In Too Deep

by Amanda Grace

  I didn’t get a superlative. Which is pathetic, when you figure there are at least twenty superlatives and only forty-five students. At least Allan Eldred, class nerd, got Most likely to create the next Facebook. And of course Carter received Most likely to play a professional sport.

  Then again, after this week, maybe being invisible is better. At least I don’t have these expectations.

  I flip more pages and there’s Carter, homecoming king. I glance up at Tracey. She’s in the photo too, on his arm. I turn the page so she won’t see what I’m looking at, but the next page isn’t much better. There’s a pull quote next to the football team’s photo, where Carter is quoted as saying Football is life.

  I pick up the book and thumb rapidly through it. There’s Carter’s basketball photo, Carter’s baseball photo, Carter’s senior photo. When I get to the index, I scan down to see Wellesley, Carter: 7, 11, 29, 46, 52, 70, 112, 139, 150.

  He’s in this book nine times. Jesus.

  “Here, sign mine,” Tracey says, sliding her yearbook across the table. I blink. I’m still a little amazed she knows my name, and now she wants me to sign it in her yearbook.

  I flip to the fresh page in the back.

  “Give me yours,” she says, reaching out to snag my book.

  I fish a pen out of the front pouch on my backpack and then rest the tip on the page, but I don’t know what to say. I’m so glad we both hate Carter? Thanks for believing my lies? Right. I listen to her own pen scratch across the page and so I just scribble down, Tracey, hope you have a great summer. Sam Marshall.

  I push it back in front of her, but instead of giving me my book, she slides it over to Macy, who doesn’t hesitate as she takes Tracey’s pen and scribbles her own message into the back.

  Then she gives me my book and her own, and I scribble down a derivative of what I’ve already said and hand

  it back.

  I flip the yearbook open and glance at the back.

  They both left their phone numbers. Call me! messages. Little hearts.

  It makes my stomach hurt, seeing their positive, cutesy little notes.

  Do they actually like me? Or is this still about Carter? Why can’t I seem to believe they actually want to be friends with me?

  I snap my yearbook shut and push it into my backpack, zipping it up. When I look up, Tracey and Macy are staring across the room, their backs rigid, their expressions identical.

  I twist around in my chair and follow their gaze, my stomach sinking.

  Carter just walked into the cafeteria with the guys who keyed my car. My breath leaves my lungs and I find my hands shaking as I grab at my backpack straps.

  “Don’t,” Tracey says. “Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

  The breath catches in my throat. “But I don’t want—”

  “Stay put. If he comes over here, we have your back.”

  Have my back? What does that even mean, really? That they’ll play human shield if he launches himself at me, like he should? Like I deserve?

  I dart my eyes over to him, and I find it hard to tear them away like I meant to.

  He’s different, now. He’s not floating into the room like before, but walking, with sort of jerky, heavy-footed steps. Unless it’s me that’s changed. Unless I’m seeing him differently, seeing the guy he’s always been.

  But no, it’s not just me. Where before, people used to part like the Red Sea, they’re now ignoring him. He has to jostle his way through the crowd. He accidently bumps into someone’s shoulder.

  He’s not the god he always was. Whatever I did, it stripped away the veneer of who he used to be. It made people see him for who he is. No, it made them see him for who he’s not. Because they believe a complete and utter falsehood.

  Now, he trips a little. No, wait. It kind of looked like someone purposely shoulder-checked him. He turns and glares, but the guy doesn’t glance back, just keeps walking.

  I don’t know that guy. Why would he do that? Did

  he hear the rumor and choose my side without even knowing me?

  A rumor can’t be that powerful. My rumor can’t be

  that powerful.

  I can’t seem to rip my gaze away from him. I’m riveted by watching his fall from grace, seeing the differences. His shoulders hunch forward a little, but his eyes are not downcast. They burn, even from here, with anger.

  I gulp. “Guys, I really think—”

  “No. Your butt stays in that chair,” Tracey says. “And if you move, it’ll only make him see you.”

  I see now why she is who she is. Why she reigns supreme amongst the girls, why they all listen to her. Because when she speaks, it’s a command and everyone listens. I sigh, a shallow, shaky sort of sigh that only makes me feel more nervous.

  “Okay,” I say, though I’m not sure it really is.

  I sink into my chair as Carter gets his yearbook.

  The line isn’t very long any more, and he gets his book in minutes.

  He tucks it under his arm, and his buddies follow him. He approaches a group of seniors, half girls, half guys. Couples, by the look of it, half of them draped all over each other. A few letterman jackets are mixed in, but some of the girls are wearing them. He pauses at the edge of the table, setting down his yearbook, pushing it toward the first guy.

  I hold my breath. He signs it, passes it to the next guy.

  The next guy, a redhead, pulls the book toward him, but the girl bumps his elbow and he drops it. There’s a long, awkward pause, something I can see even from here. Carter stands there, fidgeting in a weird way as he stares at him. The guy doesn’t look at him, because he’s too busy looking at his girlfriend.

  His perfect, blond, cheerleader girlfriend. I can see, even from here, that the girl is glaring at Carter, her eyes narrowed. Hard.

  Slowly, glacially slowly, he pushes the yearbook to the next guy.

  One at a time, they nudge it around the lineup until it’s back in Carter’s hands. None of them have signed it.

  I feel sick as I watch him pick the book up. He hugs it to his chest, looking more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen. Looking smaller than I’ve ever seen. His shoulders, once so square, hunch over, and his chin, so high before, seems to curve into his chest.

  I want to crawl under the table, curl up, and die there.

  He’s an ass. The biggest they ever made. But I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to be that girl, the one who blamed him, the one who created this punishment.

  My dad always says, “What goes around comes around.” He means, follow the rules and it all works out. He means that those who do whatever they want never prosper, that you reap what you sow. I don’t think he means, “Be an asshole and some girl will accuse you of rape, and then people will believe it and life will really suck.”

  I sink further into my chair, except it’s not really possible, because there’s nowhere to go.

  Carter twists around and glances back at the table as he walks away, heads toward the door, realizing he’s not who he used to be. I can see it in him. I want to stand up, climb up on the table, tell them all they’re wrong. Scream at them to stop punishing him.

  And I don’t.

  Some twisted, angry part of me is happy I’m sinking into the seat, happy he’s suffering right now, just like I did. Just like Tracey, Macy, the redheaded girl in the parking lot.

  I’m mute, and I just sit there.

  Carter pauses just shy of the door, twists again, and sees me.

  His eyes burn into me. He stops, pauses. His feet stop moving and panic wells up in me. Something in his body shifts. He goes from dejected to determined.

  Crap.

  Crap.

  Crap.

  Crap.

  Tracey and Macy move, and their chairs screech as they stand, Carter pushing toward us. His strides turn angry as he rushes toward me, as my stomach climbs into my throat and I think he might attack me. He’s that angry right now, his eyes blazing.

  But he doesn’t ge
t close enough for it.

  A group of people seems to rise from nowhere, push toward him, surging in a big wave, a crowd—a group of people who seem to care about me when they shouldn’t.

  Carter doesn’t make it anywhere close to me. The people become a wall, and his blond, tousled hair disappears. My mouth goes dry. The crowd shifts, and someone shoves Carter. His face changes. And then he whirls around, stalking out, the door slamming behind him with a heavy thud.

  And then they all turn and look at me.

  Sixteen

  If Veronica wasn’t gripping my arm in a painful death grip, I would be in the parking lot right now, flying out of here. But I’m in the gym and she’s dragging me up the bleachers. I can’t seem to find a way to tell her I can’t do this, not today.

  I think she might actually be excited about this assembly. And somewhere, in the deep recesses of my brain, I remember a scene or two like this from freshman year. When Veronica was softer, more of an excitable, naïve girl than she is today. I feel a pang. I shouldn’t have given up on her. We could have stayed friends. Instead I watched her drift away, and I didn’t even attempt to get her back.

  People watch us as we climb the stairs, past the cliques to which we don’t belong. Just when I think she’s going to continue to the very top row, she sits down in an empty spot. My eyes travel further up the bleachers, and I see a row of green and white letterman jackets. I spin around and plunk hard on the wooden bench, wishing I could sink into the bleachers, or even better, disappear underneath them.

  Voices and footsteps echo against the ceiling in the cavernous gym. The basketball hoops have been cranked up, out of the way. Banners for our last few years of championships flutter silently against the walls. Half of those were teams Carter was on. Our new baseball championship banner has prime placement, right in the middle.

  I watch in silence as the seats around us fill steadily from the stream of students entering the gym. I wonder if there’s a neon sign flashing above my head, a giant arrow pointing down with the thousand names people must associate with me. Liar. Slut. Victim.

  I start to feel warm, and wish I had worn something lighter than this long-sleeve V-neck.

  I drop my eyes and stare at the buckle on the toe of my brown ballet flats.

  “You cool?” Veronica’s voice, soft in my ear, startles me.

  I nod. “Uh-huh.”

  She reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze just as Mr. Paulson strides out to center-stage, a cordless microphone in his hand. He clears his throat into the thing and the loud roar dies into a low hum. “Welcome to the last assembly of the year!”

  Cheers erupt. Summer is so close you can actually taste the watermelon, feel the cool water of Riffe Lake. I try to focus on that. All of this will just … disappear.

  “You’re all here today to celebrate another successful year at MHS! And tomorrow, our seniors will graduate!” His voice gets a comical, radio announcer boom for the last two words, but no one seems to care about how cheesy he sounds. Instead everyone begins the stomping and clapping that makes the entire stand of bleachers shake and rumble, filling the gym with a sound that would make a thunderclap proud.

  “We will now introduce your senior athletes, the newest alumni of our storied Mossyrock High School sports program,” Mr. Paulson declares. “Please welcome this year’s senior varsity cheerleaders.” He steps to the side as a blitzy pop beat bursts from the speakers. A small group of cheerleaders leap up from their spot on the bottom bleacher, forming a perfect V out on the floor through a series of cartwheels, leaps, and handsprings.

  The song beats inside my lungs, but I’m not feeling the energy. I don’t want to be here.

  “Please welcome your retiring baseball team members! Starting with your captain, Carter Wellesley!”

  He strolls down the bleachers, that familiar swagger now looking arrogant, and from this far away all I can do is imagine that cruel gleam in his eyes as they swept over my bare legs. He must be faking this confidence, though, because just two hours ago he looked so empty and alone.

  What had been a loud, rumbling show of support turns … ugly. Behind me and below me, cheers erupt, but they’re drowned out by something else.

  Booing. It starts as a murmur, then becomes a low rumble that builds like thunder until it fills up the space. I glance around and see my classmates with their hands cupped around their mouths, booing with all they have.

  Perfect, golden boy Carter, the one everyone loves to cheer, is being booed.

  Carter steps onto the gym floor and his beaming, megawatt smile falters, turns tight and fake. The boos grow even louder as he makes it to the middle of the gym. His eyes are scanning the bleachers, looking for an answer to this but knowing he already has it.

  The boos get louder. People twist around, looking for me in the stands. A few teachers stand up, make “cut it out” motions, try to get the booing to die down. Another teacher jumps up from the opposite bleachers and scurries over to the head cheerleader, saying something into her ear.

  I feel my face grow hot as a bead of sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. I tug at the collar of my shirt.

  Veronica leans in. “This is so awesome,” she says under her breath. “Look at him. He doesn’t even know what to do!”

  The cheerleaders scramble to reverse it. One steps forward, grabs the mic from Mr. Paulson. “And your star center, Chad Biggins!”

  The boos die out as Chad takes the floor, and Carter turns away and goes to make room for Chad. I see them lean in, whispering something. Plotting my demise,

  I’m sure.

  “He finally knows what it’s like. Three years, and he finally knows.” Veronica says.

  I raise a brow and look at her.

  “Do you think he thought twice before telling everyone I was a lesbian? Do you think he even cared what it would do? It was at his house, you know. One of his parties, where he announced to everyone, ‘Veronica Michaels is a muff diver.’ He destroyed me, and now his own party is what got him in trouble. Rather fitting, don’t you think?”

  I purse my lips and shrug. How can she be so sure this is the right thing to do?

  “Don’t feel bad. After tomorrow he’s going to escape all this. I wasn’t allowed to do that.”

  I nod.

  “Do you want to get out of here?”

  I smile. “Yeah. That’d be awesome.”

  Seventeen

  I follow Veronica through the door, two silver bells jingling as we step into the boutique clothing store, the only one in town. It’s a tiny place, but the racks are packed.

  Veronica picks up a crimson velvet jumper. “You should so wear this,” she says.

  “Moving on,” I say, crossing the room. I nod at the sales girl, who is pulling a string of gum out of her mouth while flipping through a glossy magazine. “This is cute,” I say, pulling out a peach-colored sleeveless shirt.

  “Kind of. It’s pretty plain, but I guess if you add accessories.”

  I nod and put it back on the rack, chewing on my lower lip. “Hey Veronica?” I ask, twisting around. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  Veronica stares hard at the hanger in her hand, then looks up at me. “I don’t know. I guess I feel guilty, sometimes, about leaving you behind.”

  “You didn’t leave me behind,” I say.

  “Yeah, I did. I started hanging out with Miranda Rogers. You invited me over, and I told you I was hanging out with her, and you never called again.”

  “Oh.”

  She tips her head to the side. “Why didn’t you ever try and call after that?”

  What? “Why didn’t you?”

  She shrugs. “I was stupid, and I was having fun with Miranda, going to concerts and stuff. I kept thinking you’d call, and then before I knew it the school year was over, and it was summer, and we just never talked again.”

  Why am I sensing a trend? Why does it seem like everything I’ve ever lost was my own damn fault? Is it really that hard
to fight for the things I want?

  “It’s been nice, you know. Talking again.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I know. I mean, I’ve liked it.” I turn back to the rack. “How’s your little sister? She must be what, nine now?”

  “She just turned eleven. Already into makeup. My mom is terrified.”

  I laugh. Veronica smiles. “What’s the deal with you and Nick these days? I’ve seen you holding his hand in

  the hallway.”

  I pull out a polka-dotted dress that turns out to be ugly and shove it back onto the rack. “Uh, I think we’re kinda together. I think. We’re going to the senior party together.”

  At least, we were. Maybe he doesn’t want to go with me anymore. We haven’t talked yet.

  Her eyes flare wider. “I so should have bet on that. I saw it coming a mile away.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nods.

  My shoulders slump. “But if he finds out the Carter thing is a lie, there’s no way he doesn’t dump me.”

  “Hey. He won’t find out. There’s no reason for him to. Who’s going to tell him?”

  I shrug, with just one shoulder, not quite believing it. I pull out a pretty beaded dress, holding it up against my body. “I’m still not so sure about the whole thing,” I say. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Look, I know you’re feeling bad about it, but don’t. Carter did this to himself. Everyone would have ignored the rumor if he weren’t such an asshole.”

  Two wrongs don’t make a right, is all I can think. Another of my dad’s stupid slogans.

  But I don’t say it.

  “What do you think of this one?” I step away from the racks so that Veronica can get a better look.

  “So pretty,” she says. “You totally have to go try it on.”

  “Are you sure it wouldn’t be better on you?” I thrust the dress at her.

  She gives me a pointed look. “It’s okay to be selfish once in a while, you know,” she says, grinning.

  “Oh, whatever,” I say, sauntering away to the dressing room.

  Inside, I shimmy out of my jeans. The stall next to me clicks open and shut. “Does it fit?” Veronica calls.