After the Ink Dries

by Cassie Gustafson

  For the rest of class, I’m unstoppable, everyone leaping out of the way as the Frisbee whizzes by them to crash into the bleachers, the wall, the basketball hoop. My team doesn’t score many points since everyone seems afraid of being guillotined, but I don’t care.

  And today’s far from over. We’re not even halfway to lunch and then comes Spanish, meaning I have only a few hours to figure out what the hell I’m going to say to Erica when I have no choice but to face her.

  ERICA

  I SOMEHOW MANAGE TO MAKE it to fourth period, though I lose my Erica Strange mask on the way to English. All morning, the whispers, the smirks have pulled at it, slowly loosening the knot. Then Stallion saunters down the hall, his name a faint memory on my inner thigh. He points his index finger at me like a loaded gun and calls out, “Mouth! Take it off! Yeah, girl!”

  As half the hallway dissolves into laughter, I duck away, feeling the mask slip from my face entirely and float to the floor. Who was I kidding? There’s no hiding behind stupid masks. Everyone knows, probably even Stallion’s girlfriend. What awful things would she say if we ran into each other?

  I squeeze my marble, feeling the hard press of it as I round the final corner. But Amber’s outside the classroom door talking to our English teacher, Ms. Adams. People filter past into class, staring after them. From how seriously Amber talks and how intently Ms. Adams listens, I know Amber’s made good on her promise to find out what happened. And now she’s telling a teacher.

  Oh, Amber, how could you?

  I turn and pace the hall even as the bell blasts overhead. I’m trapped. I can’t go to class now.

  Instead, I slip around the corner and slide against my backpack down the length of the wall. The tile feels cool through my leggings.

  “Excuse me.”

  I look around.

  “Yes, you.” The hallway is entirely empty except for a woman approaching me. The hanging badge overtop her wraparound sweater tells me she’s a hallway monitor.

  “Why aren’t you in class?”

  “I just…” I take a deep breath. “I just needed a break.”

  Her eyes go soft, and she pats my knee. “I know high school can be rough, but it’s not forever. So, power through, okay? I don’t want to have to write you up.”

  I nod and slowly rise, knowing it doesn’t matter if I “power through” today. All this mess will still be here tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. I’m damned no matter what I do, though I’m not about to explain it to this woman.

  The hallway monitor watches as I once again round the corner to English. Only this time, Ms. Adams stands alone beside the classroom door. She closes it when she sees me, then crosses her arms and stares at me over rhinestone-studded glasses. “Erica?”

  Shit.

  “Yes?” I shove my bandaged hand in my sweatshirt pocket and approach her, trying to conceal my growing dread.

  Ms. Adams beckons me closer. “Come over here a minute, please.”

  Please don’t let her know! Please don’t let her know!

  But of course she does. I see it in the concern wrinkling her eyes. Amber found out and told her.

  “Is everything okay?” Ms. Adams asks, voice lowered.

  I swallow hard and run my thumbs over my backpack straps, realizing too late I’ve exposed my bandaged hand. “Everything’s fine, Ms. Adams.”

  Her gaze roves over my hand as she leans forward, shimmery nails pressing into opposite arms. “Are you sure?” She wants me to look at her, but I can’t. I don’t trust what would come out of my mouth.

  I nod, eyes locked on a pencil with a foam apple topper that someone dropped near the door. I wish I could be anywhere else because then I wouldn’t have to be here, lying to my teacher about the fact that I’m not okay, that I’m Saturday’s party removed from okay, that I need to talk to my friend to find out if she could ever be my friend again or if she’s gone forever.

  “I’m fine, Ms. Adams,” I repeat, but I’ve lost my mask and she can read my face. I press my palm against my pocket, feeling for the marble. “Really, everything’s fine.”

  “Erica, let me be blunt. Some rumors have been brought to my attention”—my heart stops, no beats—“rumors that have frankly disturbed me.” Her voice stays low.

  “What sort of rumors?” The pencil topper gleams in the light, unnaturally shiny.

  “People talking about a party. And you. People writing on you.” She shifts. “Did anything happen at a party?”

  I imagine squeezing the foam apple in my fist, feeling it pop as the hard shell gives. “No,” I say, and when she doesn’t respond, doesn’t believe me, I add, “Just, you know, some people messing around. It’s no big deal. Really.”

  She hesitates, and I glance up, catching an expression of deep concern. No amount of outlining in pen could duplicate on paper how heavy her eyes look.

  “Listen, Erica.” Her mouth is tight, words barely audible. “If you are getting harassed, or if, god forbid, you were assaulted, then I can’t ignore it. I’ll have to take this to the principal, the police.”

  Assaulted. Police. A strangled sound chokes from my throat as tears wet my cheeks. I think about my mom finding out I lied. That I got drunk. That all those guys saw me naked, wrote on me. My mom who still thinks I’m a virgin. She’ll see the photos of me, naked and stupid drunk and written all over.

  “Please, don’t do that,” I sob into the echoey hallway. “There’s nothing to report.”

  “Erica. Honey. It’s my job to make sure that—”

  I turn and run, ignoring Ms. Adams as she calls after me. Sprinting down the hallway, I’m blinded by my tears, backpack slapping my spine as I turn one corner, then another, then another.

  It’s as I push through the main doors, thinking I’ve finally found freedom, that I smack right into him.

  THOMAS

  I’M BRINGING AN ATTENDANCE SHEET to the office, having just taken a shortcut outside through the quad. And I’m about to push open the doors to enter the main building when Erica comes bursting out of them. She slams into me, startling us both, but she recovers first.

  “Thomas, hey…”

  Her eyes are wet, and I’ve never seen her so on edge. She tries to smile through her nervousness, but it only makes her look desperate.

  I don’t even know what part sets me off. Maybe it’s everything from the last few days. Maybe it’s because she’s caught me off-guard. Maybe it’s her smile—the nervous part that says she’s scared to be around me now, that I’ve somehow earned her fear, or the fact that she’s trying to smile at all. Because it’s this last part that I pounce on.

  “Why are you smiling?” I spit, disgust pooling in my words.

  It’s enough to make the forced grin disappear—flicker then die altogether.

  My rage dulls for a moment, then returns in a flood with her reply.

  “What?” she asks, even though I know she’s heard me. She just needs context to pin my question to. But I repeat the question anyway.

  “Why are you smiling?” The hostility in my voice surprises me, but I want to know. What the hell’s she even doing here, out of class? Standing just outside the main entrance, having plowed into me and trying to smile like everything between us is okay. Like anything between us could ever be okay again. “I mean, why are you even talking to me right now?”

  It’s a question with teeth. Why does she make everything so hard, appearing out of nowhere, not only right now but always? Couldn’t she have just stayed out of my way and I would’ve stay out of hers, and we could all pretend like nothing ever happened, pretend like no one even knows?

  “Why?” I ask, louder than before because she still hasn’t answered. She’s still just standing there looking stunned, somehow surprised that this is where things are now. Her genuine shock makes me even angrier. Hasn’t she heard what people are saying about her, about us? Even before, they were always looking at us. From the beginning, staring at me, at her, at us together. The ne
w girl, the crazy dresser, the artist, hanging out with that guitar kid. “Isn’t he that big-shot lawyer’s son?” they’d ask behind my back. “That goalie filling in till Zac’s arm heals?” Or “Doesn’t she live in, like, an apartment or something?” they’d ask me, like I knew exactly, or make some crack about her boots like she had no other shoes. And now here she is again, making everything harder. “Weren’t you, like, into her? But not anymore, am I right?”

  Erica still hasn’t moved. I stare down at her stupid boots and her stupid cat sweatshirt like I hate her, because right now I do. What did she expect, trying to talk to me? Smiling? Acting like nothing ever happened? She doesn’t even look mad.

  “I’m sorry…,” she starts, and I lose it. Sorry. She’s sorry.

  Like my mom. Sorry dinner took five minutes longer than planned to get on the table, even though she’d spent five hours preparing it. Sorry it was cold outside and she’d forgotten to remind me to bring a coat. Sorry my father’s a complete dick and she puts up with it. She’s always sorry.

  And now Erica’s sorry. She’s sorry. For what, getting wasted? For my friends seeing her naked or talking about her body in front of me like I wouldn’t mind? For sharing photos of her? Because why would I care? They did me a favor—showing me that the girl I liked doesn’t matter, that none of it matters, right?

  “Don’t,” I spit with a voice so full of rage that it startles even me. “Just… don’t. Don’t talk to me. In Spanish either. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  New tears spring to her eyes, but she doesn’t answer. She’s stunned. Motionless. Crying silently while I watch.

  I just made her cry. I did this.

  “I thought you were different,” she whispers. Blinking furiously, she jams a hand in her backpack and tosses something at me. Instinctively I grab it, dropping my gaze to the light gray fabric. It’s my sweatshirt, looking like the world’s heaviest olive branch I just snapped in two, the one I gave her after my game before kissing her. Before the party. Before everything got so fucked.

  “Erica Strange…,” I whisper. But she’s already blasted back inside, her black-and-white checkered backpack a blur.

  I watch her go, horrified, the angry words I spat at her replaying in my head. I sounded just like my father, everything I always feared I’d become, and I hate myself for it.

  ERICA

  MY CAPE STRINGS RIP FROM my neck as I rush back inside the empty hall. My nerves zap like sparklers. Or maybe the sound is coming from my brain.

  What freaking delusion made me think I could ever be Erica Strange?

  After turning for the bathrooms, I hurry inside and into a stall, throw my binder over the toilet, and sit on it. Suddenly, I’m overheating in my long sleeves and boots. I cross my arms over my breasts, breasts Thomas and all his asshole buddies have seen. I’d wanted to ask Thomas so many questions. Why he didn’t text me back last night. Why he didn’t meet me at my locker this morning like before. But those weren’t the questions I really needed to ask: Why did you do it? Why would he write on me, humiliate me like that? Did I mean nothing to him? Did our dates, our kiss, mean nothing? Did he just ask me to be his girlfriend as some cruel joke, knowing all the while what he and his sicko friends had planned for me? Was Thomas the one who blacked out my nipples? Scribbled on the rest of my body? Had he liked it? Derived some sick pleasure from dragging the Sharpie over my bare skin while the other boys snickered? Or did they all pass the marker around like a torch, each one taking his own turn as I lay there, passed out, Thomas writing on my back so he wouldn’t have to look at my face while he did it? But I didn’t ask him, didn’t say much like always. Erica Strange would be so proud.

  I think about standing on that field after his game in a sea of people, feeling girlfriend-like pride for getting to hold his almighty helmet while he went to fetch his stupid sweatshirt for me, telling myself all the while that the weight of it in my hands meant something.

  I press both hands to my face. Thomas hates me. Caylee must too. And everyone thinks I’m a whore. I need to get out of here, but I can’t leave yet. I’ll never make it to the parking lot between classes without being seen, especially since Ms. Adams probably sounded the alarm. And if I wait till lunchtime, I know where Caylee will be. It’s Monday, which means Zac and the guys go to Junie Bee’s, and Caylee’s not invited. She’ll be by the picnic tables. And she needs to know what really happened—who her boyfriend really is—whether she wants to or not.

  I pull out my notebook and touch pen to paper, to write or draw, I don’t know, but the pen takes over and before long the entire page becomes a mess of blue scribbles. As I circle the pen again and again, the pen tip threatens to punch through. I keep at it until it does, till navy ink bleeds onto the next page and the page under that, until I’ve dug a soggy crater that’s layers deep. It hurts the cut in my hand, but I don’t stop, only push harder.

  After ages and no time at all, the bell rings for lunch, the outside hallways humming to life. The outer door to the bathroom bursts open three, four times as girls filter in, bringing with them the roar of lunchtime chaos.

  I’m throwing my notebook into my backpack when I hear Tina’s voice.

  Through the gap in the stall, I see her at the mirror, talking to Kelly. Tina turns, then stops, eyeing the bottom of my stall. I shrink back, and for a split second I think she somehow knows I’m here, but then she and Kelly pull open neighboring stall doors.

  Over the sound of tinkling pee, Kelly’s voice asks, “Where do you want to go for lunch?”

  “Junie Bee’s, of course,” Tina calls back.

  “You only want to go there because the guys will all be there,” Kelly responds.

  “And?” Tina asks, a challenge.

  Two toilets flush, zippers zip, and doors squeak open. They reappear in my line of sight at the sinks.

  “Well, what about Erica?” Kelly asks, pulling up her sleeves.

  “What about her?” Tina’s reply carries over the sound of the tap. “It’s not like she’ll dare show her face after Saturday night.” Tina’s raised voice hooks attention, faces turning toward her to listen, clearly as she intended. “God, you should’ve seen her. Fat-ass couldn’t even stand up straight. I’ve never seen anything more disgusting in all my life. Making out with everyone. She probably gave them all mouth herpes or something.”

  What is Tina talking about? I only kissed Thomas that night. At least, I think so?

  And even though Tina’s made it very clear she doesn’t like me ever since I started hanging out with Thomas, I’ve never heard her be this cruel. The quiet Tina from yesterday sitting awkwardly on a stool at Juiced suddenly enters my mind, almost like she’d regretted posting those pictures. Guess that moment roared by fast.

  “I know you don’t like her,” Kelly says. “But did you have to send that video to Caylee this morning? Or anyone else for that matter? It’s pretty foul.”

  My chest sears with heat. She sent a video? To Caylee, to everyone else? Of me in that backyard or worse?

  “Yeah, but so is she,” Tina responds.

  Bitch!

  I fly to my feet, bursting with all the unspent anger from my encounter with Thomas, and shove open the stall door with a bang. “What’d you send Caylee?”

  Kelly’s eyes and mouth fall wide at the sight of me, though Tina doesn’t look at all surprised, like she expected this. And then I get it. My boots. Tina saw them under the stall door, knew I was in there the whole time. Talked about me because she knew.

  Tina stands there, looking like a stupid yoga ad in her tight leggings. “Well, look who it is,” she sneers. “What’d you do to your hand, Erica? Too many hand jobs?”

  I advance on her, fury and fear pulsing through me. “Tina, what the hell did you send Caylee?”

  “Just some documentation about what a shitty friend you are. But looks like you haven’t seen it yet, have you?”

  I have to fight the urge to recoil at the look she’s giving me�
�the sick grin of a sadistic executioner right as he swings his ax.

  “Well, I’d be happy to show you, if you really wanna see,” Tina adds.

  “Come on, Tina.” Kelly pulls at her arm. “Let’s just go to lunch.”

  Tina brushes her off. She takes her time scrolling through her phone to find what she’s looking for: the video I don’t want to see; the video I need to see. Another missing puzzle piece. Tina holds her phone up for me, and my heart plummets. I’m not sure what’s scarier—her evil smile or Kelly’s cringe.

  A video starts playing. And then I stop breathing.

  The video is poor quality with very little light. But it’s enough. I’m passed out, naked, curled up on the edge of Zac’s bed, sheets tangled at my feet. Standing beside me is Zac, a sloppy grin on his face. On the floor below sits Ricky, blacking out a nipple on one breast, his face scrunched in drunk concentration. From this angle, you can see my bare ass, but not quite between my legs. Laughter ripples through the bedroom, then someone says, “Do it again, Zac. I’m recording now.” Tina’s voice, behind the camera.

  She zooms in on Zac, a lazy smirk on his face. His pants are unzipped, half-hard penis hanging out. He moves closer, penis right next to my face. Then he starts thrusting.

  Laughter roars. I hear a “Get some!” from Stallion, and even Ricky stops his scribbling to watch as Zac’s penis slaps against my half-open mouth, my cheek, my chin, again and again. One thrust hits my nose, rocking my head back.

  A small part of myself—the detached, logical side—says, Well, that explains “blow job girl” earlier, while the rest of me screams and Screams and SCREAMS.

  Tears gush from my eyes and down my face as the video cuts out, freezing at the start like the world’s cruelest sketch: a girl, passed out. A boy groping her breast. Another boy, pants unzipped, ready to humiliate, assault.