hard to keep her memory alive. I know he hates that painting too, but he’s fighting to nail it back in its prominent spot, but it won’t stay up, and it keeps falling back down, and Dad is growing more and more exasperated . . .

  And then he grabs that ugly painting and throws it across the room in a wave of fierce, unprecedented rage.

  I stare at Dad wide-eyed as he steps down from the ladder and fumbles in his jeans pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He has totally lost it. He’s grumbling under his breath as he walks over to the kitchen, pushing past me as though I’m invisible – which, figuratively speaking, I guess I am.

  “The painting can just stay down, Dad,” I say gently, following him into the kitchen.

  He slides open the patio doors and leans against the frame, lighting a cigarette and blowing the plume of smoke out into the cool night air. Mom never used to let him smoke inside the house, but she’s not here to enforce that rule anymore. Half the time, he doesn’t even make the effort to smoke at the back door. That’s why our house reeks of tobacco, and why Chyna rarely comes over more than once a week because she’s tired of her asthma flaring up as soon as she walks through the front door.

  “She’ll be disappointed,” Dad mumbles with a cough. “She loves that picture.”

  She’ll also be disappointed that he’s smoking in the house, so why does an old painting even matter?

  “But Mom’s not here,” I say. “Things are never going to be as they were.”

  He cranes his neck to look at me, appalled at my bluntness. Dad doesn’t like it when we say factual stuff like that. Half the time, he still talks about Mom in the present tense as though she’s off traveling the world and will return soon with gifts and hugs and tales of faraway adventures. If only.

  “You can’t think that way,” he mumbles. “We still need to make her proud.”

  And how exactly are we doing that? I think.

  Mom wouldn’t be proud of Dad right now. She would want him to be happy, to be the man she fell in love with, and not some tormented, grieving, shabby recluse. And she definitely wouldn’t be proud of me either. The daughter who messed up, who can’t get a handle on her own behavior; the daughter who’s desperate not to be shamed as her sex life circulates around school, and beyond, on some screwed-up video.

  For a second, I think about telling Dad. I imagine opening my mouth and confessing the truth, then asking him, as my father, to help me fix this mess. I want him to reassure me that everything will be okay, that he’s going to help me resolve this, and that I’ll be okay. But I know he’s no longer capable. He is numb to everything except his own pain.

  I leave him smoking by the patio doors and run up to my room, taking the stairs two at a time. I grab my MacBook, collapsing onto my bed as I log in while tears break free and roll down my cheeks because the realization that I’m alone in this misery is too much. I don’t turn on any lights, only let the glare of the screen illuminate my face as I pull up my internet browser. I open a couple new tabs. Twitter. Facebook. The first social media I’ve seen all day.

  I check Facebook first, only because I know it’s the safest. No one uses it these days, so the likelihood of me seeing anything about myself on there is pretty much nil. But I scroll through my newsfeed anyway, searching and searching for my name, but all I see are photo uploads from distant relatives and middle-aged locals airing their dirty laundry.

  My focus shifts to the Twitter tab. The most ruthless social media of all. It’s a cooking pot when it comes to gossip and high school drama – everyone has something to say, because it’s just so easy to say it, and everyone feeds off one another’s posts, fueling heated discussions, fallouts and unwanted opinions. I’m not stupid. I know exactly what I’m about to see as I log in, because I know what I’d be saying if it were anyone else, but it still shocks me to my core as soon as the posts come up on my timeline.

  what a whore

  hasn’t every guy in Westerville North already seen that body anyway?

  vanessa murphy really has lost it

  #smileforthecamera

  oh my godddd gross!!

  Only a couple of the tweets mention my actual name, but it’s so clear that every post is about me. Every post from seven this morning up until right now, tweet after tweet shaming me, humiliating me, my peers from school basking in the sadistic glee of tearing someone else to pieces. They’re just so freakin’ glad it’s not them who’s in the firing line, because it’s always more fun being the one laughing than being the one laughed at. What hurts worst of all is that last week most of these people were talking to me in the hallways at school. They were joking around with me at Madison Romy’s party. They were sitting with me at lunch. It feels so clear now that they have never really liked me at all, that they most likely already had these opinions about me, but never had the courage or the opportunity to express them. But people grow brave – and vicious – when they’re in unison with others. I’m usually a part of it too, but now it feels so wrong.

  I wanted attention, sure, but not like this.

  I make my account private and slam my MacBook shut.

  The total unfairness of it sends tears streaming down my face. But there’s a purpose galvanizing behind my tears. Now I’m craving payback more than ever.

  There wasn’t a single mention of Harrison’s name. Not a single insinuation about Harrison. But I already knew that too. I knew this morning that it would be me who’d be subject to all the backlash. Harrison doesn’t have to worry about being tortured online or his social status being torn apart – but he does have something else to worry about.

  Kai and me.

  7

  I sleep in late for school. Admittedly, on purpose. I can’t bear the thought of walking down those hallways again. To think that yesterday I was blissfully unaware that everyone around me had that video on their phone. What a sucker.

  I did shoot Chyna a text telling her not to pick me up, and I promised her I’d be at school by noon. No matter how much I dread facing everyone at school, I don’t want to ditch Chyna during lunch. We have our own table in the cafeteria that we share with some mutual friends, but Chyna is more reserved than I am, someone who’s happy to be in my shadow, so she’ll panic if I don’t turn up. That’s why I have to show my face at school today. For my friend’s sake.

  Second period is drawing to a close as I pull up to our campus. But, oh no, not in the Green McRusty. Dad took it to work this morning, so I had to improvise. I’m on Kai’s bike. Embarrassing, sure, but nowhere near as humiliating as a leaked sex tape. I’ve discovered that it’s quite freeing, really – feeling so exposed already that it doesn’t matter what you do next, because it’s not like you can sink any lower.

  I stopped by the hardware store on my way here to buy a bike lock, because nothing is ever safe on this campus. And right now, I’m the prime target for abuse, so if anyone catches me pulling up on this bike, they’ll most likely break the chain and then toss it in the dumpster just to spite me. And then Kai will kill me.

  There’s no one around, though. I chain the bike up to a rack and study the others already there in search of Kai’s father’s one, but I can’t remember what it looks like. Kai’s is painted a dark blue and the tires have a red trim, but his dad’s was more subtle. I keep checking the bikes until it occurs to me that what I’m really doing is trying to figure out whether or not Kai is at school.

  Of course he’s at school. Why wouldn’t he be? It’s only his second day. I don’t even know why Kai transferred here from Westerville Central. I need to ask him
, but apparently I’m not allowed to talk to him in public.

  The bell for lunch period rings out, echoing across the deserted school campus. It’s my cue to pluck up some courage and enter the building. I take a deep breath, several of them, and head for the door. I’m wearing a pair of baggy jeans and a hoodie, because I know it’d be like feeding time at the zoo if I turned up today in my usual style. I like tight jeans and low-cut tops, because I like the way they look, but I know that drawing attention to my body wouldn’t do much to help my cause right now. So, another middle finger up at Harrison for forcing me to change the way I dress.

  Students spill out of the building and I have to fight against the current to get inside. I ignore the whispers, the laughter. It doesn’t mean they don’t hurt. No amount of trying to tough it out can save me, not really, not deep down. I keep my head up and my eyes set ahead, lips clamped firmly shut. I can’t look at the sea of faces in the hallways as I drift past them. It’s all a blur. I don’t want to see Harrison or his friends. I don’t want to see Kai, because right now, other than Chyna, he feels like the only other friend I have, so I’m worried I’ll run straight to him. And I’ve no way of knowing if I can trust him. Plus, he’s made it clear that he doesn’t want us to be seen together.

  When I reach the cafeteria doors, I brace myself for impact. The cafeteria is always toxic – it’s where arguments that have been brewing all day finally break out, it’s where jock-level disagreements are settled with fistfights, it’s where Judgment Day takes place for those of us who have made mistakes and sinned against the rules of the school.

  I follow a couple of freshmen girls through the doors and into the boxing ring that is the Westerville North cafeteria. It’s a buzz of noise, mindless chatter laced with laughter, bodies milling around with trays. At first, as I weave my way around tables toward my own at the back, I’m praying that everyone is too self-absorbed to notice my arrival. But then the hushing starts. It’s subtle, the volume of the cafeteria dropping by only a notch or two, but it’s there. Eyes latch onto me. Tongues wag.

  It’s hard not to tune in to what they’re saying, and I flinch, but it’s easier to bear once I finally spot Chyna at our table. She’s on her own, picking silently at her food, which is weird. Our table is usually packed full, and on the odd occasion that there is an empty seat, it doesn’t take long for some desperate soul to fill it. As I approach, Chyna glances up, her face lighting up with relief.

  “You’re here!” she says, her smile wide and beautiful. She stands from the table and pulls me into a tight hug that I know means much more than her just being grateful that I’ve turned up. It’s a hug full of love and reassurance, a hug that reminds me that she’s here for me. I squeeze her back, burying my face in her braids, fighting back tears. Sometimes when I look at Chyna, I see pieces of my old self in her. Happy, passionate, loyal – hopeful for all that’s ahead of us. The past couple years, I have become someone entirely different, but yet we have never grown apart. It’s corny, I know, but that’s how I’m sure we’ll be best friends for life.

  We sit down at the table together, side-by-side, and I look around at all those empty seats again. I feel a thousand eyes burning into me. “Where is everyone?”

  Chyna shrugs and turns her eyes down to her lap, but we both know where our friends are. Nowhere near me, that’s where. Refusing to be associated with the school tramp. Well, screw them. Fake ass friends. Chyna slides her tray over to me, offering me some of her grapes in consolation. “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “It’s fine,” I lie, and pop a grape into my mouth. I guess I already knew she was the only real friend I had anyway. I have my back turned to the cafeteria, refusing to glance over at anyone, instead staring aimlessly at a dirty smudge on the windows. It’s really not fine. Is this what it feels like to be a social outcast? I bet even creepy Ryan Malone has more friends at his table than I do right now.

  “You still haven’t told me what happened last night with Kai. What went down?”

  I look at Chyna. It’s probably not wise to admit that I was an accomplice in a misdemeanor crime, but she’s my best friend. “We rode around on bikes, went to Harrison’s house, and messed up his truck,” I say under my breath, leaning in close to her. I manage to flash her a devious smile. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

  Chyna’s eyes go wide and she nearly bursts out of her seat. “You actually slashed his tires?!”

  “Shhh!”

  “Sorry. But holy shit.”

  “It was Kai who did the dirty work,” I explain, taking the heat off myself like a coward. “I was just the lookout. It was . . . fun.” I think back to last night, remembering the terror, but also the rush of exhilaration and adrenaline, and I wonder what move Kai and I will make next. It feels like we’re playing a video game.

  Chyna folds her arms across her chest, giving me a stern look up and down. “Don’t tell me you’re about to fall off the rails and end up in jail or something.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” I say, rolling my eyes. If I can survive losing Mom, then I can survive anything.

  “Yeah, I kinda do.” Chyna’s expression turns serious. “Are you okay?”

  I just nod, forcing a smile onto my face. We both know it’s fake and we both know that no, I’m not okay. But what can I do other than just bear the next few days, weeks, or months until attention shifts to someone else’s mistake?

  *

  #SmileForTheCamera is scrawled onto my locker door in bright red Sharpie. I hear people around me snicker as they watch me discover it, but I swallow and continue to open up my locker and fetch my books. Was that written by the same person who tweeted that hashtag on Twitter yesterday? Or has it simply become the agreed phrase for all my peers to taunt me with?

  I slam my locker shut again and turn around, but a gasp escapes my mouth when I find someone standing directly in front of me.

  “Vanessa,” Harrison says, his voice low. He glances at the words painted on my locker and grimaces. His eyes meet mine and he steps closer. “You didn’t happen to slash the tires of my truck last night, did you?”

  “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” I state calmly, then barge my shoulder into his as I push past him. I can’t even look at him. I hate him.

  A firm hand grasps my arm and yanks me back. “Vanessa,” Harrison says again, more aggressively this time. He squeezes my arm too tight and his glare becomes threatening. “Don’t fucking touch my stuff.”

  “Don’t leak our private business,” I bite back, then widen my eyes and add, “Oh wait,” before giving him a bitter smile. Roughly, I pull my arm free from his grip and we glower at one another, two lovers turned enemies.

  It’s only then that I realize we have an audience. Of course we do. Everyone is watching our every move, listening to our every word, desperate for new developments in this scandal. I don’t want to give them any more juicy gossip, so I grit my teeth and walk away despite how badly I want to kick Harrison to the curb.

  With my English Lit books hugged to my chest, I walk to class at full speed and arrive just as the bell is ringing. I’m one of the first inside the class, which means I get first dibs at the desks. Everyone tends to stick to the same seats, but it’s not a rule, so there’s no way I’m willingly taking up position in my usual spot. I share this class with Noah, and we sit next to one another on the back row where we engage in mindless bickering and flirting – or at least we did. It’s how we started hooking up in the first place, but after I called things off, we didn’t talk as much. Yesterday he was a dick to me, so I refuse to sit near him and be subjected to a barrage of verbal abuse. I steal someone else’s desk right up front by the windows instead.

  The rest of my classmates filter into the room, their judgmental gazes unable to avoid peeking over at me, and it slowly occurs to me that every desk around me is empty. No one wants to sit near me. It’s like being that kid in middle school who hasn’t discovered deodorant yet, like I’m too
disgusting to come within a five-foot radius of. I close my eyes, inhale. All these people, all their phones with that video . . .

  A body slouches into the seat next to me. My gaze flickers over. It’s Kai. He’s wearing a Cleveland Browns snapback backward on his head and he gets comfortable, dumping a textbook on the desk. His every mannerism is effortless, languid, and, as he glances quickly over at me out of the corner of his eye, I swear I catch him smiling.

  “Hey,” I mumble, angling toward him. The only friend I have in this room. Thank God he’s in this class – hopefully he’s in some of my other classes too. There is suddenly hope that maybe I can survive the next hour.

  “Undercover, Nessie,” Kai hisses, his lips unmoving. He stares straight ahead at the blank projector screen on the wall. I can’t tell if he’s sitting next to me by choice or because there aren’t many options left.

  I sigh and turn back to my own desk, drumming my fingertips against the wood while I wait for Miss Anderson to show up. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and raise an eyebrow at Kai – it’s a new message from Kai Washington (Partner). He won’t look at me, and I can see the great effort he’s making to blatantly ignore me.

  I told you not to talk to me.

  Oh, nice. He was actually being serious about that. I text back quickly, honest as I admit:

  Sorry. Got no one else to talk to.

  I watch Kai out of the corner of my eye as he reads my message on his own screen, then types back a reply, his fingertips moving fast.

  Stay back at the end of class and we’ll talk once everyone leaves. I’ve got an idea for what to do to Harrison next.

  “Hey, anyone got a camera in here?” a voice booms across the room, and when I look up, Noah is strolling into class. “Just in case someone wants to start stripping and give us a show?” His eyes flash over to meet mine, and he grins, crooked and sadistic as the class cackles with hushed laughter. He walks to his desk at the back of the room, shaking his head at the empty spot next to it. “C’mon, Vanessa, get back to your usual seat. Maybe we can have some fun when Miss Anderson isn’t looking. Look, I’ll even make it easy for you.” He undoes the button of his jeans, then bursts into laughter when some of the other guys from the team corral around him, fist bumping and high-fiving. The entire room is in fits of laughter. Laughter at my expense. I used to find Noah attractive because of his class clown personality, but being the one used for his punchlines isn’t so funny.