Never Been Kissed

by Melody Carlson

  “But I think I’m past that now. Mostly I want to get to the bottom of things.”

  Her dog is whining and tugging at his leash now, ready to continue the walk. “Well, good luck, Elise. I hope you figure out who did it.”

  “Me too.” I give the last brush a good shake, then gather the tools and go back into the house. I sort of remember hearing about a girl who killed herself a few years back. But I didn’t remember the part about cyber bullying. It makes me wonder—what is wrong with some kids? Why would they take something so hurtful and push it so far?

  Suddenly I wish I had my laptop so I could do some research into all this stuff. Just how widespread is it? And what is being done about it?

  I find Grandma and Wally in the kitchen and tell them about what Hilary just told me and how I’d like to do some investigation. “Except that the cops still have my laptop.”

  “You can use my old computer if you like,” Grandma offers. “It’s a bit of a dinosaur, but once it warms up it’s not so bad.”

  “And do you mind if I use the phone to call a couple of friends?” I ask. “I’d like to ask some questions, see if anyone can figure this thing out.”

  “Great idea,” Wally tells me. “Make sure you take good notes. Get times and dates when you can. And ask anyone you speak to if they’d be willing to give a deposition if needed.”

  I go into the den, which used to be Grandpa’s favorite hangout, and turn on the old PC. While it’s warming up, I call Stacie’s cell phone. But instead of hearing her voice, I’m sent straight to voicemail. “Hey, Stacie,” I begin, “this is Elise and I’d like to talk to you. But I’m staying at my grandma’s for a few days.” I give her the number and ask her to call back as soon as she can. “It’s really important,” I add.

  Next I call Phillip, and he actually answers. “Elise?” he says with what sounds like hesitation, like he doesn’t really want to talk to me.

  “Hi, Phillip,” I begin carefully. “I’m sure you know what happened by now.”

  “I know you got arrested for sexting Asher Gordon.” His voice is edged in anger.

  “That’s how it appears,” I tell him. “But that’s not really the truth.”

  “What is the truth?” Again he sounds irked, and like he’s in a hurry.

  “I’m happy to tell you the truth,” I say, “if you’re willing to hear it. You sound like maybe you’re busy.”

  He lets out a sigh. “No, I’m not busy. But I’ll be honest with you, Elise. I was pretty shocked when I, uh, when I saw that photo.”

  “That photo!” I explode. “Yes, I keep hearing about that photo. But I’ve yet to actually see it. Even when I was arrested, no one, not even the police, showed it to me. And—”

  “You’re saying you haven’t seen it?” He sounds skeptical now.

  “Of course I haven’t seen it. There is no such photo. Not for real anyway. I suspect that someone used Photoshop to change a photo of me—” I consider my words. It’s not that I want to lie, but maybe I don’t want to lay all my cards on the table just yet. “Like a swimsuit photo that’s been airbrushed to make the image appear naked.”

  “Elise, the image, as you call it, didn’t appear to be naked—the image was naked.”

  “How do you know that for a fact?” I ask. “I mean you’ve never actually seen me naked, have you?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “I mean for real,” I shoot at him. “I don’t mean an image that’s not really me.”

  “Okay.” He sighs. “Let’s say that image isn’t you. Or that it’s a photo that’s been Photoshopped. In fact, you made me curious. Maybe I’ll just take another look. I know enough about Photoshop to know if something’s been messed with.”

  I cringe to think of him looking at that photo.

  “And you say you haven’t actually seen this photo?”

  “Right. The police took my computer and cell phone as evidence—”

  “Don’t you know anyone who has a computer? Or you could go to the library.”

  “As a matter of fact, I just turned on my grandmother’s computer. But how can I find the photo on that?”

  “Well, it’s been removed from some sites, but it’s still around.”

  “What do you mean it’s still around?”

  “I mean it will continue to circulate, Elise—good grief, it might circulate until the end of time. Don’t tell me you don’t know that something like this could make it hard to get into college or get a job.”

  I groan. “Thanks for all the encouragement.”

  “I’m just being honest.”

  “So, seriously, how do I go about pulling up this photo?” I ask. “Or maybe you could send me—”

  “Are you nuts? Do you not get that sending a photo like that is a crime? You’re a juvenile. I’m a juvenile. Do you think I want to get—”

  “Right, yes, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Apparently that’s been going around.”

  “Look, Phillip, I’m sorry. I can tell you’ve been hurt. And just in case you were wondering, I have no intention of making you take me to the homecoming dance.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, right. I wasn’t too worried.”

  “Just so you know, this hasn’t been a walk in the park for me either. Do you have any idea how painful this is? I actually considered suicide the first night that it—”

  “No way!” He actually sounds concerned.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have admitted that. But it’s true. I’ve been devastated by this. It’s like no one will believe me. Thankfully I’ve got a good attorney and my grandma is standing by me. But for a while . . . well, it just seemed so hopeless.”

  “Okay, I found a MySpace page that’s still got the photo on it.” He quickly gives me the address, which I write down then navigate to. Suddenly there is this image—a girl with long dark hair like mine, flowing over one bare shoulder. Her head is bent down and sideways so I can’t see her face, just her chin, but her body is in full view. And even though I don’t stand in the mirror and study my naked physique, I have to admit that her curves look familiar. Yet I know—that is not me.

  “Did you find it yet?” he asks.

  “I found it,” I say quietly. “But it’s not me.”

  “Who is it then?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Why was it originally sent from your phone?”

  “My phone?” I try to grasp this. “I thought someone sent the photo online, through email.”

  “Oh, trust me, it’s been online, through email, on MySpace and a bunch of other places. You’re getting around, Elise.”

  “It’s not me!” I yell. “I swear, with God as my witness, it’s not me.”

  “Okay,” he says quickly. “Calm down.”

  “Calm down? Would you be calm if someone did this to you?”

  “Did what? Sent me a naked photo? Actually, I did receive a naked photo, Elise. Just like half the kids in school. And I wasn’t too happy about it.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Phillip. Imagine if someone faked a naked photo of you and sent it to everyone with your name on it. And you knew it wasn’t you and that a photo like that had never been taken, but no one believed you. How would you feel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, trust me, you wouldn’t like it.”

  “Okay, let’s say I believe you, Elise. You never had a photo like that taken. But I’m looking at it now and I can honestly say I don’t see any signs of Photoshop on it. Either this person was really a pro or someone’s lying.”

  “Of course someone’s lying,” I tell him as I stare at the horrid photo with my name plastered beneath it. “That is not me.” Yet even as I say this, it’s like my mind is starting to play tricks on me and I think maybe it is me. Maybe someone took a photo and I didn’t know it. Like when I was getting out of the shower. But why would I look so posed? And dry? “I feel like I’m losing my mind,” I tell him. “Or like I’m going to be s
ick to my stomach. Or both.” I turn off the screen. “I can’t stand to look at it.” Now I’m crying. “What am I going to do?”

  “Don’t cry,” he tells me in a soothing voice.

  “But I feel so trapped. How can I prove this isn’t me? I wish there was some kind of DNA or fingerprinting they could do with a photo like this.”

  “The police got all your stuff, right?”

  “Yes. My cell phone and laptop and my mom’s camera . . . anything they felt was evidence.”

  “So if that photo was sent from your phone—”

  “Which seems impossible.”

  “Well, that’s the charge, right? That’s what everyone at school was saying—that you sent it to Asher’s phone. You need to remember who had access to your phone. Maybe the police will find fingerprints.”

  “This is making my head hurt,” I say.

  “Sorry, but you wanted someone to believe you, Elise. I was just trying to piece things together.”

  “Yeah, I appreciate it. Actually, just seeing the photo—which is totally disgusting—is kind of helpful. I mean I know it’s not me. And there must be a way to prove it.”

  “Take another photo.”

  “Oh, great idea, Phillip. Then I could send it to everyone and say, hey, look, this is really me.”

  “Sorry. Bad joke.”

  “Extremely bad.”

  “Well, life hasn’t been easy for me either. Some people, including the police, assumed that I was your boyfriend, and I’ve been questioned about whether I knew you were sexting Asher or whether you ever sexted me.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s awful. But it’s not like I could do anything to prevent this.”

  “So tell me, Elise. If you didn’t do this, and I want to believe you didn’t . . . The truth is I was pretty shocked. It really didn’t seem like you at all. But if you didn’t do this, who did?”

  I remember the swimsuit photo and realize the only fair thing to do is give full disclosure. I tell Phillip that I’d been crushing on Asher and how we’d been exchanging secret emails. “Remember, you warned me to be careful.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Well, Asher had asked me to send photos. So I sent a regular one. Then he sent me one of him—like a swimsuit photo, you know?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “In exchange, he asked me to send a swimsuit photo.”

  “And you did?”

  “I’m ashamed to admit I did. I wasn’t going to, but Stacie kept egging me on, saying it was no big deal and how everyone does that.”

  “Stacie-who-is-barely-out-of-middle-school Stacie?”

  “Yeah. But really, it seemed pretty harmless.”

  “Right . . .” I hear the skepticism returning to his voice.

  “Look, I’m just trying to be honest with you.”

  “Well, you’ve really fallen into a tangled web, haven’t you?”

  “It sounds like you think it’s my fault.”

  “I didn’t say that, Elise.”

  “You didn’t have to.” I turn the computer screen back on, cringing when that image reappears. “I’m sorry to have dragged you into this,” I tell him as I blink back tears.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know, I know,” I say quickly. “Guilt by association and all that stuff. I don’t blame you if you never speak to me again. I’m sorry to have bothered you,” I choke out then hang up.

  I just stare at that naked girl as hot tears streak down my cheeks. Will this ever end? Will it ever go away? Or is Phillip right—will an image like this dog my heels for the rest of my life?

  12

  ______

  “Would it be okay if I drove over to the apartments to get some more clothes?” I ask Grandma after I turn off the computer. I’m sick of hearing sad stories, sick of taking peeks at that photo, sick of my life in general.

  “Yes, I was wondering about that too. But maybe I should take you in my car. Your mom said she doesn’t want you driving the Mustang.”

  “Right . . .” I nod and try not to seem too hurt.

  “I’ve told her that she can’t sell that car until we’ve gotten to the bottom of this,” Grandma says as she reaches for her purse. “I said that would be like judging someone guilty without a fair trial.”

  “She already did that,” I point out.

  “Yes, well, she’s under some stress.”

  “What else is new?” I say glumly as we go outside.

  “Why don’t you drive, dear?” Grandma hands me the keys.

  As I back out of the driveway, I try not to look at my car. But I see that horrible deep scratch and cringe. Poor Bonnie Blue.

  Before long, I’m cruising down the highway, and although it’s a small thing, I realize it feels good to drive again. At least I can still do something right. When I get to the apartment complex, Grandma wakes up from her nap and offers to wait in the car for me.

  “I’ll hurry,” I promise.

  She waves her hand. “Just put the windows down a bit and take your time.”

  As I’m going up the stairs, I meet Stacie on her way down, taking out the trash. “Stacie!” I cry happily. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Uh, yeah,” she says quickly. “I gotta go dump this.”

  “Sure. I’ll go with you,” I say as I trail behind her to the dumpster. “So what’s up? How’s it going? Did you get my message?”

  She tosses the bag in and turns to me with a frown. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

  “Who says?”

  “My mom.”

  “Your mom?” I cock my head to one side. This is pretty weird since, other than nagging Stacie to help with chores, the woman is pretty laid-back.

  “Yes. My mom heard about what you did and—”

  “How did your mom hear about it?”

  Stacie shrugs. “I don’t know. Stuff gets around.”

  “But—”

  “Look, I don’t want to get in trouble, okay? And if I’m seen talking to you, I could be in big trouble. I know about the police coming here and everything. And don’t forget I took that swimsuit photo, so I’m sure they’ll think that I might’ve . . . well, you know, taken that other one.”

  “The police took my mom’s camera,” I point out. “That will show them you didn’t.”

  She nods, then glances over her shoulder like she expects the cops to come crashing down on us at any moment. “I gotta go.”

  “Fine.” I shake my head. “I thought you were my friend.”

  She doesn’t respond to this but simply hurries up the stairs and back into their apartment. Still, something about this doesn’t feel right. I don’t get why her mom would suddenly get involved. I happen to know that her mom’s done a few things that aren’t exactly legal. Not that I’m going there. And usually she seems to turn a blind eye to Stacie and what she’s doing. Even my mom has mentioned this, saying that for a fourteen-year-old, Stacie has way too much freedom.

  I let myself into our apartment. I’m halfway surprised that Mom didn’t change the locks. I quickly gather a few things, shoving them into a bag, and then I leave, locking the door behind me. This place never really felt like much of a home anyway. But even less now. I wonder if I’ll ever be welcomed back.

  In fact, as I hurry back to Grandma, I wonder why I don’t just ask to live with her and transfer back to my old school. Oh, I’m sure my “past” might follow me there, but at least I might have some friends (like Hilary) who may believe in me. However, I can’t forget that Hilary is dating Asher’s cousin. Who knows what kind of a spin Asher could be putting on this story?

  That makes me think I need to put him on my list of people to question. Brianna too. And Bristol and Lindsey and all the rest of them. Somehow I need to get the truth out of someone. Because I have no doubt . . . someone knows. Maybe a few someones.

  As I drive Grandma home, I tell her about my odd conversation with Stacie. “I’m thinking maybe the only way to get to the bottom of this m
ight be to return to the scene of the crime.”

  “To school?” she asks with interest.

  “Just to investigate. In fact, I was thinking maybe I could go back to my old school . . . maybe even live with you . . . if Mom doesn’t want me back.”

  She chuckles and pats my knee. “Oh, your mom is going to want you back, Elise. She probably does already. But she’s stubborn and it hurts to think you’d do that. But once she figures things out, I have no doubt that she’ll want you back.”

  “But what if she doesn’t?” I ask with uncertainty.

  Grandma laughs loudly now. “Then I’ll be happy to keep you. And you can go to school wherever you please.”

  I let out a sigh of relief.

  “However, I do like your plan to return to the scene of the crime. Wally is doing what he can, but he can’t get inside there and sniff around like you can, Elise.”

  “And if I tell myself I’m returning to go undercover . . . not to go back to school there for good . . . well, maybe I can get through it.”

  “Don’t expect it to be easy,” Grandma warns. “You’ll have to have thick skin.”

  “I know.”

  “You know what Grandpa used to tell your mother?”

  “What?”

  “What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.”

  I just nod. But the truth is . . . I’m not totally sure this couldn’t kill me. I think about that poor Rachel girl who hung herself in middle school. Then I remember my own dark night and that wad of blue sleeping pills. But I also remember the stain in my palm and how it reminded me of Jesus’s nail-pierced hands. And I think maybe with God’s help . . . maybe I can do this.

  Of course, that’s not what I’m thinking as I drive myself to school the next day. Grandma got permission from Mom for me to use the car to get to school. But Mom made it clear that was all I was to use it for. Whatever. I think I need the extra long drive this morning anyway. To pray and to just get a grip.

  I take the note that Grandma wrote me (excusing my absences) to the administration office. It figures that Bristol works there first period.

  “You’re back?” she questions. Then, giving me a haughty look, she takes Grandma’s note that’s carefully written on good stationery, holds it between her thumb and forefinger as if it’s contaminated, and walks away. I watch to make sure she puts it in the basket where it should go before heading to class. While her reaction to me isn’t surprising, it’s a little unnerving and one more indicator of what I can look forward to for the rest of the day.