After the Ink Dries

by Cassie Gustafson

  But now the image hurts to look at. I’ve never felt so un–Erica Strange as I do right now.

  Slamming the sketchbook closed, I chuck it in the backseat alongside the pointless, lingering question What Would Erica Strange Do? Because Erica Strange wouldn’t have gotten herself into this mess in the first place: clothes missing, wet, inside out. Wouldn’t have let herself get written on like some stall door in a public bathroom or gotten so drunk that guys saw her naked—Thomas’s teammates.

  Think he’s going to want you now?

  A softer voice: Erica. Drive home. Now.

  Incredibly, my car starts on the first try. The radio bursts to life, blaring a thumping beat and edgy male vocals. Of course, it just so happens to be one of the songs from the massive playlist Thomas made me that I’d rushed to listen to in the hopes of impressing him even though I’d never paid much attention to rock music before.

  Stupid stupid stupid!

  I jab at the power button, my heart thundering as the music cuts out.

  When I speed past Zac’s, I can’t help but glance at his front door. My breath catches. Thomas is emerging, keys in hand, throwing an arm up to shield against the blinding glare of daylight. I glue my eyes to the road in front of me and slam down on the accelerator, hoping against hope that he doesn’t see me.

  (minutes earlier) THOMAS

  I CROUCH DOWN ON THE kitchen tile, my head pounding. The guys all watch as I mop up the last of the OJ and broken glass. I made a huge mess, but I’ve gotta get the hell out of here. My live audition’s in less than two hours. So why am I still here?

  Above me, Forest groans, his eyes closed. He’s leaning forward, his tall, gangly body practically bent in half, shaggy hair a mess. Over jeans, he’s still wearing the little-kid shark costume with the crotch cut out so that it fits his long torso. It rides up, fraying at the seams, the gray shark tail hanging limply from his butt, while his head’s poked through the shark mouth so the rows of teeth look like a necklace. And he doesn’t seem to notice the wet patches all over his pants where the glass of OJ I dropped splattered him. Or more likely doesn’t care. He’s pinching his lips like he’s trying to keep the vomit in. In a sick way, I’m glad someone else feels as shitty as I do.

  Across the island, Ricky keeps lighting the gas burner on the stove, then blowing it out. He reminds me of a little bird with the hood of his red sweatshirt pulled up and small chest puffed out. Next to him, Stallion rests his head against a cupboard and swirls the pulp in his OJ. What with his height, and broad shoulders, and the dark sunglasses he’s got on, he looks like a hungover FBI agent. Guess the daylight outside is too much for him.

  My socks stick to the floor as I cram the last of the dirty paper towels into a plastic cup. The trash can’s overflowing so I make for the sink, but a wave of what can only be puke rises from it. I give up and set the cup on the counter.

  I’ve gotta go, should’ve already left.

  Zac’s still watching me, leaning against the fridge looking like a giant—not surprising considering how much time he spends lifting heavy shit. He holds his bad arm that’s smothered in a cast and locked at a ninety-degree angle like a Tetris block.

  “Make sure that’s wiped up good, VanBrackel,” Zac says as I grab a dish towel from the rack.

  I don’t bother responding, which doesn’t matter because Zac’s started up again, on his third tirade about the keg nozzle getting stuck. At least he’s not talking about her anymore. I could hear them all the way from the bathroom. Who says shit like that?

  And last night…

  I push down the memory of Erica as my guts try to revolt. Gripping the edge of the countertop, I blink hard and swallow.

  Stallion takes a swig of juice, clearing his throat. “So, Caylee stayed late. Anything we should know about?”

  Zac’s smirk widens. “She’s a firecracker, that little hellcat. It’s why I put up with her crazy.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing I’ve gotta get home, tune my guitar, do a final run-through of my songs if there’s time. I was supposed to be home last night, and my father’s going to kill me. But I can’t be late for my audition this morning. My uncle’s waiting for me. He flew all the way here just to watch me.

  Ricky snickers, and I tear my eyes open. Four gazes train on me. I missed something. “What?”

  “Just asking if you’re still all pissed off,” Zac says, “or if you’ve had the chance to get over yourself.”

  I remember being pissed last night. But I’m not anymore. I’m just… tired. So damn tired.

  “Fuck off,” I tell them, though it comes out whiny. I make for the living room and hurl couch pillows, searching for my keys.

  “You always have been one righteous motherfucker,” Zac calls after me. “Why don’t you write a song about it? Call it ‘Brooding Music Man’!”

  My hands fist.

  Leave. Grab your shit and go.

  “Who’s up for breakfast?” Zac asks.

  “Oh, shit yeah,” Ricky replies.

  Condiments rattle as the fridge door opens.

  I overturn furniture, chuck jackets, but no keys. How the hell can they be hungry?

  “Good, ’cause you’re making it. I gotta call the maid to clean this shit up before the step-monster gets back, you bunch of wild beasts!”

  Laughter.

  I search around the broken coffee table, rip the blanket off the floor where I’d slept, then freeze.

  Erica’s boot.

  A single black boot sits below the blanket beside my keys. How’d it get down here? Did she leave barefoot, then? Dropping to my knees, I spot the second boot under the couch. My hands shake as I dig it out, then I pull on my Chucks.

  I’m turning to leave when I hear “VanB.”

  Zac leans against the doorframe, holding his casted arm. Behind him, Ricky’s at the fridge, pulling out an egg carton and bag of frozen hash browns. Stallion rests against the counter, texting like mad, probably to his girlfriend, Jasmine. Forest braces himself against the sink, and I don’t know how he isn’t puking at the smell of whatever’s in there.

  I straighten up, keys in one hand, boots in the other, pushing the hair from my eyes with an elbow. “What?”

  Zac walks over, surveying, standing half a foot shorter than me but making up for it in bulk. I must look like hell in last night’s clothes, with breath and a hangover that makes me wonder how I ever thought drinking was a good idea. Or coming to this stupid party.

  His gaze finds the boots in my hand, but for once, he doesn’t comment on her. “You good?” he asks. “You know we’re just messing with you.”

  I don’t meet Zac’s eye, hating how close he’s standing. “Fine. Why?”

  “Well, last night got a little crazy, is all.”

  My fists tighten. “I don’t remember last night.”

  Zac cocks his head. “You don’t…?”

  A text pings through. Uncle Kurt: You ready for today?

  Checking the time again, I curse. How the hell am I supposed to do anything when I feel this shitty, let alone make it through a live audition? And my father’s going to murder me.

  “I gotta go.”

  Zac nods, tongue pressed inside his cheek. “Sure, sure. Well, till practice, then.” He claps my shoulder but doesn’t turn to go, just keeps on staring.

  I grit my teeth. Damn it, our extra practice, too, on top of everything else! Boots and keys in hand, I duck out the front door and suck in lungfuls of fresh air. The sun blinds me as I trip down the steps, standing exactly where I’d stood last night when Erica arrived, looking hotter than I’d ever seen her. I’d tried not to stare too hard but couldn’t look away. Then she’d smiled at me, and I’d taken her hand, so stoked just to be near her.

  Now, glancing down the street, I half expect to see her running barefoot down the sidewalk. But I see only empty curb and a bunch of trees. I’d given her enough time knocking over that glass of OJ, then. She must be long gone.

  But how’d
she get here last night? With Caylee, probably. So, was she walking now? Calling someone? Because she doesn’t live close by. Still, I picture her on foot, everyone pointing and staring, wondering why she’s not wearing any shoes.

  My stomach turns, and I’m almost sick next to my truck.

  I have to get home, and shower, and make it through my audition, then everything’ll be okay.

  I’m not angry anymore. I’m not. I’ll call her later. Tell her I have her boots. Ask if she wants to do lunch tomorrow. Pizzaz, maybe. Or Junie Bee’s. She loves their fries.

  Nothing comes up as I dry heave again.

  I swipe at my eyes, tossing her boots in my backseat. Pulling my phone from my jeans, I haul myself into the driver’s seat. I should call her now. See where she is.

  I click on recent calls. In her contact photo, Erica sits in my passenger seat with a neon smile, one hand trying to block the shot. Sunlight filters in, washing out the photo and glinting off the two overlapping W’s of her Wonder Woman T-shirt. She looks so happy. That day, we’d gone to Junie Bee’s with everyone, and even the guys had acted cool. We’d eaten chili cheese fries, and laughed when Ricky poured soda all over himself, and Erica and I’d slid into a corner booth to chat, just the two of us.

  I need to talk to her, check on her.

  Before I can think twice, I click “call.” But it doesn’t even ring, going straight to voicemail. The sound of her upbeat voice kills me.

  I hang up and toss my phone. Throwing my truck in reverse, I realize, for the first time ever, I’m relieved she didn’t answer.

  And—shit—I’m going to be late. I can’t be late.

  ERICA

  WHEN I PULL INTO THE parking lot at our apartment, Mom’s van isn’t in her usual spot. I drag myself out of the car, bare feet stepping around an oil stain, and rush up the stairs to our unit. The sun beats down on me as I tip over the clay pot of rosemary, grab the hidden key, and let myself in before any neighbors spot me. I want nothing more than an ice-cold glass of water and to lie down and sleep for the rest of my life, but first, I need to look, and then I need to call Caylee.

  In the entryway, I pull up short and catch my breath. A half-empty pack of Double Stuf Oreos still sits on the coffee table next to two mugs with used tea bags. They’re left over from yesterday afternoon when Mom and her best friend, Valerie, binge-watched Scandal reruns. As I was leaving, I remember the two of them in heavy debate over how hot the lead actor dude is.

  My nausea grows as I take in the peeling Formica countertops in the kitchen, the corroded faucets and yellowed grout.

  How can the apartment look exactly like it did when I left?

  God, I need water.

  A bright pink Post-it glares up from the counter. Ignoring it, I glance in the dishwasher, which is full of dirty dishes. Reaching into the cupboard, I pull down a shiny red mug emblazoned with Someone in Seattle loves you!, a gift from Gramma Anne for my fourteenth birthday and her not-so-subtle reminder that we needed to visit. It was also the last birthday I spent with Dad before he left. And he and I have talked only once since his semester started up again in January. But how can I possibly be thinking about Dad right now? I have much bigger problems.

  Filling the mug with cold tap, I drink like a horse, which takes away my nausea for the briefest of seconds. Then the queasy feeling returns like a tidal wave. Tears spring to my eyes as I steel myself and turn to Mom’s note:

  Erica,

  Tried your phone all morning—no answer. Had to leave to meet with caterers. Could have really used your help today.

  —Mom

  P.S. Call me to let me know you’re okay.

  Crap, Mom’s fundraiser!

  The clock on the microwave glows 8:17. I’m already over an hour late. For weeks now, Mom’s made a huge deal about the pancake breakfast, her second-ever event at the new hospital. She’d wanted me to help set up and entertain her patients while they ate their weight in pancakes.

  Guilt hits when I think of Mom’s disappointment, of Mrs. Pensacola’s arthritic, blue-veined hands folded neatly in her lap. I know Mrs. Pensacola’s been waiting all week to talk to me about her oil paintings or give me more pointers on my figure drawing and composition because I said I’d be there today. But given the condition I’m in, there’s no way I can go. And I can’t text Mom without my phone. I could use the house phone, but then I’d have to call and Mom’d know right away from my voice alone that something was wrong. She’d ask questions that even I don’t have answers to yet.

  Panic flutters in my chest as I squeeze my glass into the packed dishwasher. I have to lie down.

  But glancing down at my legs, I know I have to look, and I have to call Caylee, though I sure as hell don’t want to do either.

  I veer right, into the sweltering heat of Mom’s room, and flip on the light switch. I don’t know what I expected in here either because her room is the same as always. Everything about it screams “old lady,” from the glass bowl of potpourri on her dresser to the pastel-flowered bedspread that are both older than I am.

  Still, I search the room, trying to find something different, something changed, but everything looks like a museum exhibit, preserved exactly as it was when I left. Except…

  Hanging halfway out of Mom’s hamper are an oversized T-shirt and jeans. Aside from her scrubs, it’s all she ever wears. I look down at my own clothes—tiny skirt, skintight top.

  Missing bra. Underwear inside out.

  Maybe if you’d worn jeans last night instead, covered your skin….

  But no, I’d wanted Thomas to see me.

  And maybe he really had, naked and all.

  No. He wouldn’t. Not Thomas.

  Maybe there are more names. Thomas’s name.

  Stop. Call Caylee.

  I clench my teeth, then yank the ancient landline phone from its cradle that Mom insists on keeping “for emergencies,” and pull against the spiral cord as I plop onto Mom’s bed. I’m nearly catatonic with fear thinking about Caylee’s possible reactions. Does she know what they did to me? That I slept in her boyfriend’s room? Or is it really as bad as I’m thinking? Maybe it’s all just a prank, some kind of sick joke….

  But my ears still ring with Zac’s words from earlier: “Like fucking melons, man.” Talking about my breasts, that he and everyone else saw—Zac, Ricky, Forest, Stallion, and maybe even Thomas. Then I remember my inside-out underwear because someone took them off me, and I can’t remember who.

  Hot tears leak down my cheeks as I suck in a breath. I don’t want to do it. But I have to know.

  I’ve never really searched down there before other than to shave myself after that embarrassing first week in the locker room. Now, avoiding the writing, I set down the phone with its faint dial tone and stand. Opening my legs, I peel my underwear aside, eyes on the stupid bowl of dusty potpourri. I can’t make myself look at the writing anymore, so I press two fingers to myself and bring them in front of my face.

  There’s… nothing. No soreness. No blood.

  I do it again, harder this time, with the same result.

  So, they didn’t… rape me? Because I should be able to tell? I’ve had sex before, but only once, on my friend Isabela’s couch in a basement that smelled like mildew. Isabela’s my childhood friend from my old school, St. Agnes, who I haven’t really talked to in over a month, and the guy in question is her older cousin who was staying with her family at the time. He was seventeen, I was thirteen, and I remember feeling so flattered for all the attention. We’d done it just the one time, but it had hurt like hell and gotten blood on the couch. I’d felt sore for several days after, not at all what I would call a “pleasurable” experience, especially since he never talked to me again.

  So, I’m pretty sure I’d be able to tell if something like that had happened last night. And that’s when you call the cops.

  I stare at my arms, legs, covered in writing and disgusting drawings.

  But what about this?

  Th
e ceiling fan beats down warm air in time to the thudding of my heart. I grab the phone and dial Caylee’s number. It’s the only number besides Mom’s that I’ve memorized. God, what if I don’t ever find my phone? Then I’ll have to get a new one, even though I can’t afford it. And that’s only the beginning of the things I need to do.

  The phone begins to ring.

  I loop the cord around my finger.

  The phone rings again.

  Three more loops.

  The ringing continues—three, now four rings in all.

  By the time Caylee’s voicemail starts up, my entire index finger has disappeared inside the coils of the phone cord.

  Where are you, Caylee?

  I scan my arm, the cramped way Ricky wrote his name.

  He was so close to you.

  Forest’s name on my foot.

  They were so close to you.

  And Stallion? Zac? Thomas?

  Why was Thomas still at Zac’s? Does he know what happened?

  Thomas is the first guy I’ve ever really dated. There had been a few guys at St. Agnes in the two years I was there, but nothing like what I have with Thomas. Or… had. Thought we had, I guess.

  The beeping announcing Caylee’s voicemail catches me off-guard. “Caylee, hey, it’s me. Call me, ’kay? On my house phone, not my cell. I can’t find… It’s missing. I don’t know where. Listen, I really need to talk to you, ’kay? Like, really need to talk to you. Please call me.” I slam the phone down, my skin covered in sweat.

  For a split second, I consider calling Amber, a redhead in my class who’s nearly twice my size with more than double my confidence. Amber’s “throat-punch transgressors” attitude and assertiveness have always intimidated me. We’ve hung out enough over the past few months thanks to the fact that she and Caylee have been friends since elementary, but I don’t know Amber’s number, and even though I have it in my phone, I’ve never actually called her. The most we’ve ever done is group text, with Caylee as our buffer. Plus, if I did call Amber, what would she say? Probably throw out a snarky one-liner or lecture me on “disgusting” high school boys. Or she’d give me the “have some freaking self-respect” spiel she gave Caylee about Zac last week, which was beyond awkward and made me wonder how the two of them have stayed friends so long, especially because Amber was right about Zac.