“Tina ‘never shuts up’ Tina?” Jerod Kellor asks. “Sporty chick?”
Nick nods. “That’s the one.”
“Good,” Farah adds. “That’s the least Tina deserves for what she did. God, that poor girl, I can’t even imagine. I only hope Tina gets what’s coming to her, and then some. Her and anyone else involved.”
“Oh, for sure,” Jerod says. “Like, who even does that?”
My stomach bottoms out even before Farah turns to me. “But, oh my god. You two were dating. You must be livid. You don’t know who else was in on it, do you?”
“Thomas?” Ms. Hollis calls from the whiteboard, and I nearly have a heart attack. “Nice try sneaking in here, but you know the rules. Go to the office and bring me that late pass.”
* * *
I’m sweating bullets as I pull open the office door… and come face-to-face with Tina. What are the freaking chances today? She’s holding an ice pack wrapped in a paper towel over her lip.
“So, I guess you heard,” she says, lifting the pack and rolling her eyes. The hint of a smirk tells me she’s enjoying the attention.
“I heard something,” I say.
“Yeah, your little girlfriend? She attacked me at lunch, so there’s that.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly how it went down, Tina. And it had nothing whatsoever to do with that video you made.” I thumb toward the principal’s office. “Did you tell Principal Renall about that video while you were ratting Erica out?”
Tina scoffs, lowering the ice to reveal a split lip. “Are you trying to make me feel bad? Because that video proves how disgusting Erica is. She was totally wasted and all over Zac. Or did you forget?”
Like I could forget.
“So, I did you a favor,” she continues, “exposing her for what she is.”
I lean in. “Do you have any idea how much trouble we could get in, or are you that much of an idiot?”
Her mouth opens then closes. “We’re not going to get into trouble. If anyone is, it’s her and Zac. They’re the ones who—”
“Because you had nothing to do with it. Someone else must’ve taken the video. It’s only your voice that’s behind the camera.”
For the first time, something like fear flashes across Tina’s face. Is she only now realizing how bad this could get? “What do you want me to say?” she sputters. “Erica’s disgusting. I merely gathered the evidence.”
I huff out a laugh. “It must have made you so happy—so damn giddy—to be in on the action, huh? Always trying so hard to be a part of it all. Bet you couldn’t wait to pull out that Sharpie and get started.”
“So, this is my fault?”
“Yeah, it is.”
She advances on me, ice pack hitting the floor. “Look in the mirror, you shit-stick. Because I sure as hell didn’t sign your name on your stupid slut of a girlfriend. And who did that again? Oh yeah, that’s right. You.”
I close the gap between us.
Her eyes and mouth pop wide as my face comes within inches of hers.
“Tina,” I say, voice poison, “if you ever talk to me again, I swear to god you’ll regret it.”
I slam the office door in my wake, leaving behind a stunned Tina, for once shocked into silence.
* * *
“Thomas, wait up!”
The school day’s finally ended, and Amber’s cornered me by my truck, hair blazing red in the sun. Perfect. Just perfect. She looks more intense than usual, out of breath. “Hey, have you heard from Erica? Do you know where she went?”
I’m supposed to be grabbing my gear bag from my truck. I’ll be late to practice, should already be on the field by now, but I’ve been stalling since school got out. Which was clearly a mistake.
“What’s that?” I ask, pretending like I didn’t hear, like Amber didn’t just catch me staring at Erica’s empty parking space, the one next to the fence, away from the other cars.
“Erica,” Amber repeats. “She took off at lunch, and I’m really worried about her. Do you know where she is?” Amber studies me, which makes me more uneasy than I want to admit.
I clear my throat and unlatch my tailgate. “I’m… sure she’s fine.”
Amber huffs. “She punched Tina in the freaking face, then got in a blowout fight with Caylee, then took off in her car. And now she won’t answer her phone, so no, she’s not fine, Thomas.”
“Well, I don’t know where she is, okay?”
Amber huffs again, disbelief on her face. “What, are you, like, done with her now?”
I pause, gear bag halfway to my shoulder. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t get cute with me. You two had a thing, and then the party happened, and some fucked-up shit went down with Zac and Ricky that Tina filmed, and now you’re acting all shady. So, I want to know what the hell happened and if you’re done with her now.”
I don’t meet her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I wish it were true. I wish so many things. “Erica and I never had a thing.” I try so hard to believe it all, try to avoid glancing at her empty parking spot again.
Amber stares at me for so long, I start to wonder if she’s even going to respond. Then she slowly shakes her head. It’s a gesture I know far too well from my father. Bitter disappointment. “Well, don’t you sound just like Zac,” she says. “Though I was somehow under the impression you were better than that. A good guy, even. So, why are you protecting him?”
“Listen, Amber. I gotta—”
“Unless…” Realization dawns across her face. She backs away, finger aimed at my chest. “Unless you were in on it too.” She exhales, face incredulous at whatever expression’s on my face. “You too, huh? Un-freaking-believable, Thomas. Un-freaking-believable.” Her face hardens, and a chill rolls through me. “You listen to me, Thomas VanBrackel. You’re going to be held accountable for what you did to that girl, you can bet your ass. You along with every other creep in that room.”
Cold sweat washes over me as she climbs into her Del Sol and speeds away. Heart sinking, I have no choice but to shoulder my gear bag—and my impossibly heavy guilt—and head for the field.
ERICA
I DRIVE AROUND FOR HOURS, steering wheel clenched in one fist, marble in the other. I’m trying to stop the thoughts, trying to stop crying, but neither is working. My entire school has seen that video. And Thomas and Caylee—how could they both yell at me like this is my fault?
I think of Thomas, all we shared together. Exchanging notes in Spanish class and making up rumors about Señora Roberts’s wild after-school parties. Walking together to my history class and agreeing to that stupid deal about going to his game so he’d come with me to the party. His hands raking through my hair when he pressed me against his truck and kissed me hard. It’s gone. All gone. And Caylee? She’s been my best friend since I moved here. I don’t know how to do Bay City without her. She took me under her wing and gave me a place to belong—at lunchtime, and in her shimmery car, her shimmery house, her shimmery life.
Before I know it, I’m zipping through my old neighborhood, toward the house Mom and I lived in with Dad, one block over from a busy street. At first, I drive past it, unseeing, then have to back up and crawl past it again, parking just beyond the driveway. I don’t know what I was expecting. That the lawn would’ve died of thirst. That the fuchsia roses Mom loved so much would look scraggly and diseased. Maybe I’d even hoped so, that something else had gone to shit. But it’s not like that at all. The new owners have transformed it, repainting the house a crisp buttercup yellow. The lawn has fresh sod on it and looks as pristine as the lacrosse field. Even the curtains through the windows—brilliant white with large blue dots—look amazing, like someone happy lives here.
The stupidest part of me expected Dad’s old Miata to still be parked in the driveway. But it’s not, of course, since he sold it to a former student before moving to Boston. Still, I picture him in his cramped office at the college here, on the second floor of the Comp Lit
building, reviewing his notes for an eighteenth-century British literature seminar. I’ve heard people say he was a good professor. Well, assistant professor, anyway.
I always did try so very hard to impress him. And sometimes I managed. I would know when I did because he’d call me his ’Rica Girl and invite me to come sit with him in his study and read the books on his shelves. Or he’d take me on an outing, just the two of us, to a museum or bookstore, and he’d let me pick anything I wanted to take home, so long as it wasn’t too expensive. I’d follow him all around the house and recite Shakespeare quotes to him, or watch him practice his lectures with rapt attention, or even help him grade multiple-choice tests. Everything was great… till I grew up.
Then practically overnight, Dad was always too busy for me, impatient when I was around, scolding me for not knocking before I came into his office or not picking up the books I’d left on the floor. It wasn’t till later that Mom and I found out he’d started getting close to another professor and was trying not to get caught. Still, even as I watched him drive away with all his stuff piled in a U-Haul, I didn’t tell him how angry I was or how he’d ruined our family. How much he’d hurt me, hurt us. Because even then, I didn’t want to disappoint him and not be his ’Rica Girl! anymore, even though it felt too late for that. But when the boots came in the mail for me, the ones he’d seen me eye for months, they felt like an apology he didn’t know how to give.
I stare down at those same boots now, scuffed and faded next to the dirty floor mat. What would Dad think of his little ’Rica Girl now?
My phone rings. It’s Mom again. I click it to silent. Word has surely reached Principal Renall by now of what a delinquent I am. Recalling my conversation with Ms. Adams, I hope that’s all that’s reached the principal, but I doubt it.
I roll the marble in my hand and think about today, of Thomas and Caylee, so full of hatred for me, of Amber spilling her guts to Ms. Adams, or Tina and the video, the sound of my fist hitting her mouth. As I hold it up, the silver flecks in the marble shimmer in the light, throwing strange shapes onto the ceiling of the car that, through my tears, seem to morph and dance.
I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t.
I pull out my phone and type in my search. Turns out when you Google “How to commit suicide,” the National Suicide Hotline pops up first. But that’s the exact opposite of what I want.
The next entry is some creepy guy’s website with an e-book you can purchase detailing all the ways you can “make it count” by doing it right the first time. It makes me wonder if he’s followed his own advice, or if not, what he thinks when someone actually purchases his morbid book.
I start over with a simpler search—“Suicide”—and scroll down, getting to a link about warning signs. This intrigues me. I almost laugh out loud as I read the second one: Searching online for more information on ways to kill oneself. At least they know what they’re talking about.
Other warning signs follow, eerie in their accuracy: Giving your stuff away (or at least giving Caylee her birthday cookbook early and Thomas his stupid sweatshirt back), displaying extreme mood swings (check), and using more alcohol or drugs (do drugs involving the actual suicide count?). Because that’s how I’d do it. Pills.
Clicking out of the search engine, I realize I found what I was looking for. Not so much how I’d kill myself. That I knew. I sought reassurance. And I know I’ve found it since finally fully acknowledging the thought that’s been tugging at me—I want to die—because a strange calm settles over me. Which brings me to “Additional Warning Signs,” including feeling lighter, calmer, more energetic.
I don’t know about “more energetic.”
But I do have options.
Is this how Grandpa Joe felt before he shot himself? Did he do what I’m doing now? Feel what I feel—this unbearable heaviness?
Then I can’t breathe. This car closes in, and I realize I don’t want to die. Plus, how could I do that to Mom?
No, there must be another way. I’m going to send Caylee a message. Maybe she’s had time to calm herself, and if I write everything down, tell her what happened in detail, or at least everything I can remember, then she’ll get a notification and have to read my side of it. Then maybe she’ll finally understand that I didn’t want any of it, that all I wanted was to make out with Thomas, maybe even sleep with him. But I’d wanted to remember it, and I’d wanted it to matter—I’d wanted to matter—then everything had gone so horribly wrong.
Even as I think all this, I know that hoping for a positive outcome with Caylee probably isn’t realistic, that sending a message might not help anything. But somehow, despite so many things not mattering anymore, the truth still does, at least to me. So I’m going to tell Caylee everything. Every gruesome detail that I’ve had to live through since those guys put their hands on me. She needs to hear it all, especially where it concerns Zac.
On my phone, I click into my website. The last post I’d scanned in is the illustrated spread I did of Thomas kissing me after his game. It’s sloppy art at best, given the limited time I’d had to throw it together before the party. But it makes no difference now.
I’ve been adding to my website for the past few months, saving it as a space just for me, keeping it private while I tried to figure out what I wanted it to be. And as it stands now, the site contains every doodle or illustrated spread I’ve created since December. In one column are the sketches of Erica Strange and Sparky. The other holds my entire life at Bay City—Caylee and Amber (our little Mermaid Gang), Thomas the Rhymer, Gross Zac and the guys, Evil Tina. Even Ms. Adams and Mr. J’s skeleton make a few appearances. I drew out whole panels about meeting Caylee, getting to know Thomas, and everything in between, all the while keeping the illustrations a secret, even from Caylee. But now I want Caylee to see it. Let her know my private world and all that I’ve lost.
I open a new post and start typing, my first-ever post that’s not an illustrated panel:
Caylee, you don’t want to hear from me. You made that clear enough today, but if you’re going to hate me, hate me because of the whole truth…
The words pour from me in a tangled mess, then I go back and push those words around until they’re in some sort of order and begin to make sense: Getting ready and pre-partying. Driving myself to the party in case she stayed the night with Zac. Thomas kissing me in Zac’s driveway. Flirting with Thomas by the fire. Zac and Stallion shooting off fireworks. Me, downing vodka to calm my nerves. Going inside with Thomas.
Then nothing. Charcoal black where a memory should be.
Tears stream down my face as I relive waking up in Zac’s room, but I push through and put it all in there—every drawing, word, and name on my skin, my missing skirt and bra, even my inside-out panties. I describe the drunken photos Tina posted and having to discover what happened to my body alongside the entire student body, the photos from Zac’s room that must’ve circulated. Then comes the video. I describe it so that maybe Caylee will finally see who the real monster is in all this.
Tears turn to sobs as I narrate surviving school today: wanting to tell her all along but fearing she’d blame me. Zac returning my bra in the middle of the hallway. Stallion and his “Take it off, Mouth!” Ms. Adams asking about the rumors, saying she had to report everything. Thomas telling me he never wanted to speak to me again. The senior girl and her blow job mime. Punching Tina over the video. The group huddled around a phone, staring at me like I’d chosen to get stripped and humiliated. My fight with Caylee when she wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t acknowledge any blame on Zac’s part.
As I type, for the first time since the gray walls, I feel a little lighter, each word a tiny weight breaking free. All the while, my marble sits in my lap. I look at it, resting against my black leggings, unable to articulate even to myself exactly what it means to me—how comforting it is to hold. I nudge it with my finger, then roll it up the valley where my legs meet.
By the time I post, it’s mid-afternoon. I
copy the link and send it to Caylee in a text, along with my login email and password, knowing it’s my only chance of being heard. I doubt it’ll change anything, let alone save our friendship, but I hope she at least takes the time to read it.
Suddenly the car can’t contain me anymore. I get out and, without even knowing what I’m doing, I approach my old house. I find myself in front of a rosebush, plucking a single flower like the one Thomas left on my windshield. As I touch the satiny petals, a line from Dad’s incessant Shakespeare recitations snakes its way into my thoughts: The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, / One blushing shame, another white despair; / A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both… and something about “A vengeful canker eat him up to death,” but I can’t remember the rest, and I don’t even know what it means anyway.
The front door opens and an elderly woman steps out, her face a frenzy of wrinkles. She reminds me of Mrs. Pensacola, the retired oil painter from Mom’s work. “Hello?” the woman calls. “Can I help you with something?”
I hold up the flower, like I’m Belle’s dad from Beauty and the Beast, caught with a sacred bloom. “I’m sorry. I was just… these are so beautiful.”
“My roses? They are nice, aren’t they? Feel free to have one. Even two.” She winks at me.
“I… the one is enough. Thank you so much.” I turn away from her. “Sorry for trespassing.”
“It’s quite all right. Flowers can have a rather intoxicating effect!”
I hurry to my car and throw the rose on the dash, feeling the old woman’s eyes on me as I pull past the house and down the street. It was a mistake to come. Dad doesn’t live here anymore and neither do we. Any dream I’d had of going back in time is just that—a dream. I should’ve just left the house as a memory.
My phone rings. It’s Mom again. I don’t answer. I’m not sure who Tina said what to, but I’ll assume it really did involve Principal Renall and the word “psycho,” and that’s if Ms. Adams didn’t get to the office first. Mom’s going to be… what? Livid that I lied to her about the party? Disappointed in me, which is somehow always worse? Or frantic with worry and about to go off the deep end racking up even more debt, trying to fix me when it’s clear I can’t be fixed? Whatever the case, I don’t want to know.
After the Ink Dries Page 16