Promiscuous

by Isobel Irons

  “Fuck off!” I yell, pushing back against him as hard as I can. He barely moves, but I keep shoving. “What I wear has nothing to do with you, or any asshole like you! What I wear does not make it okay!”

  Kicking my knee out through the convenient slit, I knee Trent in the balls. Hard. This time, he’s too distracted to block it. He hisses through his teeth, but unlike in the movies, he doesn’t go down.

  “Let go of me, goddamn it!”

  Trent’s hand closes around my throat, and I know he’s about to do his signature move where he bashes my head against something, like King Kong, until I pass out and become more willing. But I jab the heel of my right shoe into the top of his foot, and he yells.

  “Ow, that hurt, you fucking cunt!”

  Suddenly Trent gets yanked back.

  I feel cold as a wash of air fills the space, but I welcome its freshness after choking on Trent's breath. I fill my lungs with air, eyes burning as I watch Grant pull Trent backward by his jacket, spin him around, and deck him across the jaw. It all happens so fast, I don't even have time to react.

  What I would have done if I did have time to react, I'm not really sure.

  Because, the truth is, I’ve never enjoyed anything as much as I enjoyed seeing Trent Gibson get knocked on his ass by the valedictorian of Guthrie High.

  It was actually a little like that scene in Back to the Future, when George McFly takes out Biff. Margot would have loved it. Especially the part where Grant casually steps over Trent's prone, groaning body, and holds his hand out to me. I take it, feeling the tentative ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth.

  “Are you okay?”

  It's the sexiest thing I've ever heard a guy say.

  “I think so.”

  I shiver slightly as Grant pulls me underneath his arm, as he purposefully steers me away from the pathetic mound of attempted-rapist asshole that is Trent. I don't bother looking back. And it's not because I've got Grant to protect me. It's because at this moment, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I'm going to tell the truth about the attack at my house. About the time Trent choked me up against his car in the parking lot. All of it. Potential disbelief and reputation backlash be damned. Because Trent Gibson deserves to be punished for what he tried to do, for what he did—just not by me.

  Grant walks me to the parking lot, and opens the door of his car for me to step in. He comes around to the other side and gets in, locking the door behind him. He sighs, running a hand through his perfect hair.

  “So, was he....”

  “The one who almost gave me a concussion that time? Yeah. He's been on me ever since I hit him with my textbook in Pre-Calculus.”

  “Which is why you had to drop out of the class.”

  “Yup.”

  The silence stretches on for what seems like forever.

  “Did...did your friend really try to kill herself?”

  Huh. I guess I was wrong. I guess Dr. Blue really does respect confidentiality, after all.

  “Yeah, she really did. If I”—my voice catches, as I admit the truth out loud for the first time—“if I hadn't found her, she would've really done it.”

  I make a little choking noise in my throat, as I realize how pointless that would have been. It wouldn't have made those kids sorry for what they did. Hell, they probably would have just used it as one more thing to joke about.

  “You know, we've always had this plan,” I tell him. “After high school, we were going to move to California. Margot was going to study acting at UCLA, and I was going to go with her and find a job. Maybe look into art school or something. Now...I have no idea what's going to happen.”

  Grant looks at me, his face expressionless.

  “You do have that $2,000 scholarship now. It's not much, but it would probably get you into some art classes.” He clears his throat, looking down. “And you could always apply for grants.”

  I raise my eyebrow at him, teasing. I can't help myself. “Grants?”

  “Yeah.” He smiles, and when he looks up again, his expression is completely straight, totally sincere. “For someone as resourceful as you are, I'm sure they wouldn't be hard to get. All you have to do is decide whether or not you're interested. …In them. The grants, I mean. Or you could have just one Grant. You really have lots of options, is all I’m saying.”

  “Right.” A smile crawls across my face.

  His smile grows right along with mine. And I can't help but feel it again, expanding through my chest like warm milk. That feeling of hope. Of being...better.

  I shake my head, biting my lower lip. “I still can’t believe I won Prom Queen. In all seriousness, there’s no way that should’ve happened.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Grant’s face looks immediately guilty. He might even be blushing.

  “What?”

  “I might have…kind of rigged it so we’d win.” He shrugs, and I’m floored. I can almost see his good guy persona warring with some other part of him, some tiny part I’ve never noticed before, that’s pleased with himself for breaking the rules and doing something a little bit bad. “Mr. Dodge let me help count the ballots, and I just…I really wanted you to get that scholarship.”

  My view of the world has once again been dropped on its ass. “Wait, you’re saying you weren’t supposed to win, either?”

  He shakes his head, and I catch a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I didn’t want you to dance with anyone else.”

  For a few ultra-fast heartbeats, I just stare at him, taking him in. Grant Blue, Mr. Perfect. Prince Charming. My boyfriend, the rebel. As it turns out, he’s not the person everyone thinks he is, either.

  I’ve never liked him more.

  Part V: “Cautionary Tale”

  So anyway, Superintendent Hobbs, that's the story of how I got expelled from Guthrie High, less than six weeks before graduation.

  Mr. Dodge told me I should write a letter to you, because he thinks that Principal Shoemaker's decision to expel me was a little too extreme. Even if I did smack Trent Gibson in the head with a math book (which, for the record, I think I've established that he totally deserved.) And even if I did maybe, kind of pretty much ruin prom.

  But regardless of those mistakes, here I am, doing my very best to tell you why I think I deserve a second chance.

  Or a last chance. Whatever.

  Like I said before, I've got a lot of anger. For most of my life, that anger has been misdirected. At my parents, at the people in my past who have hurt me...but mostly, at myself. For a long time, I thought that my anger was what made me strong. Strong enough to survive this often shitty world we live in.

  But it was also my greatest weakness, because it kept me from realizing that I can be so much more than what people choose to see in me. I can be better. I can be a symbol of awareness, a force for change. Not just for myself, but for people like Margot, who define themselves by their weight. Or people like Grant, who let their parents tell them who they should want to be. Even people like Becca, who probably has some underlying issue that no one knows about, but in all honesty I really hate her so I never bothered to ask. Someday, I like to hope that high school won’t be such a cesspool of cruelty and self-hatred.

  But for now, I’ve decided that breaking this cliché starts with me, changing the way I see the world, one person at a time. And if you decide you want to let me finish out my senior year and graduate, I'd like to take that final chance to change the way the world sees me, too.

  Starting with all the narrow-minded sycophants at Guthrie High.

  Oh, by the way, Grant says I should mention that I passed my Pre-Calculus challenge exam with an 89%. It's not quite an A, but it's close enough. So maybe you should factor that in.

  And Margot says I should apologize for using the word ‘fuck’ so much. Among other various and creative obscenities. Also the insults, which in retrospect, were probably a little uncalled for.

  Sorry.

  Like I said, I'm working through some pretty deep-s
eated issues. But with a little bit more life perspective, and the continued good influence of some really great friends—both old ones and new—I really think I might surprise you with what I can accomplish. Maybe I’ll even shock you.

  THE END

  APPENDIX

  Acknowledgements

  The first book I ever published, WAKE FOR ME, is a story about a girl who finds herself by losing herself. A former high school mean girl (similar to Becca Foster, but much prettier and more creative), 19-year-old winery heiress Viola Bellerose crashes her car and falls into a coma. Through her struggle to get her life back under control, she finally learns what it means to be helpless, to rely on others for support and strength. Through that trust, she learns what real love is, and learns to forgive herself.

  Actually, the message of that book isn’t all that different from the message in this one. Both stories are loosely based on fairy tales. Both stories deal with realizing that every person has their own kind of darkness, something about themselves they don’t want to share or even accept. And both stories deal with forgiving our loved ones for not loving us exactly the way we want them to. And learning how to love ourselves, because of—and not in spite of—everything we are.

  This book started as an angry letter to all the people I thought had failed me in my life. But like Tash, with a little bit of perspective and the influence of some wonderful friends, I realized it—and I—could be so much more.

  It took a while, but these people helped me to realize that—for better or for worse—who I am today is because of my experiences. All of them. The good, the bad, the ugly…not one of those events could be sliced out of my life without affecting the whole of my identity. The people who love me today love me for the entirety of who I am. Once I accepted that, I was finally able to tell this story without wishing I could close my eyes and skim over certain parts—or edit them.

  So. Here’s to the people who helped me share this ‘unedited’ version of myself:

  To my husband, Eli, who every day makes me wonder when he’s finally going to stop being so goddamn perfect and royally fuck something up…but then he doesn’t. You are my favorite noun.

  To my dear friend and partner in self-publishing crime, Elle Lothlorien (“Self-Publishing Maven” to my “Marketing Minx,”) who taught me to stop waiting for permission to kick ass.

  To my fabulous beta team, aka “Izzy’s Street Gang,” for agreeing to take part in the most shocking and demanding (and PROMISCUOUS) Crash Beta Test ever: Katrina "Cumberbabe" Lakey, Dola "Tequilabubbles" King, and Jami “Hurts So” Good. Your constant, unwavering encouragement and thoughtful (and often hilarious) feedback got me through a lot of ‘what if’ moments.

  Also Julie Hutchings, Andrew Patterson, Kristina Perez and Rhiann Wynn-Nolet, and the rest of you totally badass writers who continue to offer encouragement and support, thank you for giving back and paying it forward.

  Lastly—but definitely not least…ly—to all the fans, friends, readers and bloggers who have already shared and will share this book, if not for its quality of writing, then at least for its message…you are my heroes.

  About the Author

  Isobel Irons

  http://isobelirons.com

  @IsobelIrons

  Normally, this is the part where I’d include some variation of the bio from my website, where I talk about my obsession with film—which hopefully makes you want to forgive me for my copious and occasionally gratuitous movie and TV show references—and explain why I love telling stories, while making fun of romance tropes in a cheeky, irreverent way. If you want, you can follow the above link to read all about my other, less controversial books, which almost always have a happy ending, and very little swearing.

  But for the purposes of understanding why I chose to write this particular story, in such a particular way, there are some other things you need to know about me.

  First of all, almost everything that happens in this book, whether to Tash or one of her friends, happened to me or someone I love. Yes, some details were changed, and some situations were slightly altered for the sake of the story. And no, I wasn’t as angry or violently opposed to the social order as Tash is throughout the majority of this book.

  But Gretchen Cader was based on a real person, my childhood babysitter. And Margot Riley is based on a real person, and Becca Foster is based on a real person.

  Even Grant Blue is based on a real person. Yes, it does seem hard to believe—especially for girls like Tash—that there are actually guys out there who will love you for your flaws, and not just in spite of them. That there are men, real men, who will stop if they think they might be moving too fast physically. Or if they worry you might be making a mistake.

  Even if they’re attracted to you. Even if they want to keep going. Even if you don’t say no.

  Unfortunately, there are also real guys out there like Trent Gibson, who get written off as ‘jerks’ or ‘sexist douche bags,’ when in reality there’s a more accurate word for them: rapists.

  The “real” Trent Gibson—whose name has been changed in this book, because he does not deserve to be immortalized in fiction—was a super-senior who threatened to rape me in math class, my freshman year, in front of witnesses. At the time, I thought he was horrible and disgusting, but that his words were just that—ugly, inappropriate words. Nothing more.

  After all, he didn’t ever follow through on those words, at least not with me. He didn’t follow me into the parking lot after school, or slam my head up against his car. But he did keep taunting me with his threats, almost every day, for the rest of that year. And to my ultimate dismay, I never did work up the courage to bash his head in with my math book.

  I wanted to, but I didn’t. In fact, I never told anyone about the things Trent said. Not one living soul.

  I’d like to say this part of the story has a happy ending, or even an ending. I’d like to say that ‘Trent’ never did more than talk. But a few years after I’d graduated high school and moved on with my life, far away from the small and often narrow-minded town I grudgingly called home, I saw an article in my hometown newspaper about how the real life Trent had been convicted of more than three different counts of forcible rape, and sentenced to ten years in prison.

  As most experts on this type of crime will tell you, for every victim that comes forward, there’s usually at least one more victim who chooses to remain silent. Maybe because they’re embarrassed, or ashamed, or—worst of all—afraid of being targeted by people who will find it easier to label them ‘sluts’ and ‘liars,’ instead of facing the truth: that rapists can look like anyone you know, and once they think they can get away with it, they do not stop hurting people.

  Even if it wasn’t six girls or more, even if it was only two, or three. That’s still way too many. And six years is still way too long for a rapist to go unpunished.

  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve asked myself over the years, what if I’d just said something? Tash’s circumstances were extreme, she thought she wasn’t worth listening to. But I was a good student. I came from a good family. People might have listened.

  I can’t tell you how sick it makes me, to think that the authorities and school administrators might have taken my word for it, when so many other girls are labeled as liars and shamed for being sluts. Just because of where they were when it happened, or what they were drinking, or what they were wearing. Just because of who people thought they were—they must have brought it on themselves, they must have deserved it.

  This attitude is not okay. This precedent is not okay. The fact that at least one in three girls will likely read this story and say to themselves, ‘This could be me,’ is Not. Fucking. Okay.

  So let’s stop pointing fingers, and throwing around labels. Let’s stop trying to rationalize or make excuses for things which are inexcusable. Let’s try to understand that each person’s story is not everyone’s story.

  What happened to me was wrong. But it was not my fau
lt.

  My hope is that by telling Tash’s story, and my story, I’ll inspire and encourage others to tell theirs. And hopefully, if enough of us start to come clean about our dirty little secrets, the world will, too.

  If you know someone this story might apply to, please click here to get help.

  Contact Isobel Irons

  As a proudly self-published author, there’s nothing I love more than connecting directly with my fans. Hearing their opinions, anecdotes, and even just making a connection.

  I firmly believe that storytelling is the highest form of sharing human experiences. So if you’d like to join me in shameless literary & film addiction, please click on any of the following links and say hello! Share your feelings and thoughts about this book by reaching out to me personally or by writing an honest review, or visit my website or Amazon author page to find out more about my other books.

  I look forward to meeting you!

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  What Happens Next?

  OBSESSIVE

  Book Two in the Issues Series by Isobel Irons

  Coming in March, 2014

  Sometimes, great expectations can be more damaging than NO expectations. Charles Dickens took 542 pages to explain that very lesson. I’m going to take less than half that.

  For 18-year-old Grant Blue, the summer after high school graduation is a lot like that movie where the astronauts get cut loose and drift off into space. Any normal teenage guy would be glad for a few weeks of vacation, for all those extra hours spent with his gorgeous—but volatile—girlfriend, even for the chance to participate in a coveted internship that will make him a shoo-in for top of his class when he gets to college in the fall.