She nodded. Sweat and cologne hit me squarely in the nose as I sealed myself inside Mick’s dorm room. It was empty. I walked between two twin beds pushed against either side of the room. Sheets draped halfway off the mattress from the one on the left. Dirty boxers and T-shirts covered the foot of the other bed.
Two matching, standard-issue desks stood flush against the window. I studied the photographs taped to the wall beside one of them. I recognized the boy smiling out of them at once. It wasn’t Mick. Instead, it was the one I’d been calling California because of his chin-length hair and flip-flops.
I stared at the photographs feeling like I was staring into an alternate dimension. There California was smiling in each frame with a rail-thin girl whose hair was strawberry blond and nose was dotted with freckles. I recognized her from the walk back from the fraternity house.
I could see her kissing his cheek, legs straddling his waist in a piggyback ride, arms wrapped around each other. White-hot rage scalded my throat like coffee, burning and bitter. California had a girlfriend. And I’d bet a thousand dollars that she didn’t know what a pig he was.
No worries. I would show her.
Before moving over to Mick’s desk, I quickly rifled through California’s belongings until I found a worn paperback copy of Catcher in the Rye with a penciled inscription on the inside cover that read, Property of Jessup Franklin. I punched the name into the notes section of my phone and stuffed it back into my jeans pocket. Another one for my collection.
I moved across the room to Mick’s desk, known only to me in life as Short One. An open math book lay on the wooden workspace. A paper airplane. A clean pair of socks. Everything left there like he was planning on coming back. A laptop was hooked into the wall by a cord. In the hutch above, I found what I was looking for. The lens of the handheld camcorder stared out at me like an unblinking eye. I reached for it on the shelf and turned the equipment over in my palms. They’d been smart enough not to take the video on their phones where access to the cloud and other Internet mysteries would be a constant threat. But still, what sick psychopaths wanted to videotape their conquests?
Posters of famous comedians plastered Mick’s side of the room. Late Show with David Letterman. Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show. Conan O’Brien. Always a spectacle, I guessed.
With a spare glance toward the door, I pulled Mick’s chair underneath me and sat down at his laptop. I opened the screen to find that the computer was password protected. So I logged in as a guest, removed the memory stick in the video recorder, and drummed my fingers impatiently while thumbnails of videos loaded on-screen.
Three rows of images popped up in neat lines. I chose the first. The picture consumed the frame and began to play. “Say hi, asshole,” Mick’s voice came from behind the camera. There was a shot of the back of a head that I recognized as Circus Master’s. Without looking back, Circus Master saluted the air with his middle finger. I felt my mouth curl into a snarl. The camera shook. Mick’s breathing was labored.
Off to the side I could hear someone else’s voice carrying on a singsongy rap, “All the bitches love me, all the—all the bitches love me.”
Mick gave a gleeful giggle and panned left where California was walking with a swagger. He formed his fingers into a peace sign and flashed a brilliant white smile. The screen went black and the reel automatically switched to the next thumbnail down the line.
The five boys were at the same club I’d first seen them in—Ten Gallon Cowboy. Their images were grainy in the dim, neon-cast lighting. The camera zoomed in on the face of a boy in a baseball cap. He pinched a shot glass between his fingers. “Get it out of my face.” He wrapped his palm over the lens. “Coach finds out I’m drinking the night before a game, he’ll suspend my scholarship.”
There was rustling and then Mick must have managed to wrestle the camera free. The focus had changed to a group of girls standing at a high-top table. The shot homed in on one of the girls’ butts. “There’s your home run, Brody.”
Brody. Baseball. I made another note in my phone. Got it.
I watched the playback from the next thumbnail with a sickening sense of dread as the girl whose ass had been video recorded laughed with the boys and then showed up in a room that looked much like the one I was currently in minus a few details. At some point, she was passed out, arm draped over the side of a bed, and the boys took turns taking pictures with her, lifting up her skirt and spanking the bare flesh. I couldn’t watch the rest and quickly clicked on the next frame.
More of the same. More girls. More taunting. And all the while, they grew more brazen. The girls less drunk. In one clip, I heard the word no muttered just before I hit fast-forward.
And then her face filled the screen.
I hovered the mouse over the “stop” button, but the images were already moving before my eyes. Instead, I moved my hand into my lap and I let it play.
* * *
“HER.” FROM A distance, the shot zoomed in on a girl who looked like me. Who I knew, deep down, was me. Except this me was red-cheeked and glowing. This me was happy.
“Small boobs,” came one of the voices offscreen. On-screen, I laughed like something was really funny. Like things could still be really funny.
“Shut up, they’re fine,” said another voice.
“She’s totally hot,” replied the first.
I kept stealing glances in the direction of the camera. It was clear that I could see them watching me and that I was performing.
“Scale from one to ten?” said a third voice.
“Nine-point-five,” responded the first, and there was the clink of a glass being slammed down on a table for punctuation.
“Well, what the hell are you waiting on then?” asked a fourth. “Christ, Brody, get her over here, buddy.”
“Why does it always have to be me?” said the voice that was presumably Brody’s.
The lens zoomed out. There I was with three other girls, but I still took up the center of the shot. Jock Strap came into view. It was clear why it always had to be him.
He turned his baseball cap backward and shoved his hands into his pockets. He had a handsome, square jaw. The face of an underwear model. The pleasure that came with his attention danced in my eyes. Eyes that said, he noticed me? His devastating good looks translated onto film. Honestly, it should be criminal for anyone to be that naturally attractive.
He put his hat on my head and I giggled. Then, he hiked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the camera. Offscreen, the boys whooped, a big welcoming whoop, a come-with-us whoop, a we-are-great-guys whoop. I squeezed the arm of the blond girl next to me as if to say, Can you believe this?
I glanced back at the girls as I followed Jock Strap over to the other table. Right away, Jock Strap excused himself to go to the restroom. My disappointment was immediately replaced when a tall boy with an expensive-looking shirt and crocodile-skin boots put his arm around me and hugged me to his side like we were long-lost pals, like I was the most special girl in the room. “Let us buy you a drink,” the one I knew now as Circus Master said.
And buy they did. We all took a shot. My nose scrunched as the clear liquid went down. There were five of them total. I grew bolder. I told a joke. They all laughed.
The thinnest boy, the one with a cigarette tucked behind his ear—I couldn’t help noticing he was the only boy who wasn’t conventionally attractive, with acne scars in the hollows of his cheek; Lucky Strike—leaned toward me. “You’re the hottest girl in the entire bar, you know that?” I blushed, but didn’t look surprised. “That’s why we chose you.”
“Prettiest girl we’ve seen in real life,” said the voice behind the camera. “Wouldn’t you say so?”
“I wouldn’t not say it,” replied the long-haired boy, tucking a strand behind his ear and slowly taking a sip off the top of his beer. California. Jessup.
“Don’t tell your friends.” Circus Master slapped me good-naturedly on the back. “I’m sorry, did we
offend you? We didn’t mean to offend you. We know they’re your friends, don’t we, guys?” He surveyed the group.
“No, no,” I rushed in to say. “You didn’t offend me.” There was a smile behind my glass as I raised it to my lips. “At all.”
Circus Master flattened his palm to his chest. “That’s a relief. Hey.” He scratched his temple. “I just had a thought. Why don’t we get out of here?”
I lowered my glass. The flash of disappointment that played across my face would have been obvious to an astronaut orbiting the moon. “Oh. Okay.”
California Jessup fished for his wallet in the back of his slouchy jeans and laid down a couple dollars on the table. “Chill. They’re talking about all of us. You think we’d leave our best girl?” He raised an eyebrow to me. He was so tall I had to crane my neck back to see him.
“Let’s blow this place.” Circus Master gave a whistle and twirled his finger in the air as if to round us all up.
“Um, hold on,” I practically squeaked. “Let me just tell my friends.”
I hustled offscreen while the camera panned the group of faces. Smug. Eyes twinkling with laughter. Mean. Predatory.
When I reappeared, Circus Master welcomed me back in, reworking his face into that of a gracious host.
“I told them I’d call them tomorrow,” I said with a hint of pride.
Circus Master grinned down at me. I looked around at the other boys. As we moved together through the crowd, there was a shot of Jock Strap’s—Brody’s—devastatingly handsome face, still gorgeous as ever, but wearing a look that was unmistakably distant, as though he were bored. Or indifferent.
Outside, Circus Master released his genial hold on me. The camera kept zooming in on me, sliding the focus down my body.
“God, it’s so goddamn refreshing to meet a girl that gets it, that can hang with the guys. Isn’t it?” Circus Master said in a loud voice.
“Hell, yeah.” California Jessup high-fived me.
The camera caught only slivers of the background, but gradually as we walked, it shifted from rows of well-lit restaurants and bars to dark storefronts. Then parking lots.
“What did I tell you? Hottest girl in the bar,” said the voice behind the camera. There was shuffling. The lens tipped and then righted itself, then resumed bouncing with the steps of its operator.
Lucky Strike sidled up to my side. His sunken eyes peered at me. “What’s the hottest piece of her?”
My head whipped in his direction. My expression disappeared from the viewpoint of the camera lens.
“Look at that ass,” said Brody, taking a pretend swing of a baseball bat through the air. He watched his follow-through like he could see a home run sailing overhead.
My neck swiveled now. I glanced over my shoulder. “Hey, where are we going, anyway?”
We were on a sidewalk. Unruly branches hung over the path. There were now more trees than lampposts and buildings. Untended lots speckled the area. We took a turn. There were rows of parked cars along the street with nobody in them. We were making our way farther from the main road. No signs of life up ahead.
“A party,” said Jock Strap Brody.
The camera caught my mouth forming into a soft o.
“See, most girls aren’t cool like you.” Circus Master was walking backward now to face me. “They can be so uptight. You’re not uptight, are you?”
I shook my head. Circus Master came to a stop, so the whole group did, too. I was looking around like I should understand where we were.
“Good, I didn’t think you were,” Circus Master continued, like I’d said it out loud.
“I wonder what she looks like underneath all that.” Lucky Strike pointed to my outfit.
Was it something I’d said? Were they making fun of me or was I in on the joke? The questions played easily on my face. The heady buzz I’d been enjoying at the bar popped and fizzled out.
“I just remembered, my friends will be waiting for me to get back,” I said, turning away from Circus Master, who blocked my path forward.
Jessup easily stepped between me and an escape. “Relax. You’re fine.”
Circus Master pushed his lip into a pout. “But you already told them you’d call them tomorrow. Remember?”
My body visibly stiffened. Jessup twirled me around to face Circus Master. He gave me a little shove in his direction and I stumbled forward. The cameraman backed up and the angle got wider. Circus Master stepped toward me. He gently put his hands on my waist. Then he slid one up to my shoulder and pulled the strap down on my tank top so that it dangled off. “Now, I thought you were cooler than other girls.” I stood frozen. “Right?” I nodded. His voice lowered. “You don’t want to be a bitch, do you?” I shook my head.
I actually lifted my arms as he slid my shirt over my head. I shivered in only my bra and skirt.
“Christ, I’m bored,” said Brody. “Can we hurry this up?”
Circus Master’s eyes flashed. Then he lifted his chin and he laughed. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t being a gentleman. You first?”
“Wait.” My voice wasn’t a scream. It cracked and gave me away. I didn’t sound cool. I sounded frightened.
I tried to back up. Lucky Strike caught me by the shoulders. “You’re drunk,” he said. I stared down at his fingers. Then his arms wrapped around my chest and he was pressing me into him.
I wrenched my chin to the right, trying to twist my torso. But Circus Master latched on to my legs. I still wasn’t really fighting. Not exactly. Somewhere in my mind, I thought: If I fight, this all becomes real. I’ll know this is bad. So I bicycled my legs, but without much force.
“Relax, chill out,” Jessup said, shaking his long hair from his eyes. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. You want to be cool, right?”
From behind the camera there was a high-pitched squeal of laughter while on-screen I went limp. My skirt was off and my bare skin was glowing translucent in the nighttime air. Circus Master ushered Brody toward me. Step right up to the center ring, the main attraction.
I’d always worked hard to be the center of attention, but in that moment, I would have paid any amount of money in the world to switch places with another girl.
I didn’t need to finish playing the recording. I knew the naive girl that had first come out of that club had died there in that lot and no longer existed. That she’d been reincarnated as me. I ripped the memory card out of the computer and shoved it into my pocket. I hid the camcorder inside my hoodie and zipped it away.
Fresh humiliation rose to the surface of my skin like festering boils. I yanked the laptop cord from the wall. No one could see me like that. I had to hide it. Get rid of my link to the boys, get rid of that night in my life in general.
And if I couldn’t log in to delete the evidence from the inside, I’d just have to destroy the outside, too. I looked for a hammer. Something heavy that would shatter the traces of the girls broken by the video. Something to keep these boys from having the pleasure of rewatching our pain and to make way for theirs instead.
I was coming up empty-handed when I noticed the window looking out over a modest quadrangle down below. I fiddled with the locks on the pane and shimmied open the glass. Leaning into the fresh air, I stared down at the brick walkway. “That’ll do.”
I snatched up the laptop. The windowsill had a sharp ledge. I smashed the computer down over it. The hard casing dented. I brought it down again and again, impaling the sides. Power surged through my arms down to my fingertips and I felt like a heavymetal drummer. Destructive. Catastrophic.
It wasn’t a knife. And it wasn’t flesh and blood, but the sound of electronics cracking open and breaking apart was still satisfying.
Lena’s three staccato warning knocks on the door pulled me back into myself. My chest heaved. My neck was hot. Shoot. I imagined California walking in to find me destroying Mick’s computer. Not here. Not now. I pressed my fist into my teeth, trying to think. Quickly, I leaned back over the open windowsill and stare
d down. There was a row of bushes underneath. I stared at the laptop still clutched between both hands. I wasn’t exactly a technology buff, but I was pretty sure no history papers would be written on this thing anytime soon. I released my grip and watched as the computer plummeted down into the row of hedges, disappearing beneath the thick leaves with a barely audible ker-thunk.
I could hear Lena’s voice outside trying to stall. The handle was twisting. I braced myself. Wrapped my hand tightly around the knife handle. But it wasn’t California’s head that popped through. It was a crop of strawberry blond hair and a freckled nose. California’s—Jessup’s—girlfriend’s breath caught when she saw me standing beside the desks. I waited for an instant but then saw that she was alone. No Jessup in sight.
I relaxed slightly. If I felt sorry for people, I would have felt sorry for her. Stupid baby deer of a girlfriend. What would she do if she knew about the other girls hidden on the memory card? The ones that didn’t get flowers on their birthday or take piggyback rides like she did. The ones that, as far as her boyfriend was concerned, didn’t even have names.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” she asked. “Mick hasn’t been back.”
“I wasn’t looking for Mick,” I said.
Her lips closed and her eyes narrowed. “Jessup?” By the way she said his name, I got the sense that maybe it wasn’t so far-fetched that Jessup would have a lady visitor.
Good. Let her think it.
I moved toward the door and, as though it was despite herself, she shifted out of my way. Maybe this girl’s interruption wasn’t such a bad thing. Perhaps even if stupid baby deer girlfriend wasn’t capable of seeing what a creep her boyfriend was she might still be capable of conveying a message. Or a warning. “Tell Jessup I’ll be back for him later,” I said with a casual look over my shoulder. “Another time.”
Her skin reddened, blurring the freckles. “And why would I do that?”
I shrugged, halfway out the door. “Or don’t. It doesn’t matter. I like surprises just as much.”
Her lower jaw dropped a centimeter. But she couldn’t think of a comeback. I winked. And then I was gone.
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