After the Ink Dries

by Cassie Gustafson

  He cuts me off. “There aren’t any pictures. They got deleted.” They. More than one. Who is this guy, hunching his shoulders in the parking lot, trying to hide in his hoodie? How well do I even know him? How well do I know anybody at this stupid school?

  A couple walks by holding cups of neon green juice. They glance at us, then away.

  Suddenly ashamed, I clear all desperation from my face and yank down my sleeve. Fighting tears, I say, “Don’t lie to me. I saw one of the pictures. Your handiwork.”

  I don’t think Ricky will respond so it throws me off when he does. His voice comes out so low that I barely catch what he says over the noise of passing cars. “It was just a joke.”

  “What?” I ask because it’s all I can think to say.

  “A joke, Erica. Just a joke.” At last, his eyes meet mine. “And any pictures got deleted. So, get over it already.”

  “Get over it? You and Zac and Stallion and Forest, you all wrote your names…”

  “Yeah, you said that already. But I also notice how you conveniently keep leaving out Thomas.”

  “Thomas didn’t write on me. I looked. His name isn’t on me.”

  Ricky’s face turns back into a snarl. “Sure, Erica. Keep telling yourself that.” He hurries to his car, moving away from me in the darkening light like I’m disgusting, diseased.

  Somewhere in my sketchbook, there’s a drawing of Thomas and me at the beach, lying so close to each other on his blanket as I pointed out constellation after constellation in the night sky. I’d felt so proud that night, rattling on about Perseus on his winged Pegasus swooping in to save Andromeda, chained to the rocks, from the sea monster Cetus. And that night, Thomas had played me songs on his guitar, and even a song he’d written just for me, beautiful and haunting. And in that moment, swept up in his soft voice and the sweet melody, I knew I liked him so much it hurt. He’d made me feel like I mattered, like I meant something to him. Like I was special.

  Nearby, a police siren blares, but it barely registers above the growing scream in my head.

  Thomas?

  THOMAS

  IT’S DUSK, AND I’M NEARLY home when my phone rings. Heart thundering, I stare at my uncle Kurt’s name blazing across my truck’s caller ID. I take a deep breath and answer, trying to prepare myself.

  “Hey, Uncle Kurt.”

  “Hey, kid, how are ya?” Uncle Kurt sounds far too chipper, and I know he’s trying not to make me feel bad.

  I flip my headlights on and switch lanes, getting ready to exit. “I’m… I’m okay.”

  “Well, I wanted to let you know I had lunch with Ingrid and Jorge.”

  Professor Kovich and Turtleneck Guy, I’m pretty sure.

  “And I’ve got news for you,” he continues.

  My uncle can be tough to read, but there’s no need to guess what he’s going to say this time. “You don’t have to be nice,” I interrupt. “I know I botched the interview. And the guitar. Badly.”

  “Yeah, you did, kid.”

  My heart sinks to my shoes. “I’m so sorry, Uncle Kurt,” I blurt out. “I was late, and didn’t sleep much, and I just… I just messed everything up. And after all your help, I couldn’t do any of it right. The questions, our songs…”

  “You had a rough start up there, no question, and your answers were far from what we’d practiced.” His disappointment hurts the worst, though I’m surprised when he actually laughs. “Ingrid was not impressed, to say the least. She told me as much over lunch. Several times, in fact.”

  I’m about to tell him I’ll pay him back for the sound engineer he hired to fix my audition tape when he continues. “Jorge on the other hand… he was truly blown away by your talent, kid. Not only as a songwriter, but as a performer, too. Honestly, it’s the best I’ve ever heard you play. Not counting your rough start, of course. But Jorge understands, says he really wants to work with you. Said it took him a while to overcome his own stage fright, but that he believes in your passion. Could see it a mile away.”

  Work with me… I nearly miss my exit, swerving last minute. A horn blares behind me. “You mean I got in?”

  This time his laugh is huge. “Well, not officially, but let’s just say a little elf friend told me that, so long as you keep your grades up and your nose out of trouble, you may just find yourself at Thornton next fall semester!”

  I can’t speak.

  Uncle Kurt rushes on, “But seriously, kid. You played your guts out up there, once you got out of your own way. It was incredible to behold. Coming back from the brink of failure like that. You did me real proud.”

  I got in. I got into music school. I don’t know how, but I did.

  Play something true.

  Uncle Kurt’s thinking the same thing because he says, “What was that song you sang up there?”

  Erica’s green eyes stare back at me through the hallway glass that first day. I clear my throat. “ ‘Window.’ Wrote it a few weeks ago.”

  “Yeah, that one. Great stuff, kid. Solid melody. The guys’ll be so proud when I tell them. They’re all dying to hear how it went.”

  Benji, Chad, Kobe, and Arjun. They’ll know I made it.

  I made it. I’m in.

  “Uncle Kurt?”

  “Yeah, kid?”

  “Thanks for everything. Really.”

  I hang up the phone, staring at the spare tire of the Jeep idling in front of me. I made it. I’m going to music school. At Thornton.

  When I pull into our drive, Dad’s car isn’t even in the garage. Perfect. I burst through the front door, breathing hard, and catch a whiff of garlic. Mom stands at the kitchen counter, seasoning raw steaks.

  “Uncle Kurt just called.”

  She pauses, face hopeful. “What did he say?”

  “That I made it. I’m in.” I hear the daze in my own voice. “Not officially yet, but I’m in.”

  Mom holds up her dirty hands, like she wants to hug me. “Oh, Tommy, that’s wonderful news!”

  “Thanks. It’s still hard to believe.” And part of me doesn’t yet. I’ve wanted this for so long, it doesn’t seem real.

  “I’m so proud of you, son. You’ve worked so very hard.”

  “Can I go to the movies with Forest to celebrate?”

  She hesitates. “Of course, hon. Just… don’t tell your father.” Her smile falls as she glances away. “And listen, I’m sorry he was so tough on you this morning. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble. I was worried, is all, when you didn’t come home. But I’m sorry. I know I worry too much.”

  Irritation flares. How could someone be sorry so many times in one breath? “Mom, it’s fine. It was my fault. I should’ve called or texted.”

  “I know, but I feel bad. I’m sorry that—”

  “Mom, stop apologizing. It’s fine. I deserved it.”

  She stays quiet a moment before reaching for the pepper. “Well, okay. So long as you’re not upset.”

  “I’m not upset, Mom. Especially not with you.” I turn to go before she can find something else to apologize for, agonizing over everything she’s ever said or done. I hate it.

  She calls after me, “We’re having steaks for dinner. I hope that’s okay!”

  “Sounds great, Mom. Be back soon.” I sprint up the stairs to change.

  I got in, I remind myself. But in my head, green eyes stare back at me. Any elation I’d started to feel drops like a rock. I change quickly, chucking my phone on the bed as I leave. Usually I feel naked without it, but now it burns a hole in my pocket. It can stay here forever for all I care.

  ERICA

  IT’S DARK OUTSIDE AS I pull back into our parking lot and rush up the stairs to my room, thankful beyond words that Mom’s working late. Crossing over to my bulletin board, I stare at the grainy photo of Thomas and me from the beach, then glance at the note he’d left on my car. I’d kept the rose he’d given me too, in a glass of water in my car, even after it had shed aphids all over my cup holder. But it had started to mold when I’d attemp
ted to preserve it, so I’d had to throw it away. Now I stare at the bottom of his note.

  Thomas the Rhymer

  His name. Ricky said… But I didn’t see….

  Below the note is the ticket stub to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Thomas and I had gone to see the Edward Gorey exhibit, not because he’d known who the hell Edward Gorey was, but just because he knew I wanted to go. That day, I’d felt so alive, moved by the art of a man who wasn’t afraid to be anything but his weird self. I’d told Thomas about my portfolio for CalArts and even confessed that I wanted to work for Disney like Tim Burton so Mom and I wouldn’t have to worry about money ever again. Just when I’d started to get embarrassed, having thrown my hands wildly into the air in emphasis, Thomas had told me that that’s what music was to him: freedom. In the middle of the exhibit, surrounded by all the strange museumgoers, Thomas and I had searched each other’s eyes, smiling all the while. “I understand you,” he’d said, grabbing my hand. “I understand you.”

  And I’d believed him.

  Suddenly I’m choking on panic. I need to talk to Thomas. He’d tell me the truth, right? Maybe he could explain everything. I could call him. No, a text would be better.

  Desperate butterflies dive in my stomach as I find his name in my contacts. My heart sinks as I stare at the picture accompanying it, Thomas in full lacrosse gear. I open a new text.

  In the text history, it displays the last two texts we’d exchanged:

  Here :)

  :D

  What I wouldn’t give for a time machine so I could do everything differently. But of course, that’s impossible. All I can do now is type a new message. Because I need to hear it from him:

  Hey, it’s me.

  SEND.

  Crap! I didn’t mean to send it yet! I wanted time to think about what to say, but now I have to rush.

  Just wanted to say hi. Sorry I got so wasted last night.

  SEND.

  “Sorry I got so wasted”? Really?

  Anyway, I really need to talk to you when you’re available.

  “Available”? This isn’t a dentist appointment! But I punch send and wait, not breathing.

  For a moment nothing happens. For a moment I think he’s not near his phone or that maybe he won’t respond at all. And then Delivered turns to Read 7:50 p.m. Then three dancing dots appear beneath my message, indicating he’s typing a response.

  I realize I’m clenching my phone. I pry my fingers loose, shaking my hand to relax it.

  But then the dancing dots disappear.

  Before my frown can form into a thought, the dots reappear.

  What’s he typing? Air refuses to push past my chest. The shallow breathing makes my head spin.

  The dots disappear again.

  Is it a long message? Him telling me off? Or something else? An explanation for everything? I need that explanation. I need it so badly.

  I wait, telling myself not to hope for too much. But no new message appears. I glance at the time: 7:54 p.m.

  Still no message.

  I stare at the phone, trying to will a message to appear. I check the signal. Full bars. Several tense minutes tick by as I prepare for the worst. Nothing. No text from Thomas.

  I gaze at the time again—8:02 p.m.—and let the cold truth sink in. No one takes more than twelve minutes to type a message, not even a long one.

  He’s not writing me back.

  And yet, I can still hear him: “I understand you.” Was that all a lie?

  I stare at my phone, cursor blinking in the empty text box, looking like anything but an ellipsis. Because this time, maybe there is no To be continued.

  Without giving myself a chance to think, I dial Caylee’s number, then listen as her phone rings five times. But just like this morning, it goes to voicemail. I try again, but this time it doesn’t even ring before her recorded voice tells me to leave a message. Is she intentionally ignoring me, after everything I told her at Juiced? I type out a text, asking her to call me back ASAP. Just as I hit send, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. I nearly leap out of my skin, but it’s not Caylee.

  Amber’s never called me before. This can’t be good.

  “Hello?” My voice sounds wobbly.

  “Erica? Hi, it’s Amber. Tell me, what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why were you and Caylee being total weirdos at Juiced? And why were the guys all laughing when they saw you? Did something happen… like, at the party after I left?”

  Her questions send a spark of panic through me. Amber—she left the party early, she doesn’t do social media, and even she’s caught wind that something’s wrong. “No. Nothing.” The lie tastes like burned coffee.

  “Then did you and Caylee fight?”

  I know I have to choose my words carefully. “I just… got really drunk. Caylee was… annoyed she had to take care of me, is all. It wasn’t my finest moment.”

  “Are you sure that’s all?”

  “Definitely. But, um, hey, I’ve gotta run. My mom’s calling me for dinner, so… I’ll see you tomorrow, ’kay? But thanks for calling. Seriously.”

  “Okay…,” she drawls out, not entirely convinced. “Well, catch you before school, then?”

  Shit. “Sure.” My shoulders collapse as I end the call, then I scan for any texts from Thomas. Still nothing.

  My conversation with Ricky comes flooding back:

  “His name isn’t on me.”

  “Sure, Erica. Keep telling yourself that.”

  Ricky’s words won’t leave me alone. I’ve already looked for Thomas’s name, though. I know I did. Did I not look hard enough? I head for the bathroom, deciding I need to be sure. If Caylee said she saw him coming down the stairs with everyone else, then I have to check again.

  I drop my pants in front of the mirror, eyes scanning the dark smudges that used to be pictures and names, searching every inch for the name that’s not there. Relief warms me. He couldn’t have been in the room with the guys. Caylee must’ve been wrong about seeing him on the stairs with them. And there’s another reason he was in the kitchen this morning, another reason he’s not texting me back….

  It’s as I stand in my underwear and turn sideways with my shirt lifted, convincing myself of the impossibility, that I see it, scrawled on my upper back right below my bra line, faded but still visible. All alone, it’s in a place I’d never even thought to look—only a single word, a single name. And because of the mirror, I’m reading it backward. But I’d recognize that slanted writing anywhere.

  (earlier) THOMAS

  THE SMELL OF BUTTERED POPCORN overwhelms me as I wait for Forest in the entrance to the theater. I rock on my heels as a group of girls passes by. One giggles while the other two try to catch my eye. Big green eyes flash at me before I look away, my heart sinking, and shove both fists in my pockets. My hand hits something.

  Frowning, I pull out a folded square of notebook paper. Before I even open it, I remember what it’s from—a note Erica had slipped me in Spanish the last time I’d worn these jeans. I unfold the note, and Erica’s drawing stares up at me. It’s of us in the museum gift shop when I’d bought her that weird Edward Gorey poster. I’m holding it out to her like a baton, head bowed, saying, “One creepy scroll for Erica Strange.” And she’s reaching for it, responding, “Thomas the Rhymer, you shouldn’t have!” Clearly that day had meant something to her, too, to record it on paper.

  I flinch as someone calls my name, shoving the note in my pocket. Forest’s heading toward me. We half-hug, half-clap each other’s shoulders, and I smell the weed on him. Sure enough, his eyes are glazed as he hands me a ticket.

  “Cool. Thanks, man,” I say.

  “No problem, my good man. No problem. Especially since snacks are on you.”

  I huff a laugh and follow him to the concession stand, where we load up on food. Forest and I each get a giant popcorn, then licorice for me and Milk Duds for him, plus two Dr Peppers. I even tell hi
m about music school, and he pounds my shoulder. “Stellar news, my man!”

  As the usher tears our tickets, I glance over at Forest. He’s been my best friend since freshman year when a couple of us snuck out one night and rolled some old tires we’d stolen down a hill, hitting the house of this junior girl we thought was hot. We’d run like hell when it’d set off the house alarm. Forest can be a weird dude, and he’s completely oblivious to the fact that he repeats himself when he’s stoned, but he’s as chill as they come, probably owing to him being half-baked all the time once Coach’s drug testing is over for the season. And he’s a solid friend.

  We settle into the first row above the main aisle and recline our seats, footrests rising. I stuff my face full of licorice, realizing it’s been a while since we’ve hung out, just the two of us. Between music school applications and practicing guitar, falling into the first-string goalie position, and keeping up on homework, things’ve been nuts. Plus, lately I’ve spent most of my free time with Erica. I brush against my pocket, feeling the note crinkle inside.

  Forest turns to me, colors from a dental commercial flashing across his face. “You good, my man?”

  I stop mid-chew, trying to rearrange my face. “Fine. Why?”

  “Because you don’t seem like yourself. Didn’t at practice today either.”

  I swallow, feeling whole chunks of licorice scrape my throat, and chance a look at Forest. His face is so serious as he stares at our feet. I clear my throat, then wait for some moviegoers to pass by. “I’m… fine.”

  He shakes his shaggy head. “I’ve known you a while, my man, so I know when you’re fine and when you’re not. You avoided everyone all practice for sure.” For the first time I see how tired he looks, maybe even more than a hangover’s worth. “It was a shitty party, am I right?” he adds.