Like he doesn’t know the fucking answer. Like he’s not always messing with people and pushing things too far just to watch the fallout. “Dumbass,” I mutter, too bitterly, gripping Eleanor to my chest. I fixate on a water bottle, trapped by my tire.
“So, we’re gonna meet up with the ladies at that smoothie place.” Zac tries to catch my eye. “Interested?”
“Naw,” I manage, even as I wonder if Erica’ll be there. Probably not.
Ricky’s “Later, Music Man” is supposed to sound like Zac’s, only it lacks half the ego.
“Movie later?” Forest asks. When I nod, he drifts away.
“By the way.” Zac walks backward, his shout almost inaudible over the sound of the wind. “Just had a friendly chat with your girlfriend. Till she signed off, anyway. We told her hi for you!” Then he turns and walks away.
Fucking dick.
I kick at the empty water bottle as I watch them leave, not daring to move till they get in their cars. Only then do I latch Eleanor in her case and settle her against the passenger’s seat. Scrambling into the driver’s side, I curse myself. Because I should’ve known better than to bring her around them. Why didn’t I just tell Forest no?
But it’s not just Eleanor. Zac said he talked to Erica. What did he say to her?
My phone buzzes, and I drag my gaze to where it sits in the center console. Speak of the devil: Zac just texted our group chat. He and Ricky have been blowing it up all morning, but I’ve completely ignored them. And right now, I really couldn’t care less what they have to say. Still, I’m about to look anyway when I see the other alerts.
A jolt of panic hits as I scroll to the top. Tina’s tagged me in some photos. Of course she has. But what photos? Pictures pop up when I click. They’re of Erica and me, in Zac’s backyard last night. Flipping through them makes me sick to my stomach. Worse, it opens up my brain.
“Hop on, little croc.” Erica’s tripping, landing on all fours, laughing. “I fell!” My arms wrap around her waist, trying to help her up. We both laugh as we fall…
The photos just went up, though I’m surprised it took Tina this long. Still, who else has seen them? There are already some comments and everything. It’s shit like this that makes me not use my real name online. Not that it makes much difference.
Anger surges through me as I untag myself—Erica already must’ve—and type out a message to Tina: Enough with the photos already. You made your point, now delete them. Slamming my phone down, I crank up my stereo. The Hands’s “Get Out” thrums in my ears, drowning out all other noise as I throw my truck in reverse. Today couldn’t possibly get any shittier.
ERICA
PALM TREES AND SHOPPING PLAZAS whiz by as I near Juiced, replaying in my head what I’m going to tell Caylee. Everything, my brain says. You have to tell her everything. I’ll start with the party and beg her forgiveness for not telling her first thing when she came over. But how do I think I’ll get the courage to say it now if I couldn’t before? Because I have to, somehow. For a second, I wish I’d thought to save the photo Zac sent before deleting my profile so I could show Caylee, but it’s the last thing I want floating around for someone to find. It’s bad enough she’s probably seen the photos Tina posted. Still, I cringe, thinking about Caylee finding evidence of my naked body being inside Zac’s room. Telling Caylee about that part is going to be so hard already; I don’t want her seeing the gruesome proof, too.
I can do this, I tell myself. I can tell Caylee. Erica Strange would.
The parking lot is jam-packed, but I squeeze in between an SUV and a sports car, then hurry to the building, the wind tugging at my hair and sweatshirt. Though the Sharpie has mostly faded, I still need to wear max coverage.
Caylee and I have been to this place plenty of times, and I’ve always loved how clean it looks—so fresh and modern—even with its ridiculously priced ten-dollar juices. Rough wood planks and giant windows make up the outside, the metal edging catching the sunlight. Inside, air-conditioning blasts me in the face. It smells crisp and frothy even—a combination of wheat grass and lemon zest and something rooty, like beets. Small tables perch on tall metal stems that spring up from the floor like daisies. Bar stools filled with smoothie drinkers crowd each one. There’s a long line leading up to the register that I avoid as I glance around.
Caylee and Amber sit against the far wall facing the window, their backs to me, Amber’s frame a much wider silhouette than Caylee’s. Caylee’s crop top and skinny jeans look like they’re ripped from a Lucky Brand ad, and Amber’s in her customary dark colors, this time a belted navy lace dress. They would make a beautiful comic spread, Mermaid and Medusa, but I’m not here for art inspiration.
Neither has heard me approach. I hover awkwardly behind them, noting there’s not another seat in sight even though I told Caylee I was coming. Come to think of it, she never texted me back.
“The musical’s about some dumb beauty pageant,” Amber’s saying, “but that’s the point. It’s kind of this big commentary on the whole ‘sexy beauty queen’ thing, and it’s got this incredible cast, largely female. Anyway, the director said she could probably get me the assistant stage manager gig if I wanted it.”
Amber must be talking about the regional theater where she volunteers.
“What do your parents say?” Caylee asks, sounding a little uncomfortable, and I know what she’s thinking—“Just more of Amber’s ‘psycho-feminist ideals,’ ” or so Caylee’s always saying behind Amber’s back. Plus, if the rumors are true, Caylee’s mom was a beauty queen back in the day, and therefore part of whatever culture Amber’s play is critiquing, which Amber must remember based on how long they’ve known each other.
Amber shrugs, seeming indifferent to Caylee’s discomfort. “Mom One and Two are both totally for it.”
“Hey,” I say. Feelings of shyness and awkwardness swirl together in my stomach, surprising me. These are my friends. I shouldn’t be nervous. But that was before.
Now they both turn in their seats.
“Hey,” Caylee replies, but her voice is all wrong, her smile too tight. Is she still upset I wasn’t thrilled by Zac declaring his love to her, or is this more than that?
“I texted you I was coming,” I tell her. “Did you not get it?”
She shrugs. “Sorry. I just… forgot to reply.”
Amber watches us, the space between her brows furrowing.
I fake a smile, wishing I were alone with Caylee. For half a breath, I almost consider just blurting everything out in front of them both. I picture pulling up a too-tall, too-metal chair that scrapes across the floor as it drags and laying everything out there. Amber would listen in, eyes fixed intently on mine, and Caylee would cry softly at her side, realizing she’s dating a total prick. Amber may be a little distant and hard to read, but maybe she’d know what to do.
But, of course, I already know what Amber would do. When she smells injustice, she pounces, which is the last thing I need. This situation needs to be kept tightly under wraps.
Stalling, I reach into my bag. “I almost forgot. I brought you something.” A B-Thin cookbook appears in my hand, which Amber rolls her eyes at, probably because of the name. “I was going to save this for your birthday, but…” Shrugging, I hand it to Caylee, hoping Normal Caylee will appear through the cracks.
“Thanks,” she says, flopping the book on the counter, paging through it half-heartedly.
Why won’t Amber just ignore me, glue herself to her phone like usual? This is awkward enough without an audience.
In the lingering silence, I gesture to the cookbook. “I thought maybe we could try to figure out how to make those bars you love so much.”
Another shrug from Caylee. “Yeah, sounds good.” And there it is again. The Something Different in her shrug. Agreeing to plans but like she doesn’t really mean it. The way she won’t quite look at me, hasn’t called me “E” even once.
“Riiight,” Amber says slowly, staring between Caylee and me.
Dread spreads its mold through my stomach. I came here to tell her my side. Maybe someone beat you to it, says a voice in my mind. I can’t… I can’t do this right now.
“I gotta pee,” I say, turning and rushing away.
“What was that all about?” I hear Amber ask behind me.
I push open the bathroom door. Do it already. Just ask Caylee if you can talk in private. But somehow, it’s so much harder to work up the guts now that Caylee seems to have already heard something, already formed an opinion. It’s easier for me to stare at signs reminding employees to wash their hands than to talk to my best friend. I hover awkwardly until two girls ask if I’m in line for the bathroom. Then I stare at myself in the mirror. Erica, DO IT NOW. And the me in the mirror nods, cape and mask more or less back in place. I replay the line in my head as I return to the table: “Caylee, can I talk to you for a second, alone?” They’ll both stare. Maybe Amber will ask me what’s up again, or Caylee will, and I’ll say, “It’s private.” And then Caylee and I will walk away to a different spot, and I’ll tell her everything: “Your boyfriend took off my clothes. He wrote on me. I didn’t want to tell you because I was afraid you’d hate me.” Then at least my best friend will know what really happened. She’ll hear it from me.
Momentum fueling me, I push open the door and round the corner.
I stop short.
Zac. And Ricky. And another teammate, Matt. Even horrid picture-posting Tina is here, sitting quietly on a stool she’d commandeered from somewhere. A wave of dizziness hits as I take in the scene. They’re all here. Caylee’s all smiles, looking tiny next to hulking Zac, while Amber watches in supreme annoyance, arms folded over her large chest.
Staring at Zac’s powerful arm wrapped so tightly around Caylee, his muscled legs braced against the bottom rung of the stool, I feel ill. I imagine the Sharpie in his hand, leaning in as he writes his name, his breath hot on my thigh.
I whip out my phone and shoot Caylee a quick text: Meet me by the entrance.
Across the room, she reaches into her back pocket and pulls out her phone, then glances around, eyes searching until she finds me.
Tina follows Caylee’s gaze, and with a shock, I swear she spots me too, but she glances away so quickly I think I must’ve imagined it.
I watch, confused, as Tina refuses to look up from the ground, as Caylee wriggles free from Zac’s arm. It’s very unlike Tina to sit so still, so quietly, but I whip around before anyone else has time to spot me. Maybe Tina really didn’t see me, I decide, because if she had, she’d make it well known.
I hurry all the way to the entrance before turning back around, putting as much distance as I can between that table of monsters and me. Who knows what they’ll say or do?
As Caylee approaches, I hiss, “I thought you said this was a girls’ date.”
Even though she seems upset with me, guilt ripples through Caylee’s expression. We’ve had this conversation before, about how much time she spends with Zac. How she’s always flaking out on plans we’ve made so she can be with him or inviting him along to every single thing we do. I usually try to turn my criticism into a joke to soften it a bit, so I don’t make Caylee mad. But, especially lately, Amber has had no problem calling Caylee out on it, which has led to some serious friction between the two of them.
Caylee doesn’t meet my eyes. “Well,” she begins, voice defensive, “Zac got out of practice and asked where I was, and what was I supposed to tell him? ‘Don’t come’?”
“I just…”—needed to work up the courage to tell you—“wanted it to be you, me, and Amber. And now Tina’s here. Did you see those pictures she posted of me?”
“Julie told me about them.”
Caylee talked to Julie, from English class, who was also at the party. Who else has Caylee talked to?
“I hate her for you,” Caylee says about Tina, but it feels automatic.
“I hate her for me too.”
“What did Thomas say about the pics?” she asks, voice flat.
“I haven’t talked to him yet.”
“But weren’t you guys, like, obsessed with each other five minutes ago? What happened?” She still won’t look at me.
“Caylee, are you mad at me?”
Her frown deepens as she crosses her forearms. I’d draw her forehead in squiggles, deep vertical lines between her eyes, her mouth a sideways squish. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“You seem mad, is all.”
Silence.
She casts a glance over her shoulder. Finally, she looks at me. “Well, Julie called me after I left your house.”
Pause.
“What’d she say?” I ask.
“Well, there’s been some kind of crazy rumors going around about you.”
A few lines of Dad’s Shakespeare hit me:
Rumour is a pipe
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures…
I feel like I’ve swallowed rocks. “What do you mean? What kind of rumors?”
Pause.
“Well, you know, just some crazy stuff.”
Pause. A thousand pounds of silence.
“Like what ‘crazy stuff,’ Cay?”
“Um, stuff like… about you. Like, getting naked in Zac’s room and stuff.” She rushes on. “But I know it’s not true or anything. I mean, that’s what I told her—that it’s not true. I was there. And besides, Zac told me nothing happened. I mean, it’s not like you’re some slut, trying to steal my boyfriend.” She lets out a nervous laugh.
Slut.
“No, of course not. Caylee, you know me.”
Pause.
“Sure,” she says.
“So, you know I’m not like that.” But Zac? Caylee has no idea what he’s really like.
“Yeah. I mean, that’s what I told Julie. That you just passed out in his room. And Zac said—”
Caylee needs to know. Tell her now.
Erica Strange would.
“But that’s not all that happened,” I rush on.
It’s out there now, hanging in the air between us.
On cue, I look past Caylee’s shoulder to see Zac watching us. He winks at me and rises to his feet. I nearly choke. Is he coming over here? “I… I have to go,” I blurt, tearing my eyes from Zac. “But I’m going to call you soon. Just… make sure you’re alone. You’re right, Caylee. Something happened. Something bad. But I need you to answer your phone, ’kay?”
As my eyes well up, Caylee’s face goes completely blank. Behind her, Zac’s closed half the distance separating us.
Go, go, go! my brain commands. Leave!
“I’ll call you in an hour, ’kay? Pick up, all right?”
After a pause as big as a mountain, she nods. Zac nears as I wheel for the door.
“Talk soon!” I yell over my shoulder, then dart outside. Only after the door’s slammed behind me do I realize Caylee hadn’t asked what happened or if I was okay, like she already knew the answers. Or didn’t want to know. But still, I’m going to tell her everything when I call.
I reach the parking lot right as someone ducks from a separate exit. For a bone-freezing moment, I think it’s Zac racing out to corner me, or even Thomas, appearing from thin air. But it’s Ricky, heading for his car.
Suddenly, I want to ask him about the photos. Though my guard’s still sky-high, out of all the guys, Ricky seems the least physically threatening, maybe because we’re the same height or because he’s not built huge like Zac. He also acts differently when he’s not around his buddies—less aggressive. And this could be the only chance I get to catch him alone. Just not too alone.
Channeling Erica Strange once more, my flip-flops slapping the pavement, I call out, “Ricky!”
He turns only long enough to see that it’s me. Suddenly, Ricky does not want to be caught up with.
“Ricky, stop!” Halfway to his car, I grab his hood and pull, forcing him back. I cringe and drop my hand, knowing I had to stop him but hating I had to touch him.
He whirls, snarling. “What?” Ricky’s a lot of things—unmotivated, immature, laughs at his own jokes—but he’s never been hostile. Then again, there’s apparently a lot about Ricky I don’t know that’s only now rising to the surface, now that it’s too late for red flags.
Through my shock, I find my voice. “I need to know everyone you sent those pictures to. From… from Zac’s room. I need to know if there are more.” I’m shaking uncontrollably, my voice much quieter than Erica Strange’s would be. “Please, it’s important,” I add, sensing his hesitation.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His eyes don’t meet mine, but the malice remains.
Since fleeing Zac’s room, I’ve played out a similar scene in my head a million times, one where I’d confront each of the guys for stripping me and writing on me. That was before I knew about the photos, of course, but even still. In all of my mental imaginings, I’d never prepared myself for one of the guys denying any of it. And, as I look at him, I realize Ricky’s not just feigning ignorance of the photos. He’s trying to deny everything they did to me, erase it all with his words as if none of it ever happened.
Could I have envisioned Tina sabotaging me with cruel photos to look cool to the guys? Yes. Zac turning it all into a sick game? Absolutely. But this? Pretending like the whole horrific nightmare never occurred? It hurts in a way I couldn’t have predicted.
“Ricky, you know exactly what I’m talking about.” He won’t even look at me, hands jammed in his jean pockets. “Zac showed me,” I add.
We stand there, facing off. Ricky glances around like someone will blow into the parking lot on the wind and save him from having to spend another agonizing second with me.
And then Ricky seals his own guilt. “I didn’t do anything.”
Something starts to ripple through me. Something with teeth and horns and claws. He won’t even look at me. He was sure looking at me last night, and now he can’t even meet my eyes? Can’t even bother to tell me the truth? I yank the sleeve of my sweatshirt up to my elbow, exposing the faintest memory of his name across my forearm. Still he won’t look. “If you don’t remember, perhaps this will refresh your memory? Your name? Zac’s and Stallion’s and Forest’s, all over me? The pictures you guys took of me?”
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