After the Ink Dries

by Cassie Gustafson

  My feet are bricks as I trip over Forest. Mounting the stairs, I stare ahead at Zac’s closed door. It squeaks as I push it open. I hold my breath, then peer in.

  Oh god.

  Erica’s curled up on her side in the middle of the bed.

  She’s naked.

  Black Sharpie covers every inch of her skin. And there it is—my name on her back—but that’s not the half of it. Ricky’s name, Forest’s. Shitty words, drawings, all over her.

  Where are her clothes?

  Up close, she looks so small, like a little kid pulled into herself who’d played with markers and fallen asleep before her bath.

  The night before I’d been so furious, but this?

  What did they do?

  What did I do?

  I feel lost. About to cry, sink to my knees, punch a wall. I search around for something, anything, I can do to make it better.

  There. A tiny gray pile on top of scattered cards. Pink hearts with lace. Her underwear.

  I pick them up, move closer to her. But I’m frozen. I can’t do anything but stare at her legs tucked underneath her, arms pulled into her chest, the words that cover her, the names—my name—on her back.

  Erase it! my head screams.

  But there’s no way to wipe Sharpie off. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t take it back.

  I blink hard, sliding the underwear up her legs. Even though she’s on her side, I try to avert my eyes from the space between her legs. But Stallion’s name, Zac’s, catch my eye.

  Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!

  Searching for her skirt, her bra, I find only her tank top. Pulling it over her head, I loop her arms through. It’s slow going, she’s so curled into herself. And I can’t look at her—her body or scribbled-on boobs. If she wakes up, finds me here…

  I pull the sheets to her chin. With the words covered, for half a second, I trick myself into believing that it didn’t happen. That it couldn’t have happened. But then Erica shifts, exposing her forearm and Ricky’s name.

  God, when she wakes up…

  I trip over a backpack as I sneak out, closing the door softly behind me.

  What the hell did you do, Thomas? my mind roars. What were you thinking?

  But there are no answers.

  There can never be answers for what happened that night.

  * * *

  My fingers squeeze Eleanor’s neck as the memory crumbles. I knew even then that everything had changed. Because with some things, there’s no coming back.

  I can’t fix this. There’s nothing I can do. Everything’s fucked-up. Everything. I’ve lost her. I betrayed her. And there’s no coming back.

  I swing with everything I have. Eleanor hits the edge of the bed with a bang. Her amp screeches in protest, nearly bursting my eardrums. She drives dent after dent into the wooden bedpost, but I don’t stop swinging. Not until the strings have popped, one pinging loose and stinging my face. Not until the cord has ripped free and the amp goes quiet. Not until Eleanor is little more in my hand than a neck of snapped strings and bashed-in base.

  No words. There are no words. There can never be words to fix this.

  The stinging brings me back, first my cheek, then my fingers. I wipe at my face. Blood.

  “Tommy?” Mom’s voice, distant and worried.

  Cuts zigzag the fingers gripping Eleanor. I peel the top string from where it’s sliced into my middle finger—High E, the thinnest string. Eyes burning, my hand cups around the pooling blood.

  No words.

  What did I do? I see Erica’s face, streaming with tears as she hurries away from me. Scared of me. Scared. Of me. Just like my father, like Zac. I’m no better than them. I’m worse.

  She trusted me.

  Eleanor drops to the floor. What did I do, what did I do?

  The door swings open. Mom’s hand flies to her mouth as she takes in Eleanor, the bed, my bloody cheek and hand. “Tommy! What happened?” She grips my forearm. “Are you all right?”

  I’m fine, I want to tell her. Another lie. Everything I say is infected with lies. My hand drips, and I wrap it in the front of my shirt. I’ve made a big enough mess.

  “It’s fine,” I manage. But my voice is wrong, high and strangled.

  What have I done?

  No words.

  Brushing off Mom’s hand, I make for the bathroom, stepping over what’s left of Eleanor as I go.

  ERICA

  I used to play thiss game with myself where I pretended I’d die tomorrow an today was my last day to live. It sounds a little morbid, given how things have turned out, but I didn’t mean it like that. Not back then. The whole point was to inspire myself to live for the moment! Is’t that what everyone says these days: You only live once?

  But sometimes once is one ttoo many times.

  Here’s what I’d do, especially if I were nervous about something. I’d tell myself that it didn’t matter,, that I would be dead tomorrow of [insert sudden, inexplicable tragedy here!], so whatever I did, I better make it fun DAMMIT because I only had one day left to live! And it worked. For a while anyway. I’d head out, confidence blazzing, until life got in the waay.

  Sorry if I’m a little off right now. Blame it on the vodka, baby!!! There’s nothing like it. Mix with Redbull and it’s like drinking Skittles. Instant liquid confidence. Taste the freakin’ rainbow. Only I’ve Never combined my liquid confidence with pills beforee.

  Turns out when your mom’s a nurse, pills aren’t toohard to come by. Medicine cabinet’s full of them. Aspirin, sleep aids, old prescriptions of vicoden from when I tore tendons in my ankle. I had my pick of the litter; 56 blue sleepers, a whole bottle of orangey-brown aspirin (149 to be exxact), and 20 white to kep the pain at bay—because WHY THE FUCK NOT?—guzzled away by clear fire liquid that burned the wholeway down. I ran out of Redbull by the end. Mom thinks sugar will kill you. Ha.

  “FOr in that sleep of death what dreams maycome…. Shrugging offf this mortal coil.”

  Or somesuch bullshit shakespeere. I could never get those stupid quotes right.

  Speakin of stupid, Erica Strange is in thhe trash now. like I couldve ever been her anyway. I tried but it Doesn’t matter—she’s gone. Know why I wrote her in the first place Erica Strange—the first time? Because s mean ol man followed me aroun a store once and scared me half to death, See? I thought thos where the guys to stay away from. Ones who scared little girls in stores. I thought she’d help me be tough, But shes gone now. Erica Strange.

  Well, I guess I’ll leaves you with that. Starting to get a lil sleepy. Mom if you see this post I’m sorry I lied, couldn’t say goodbye. Wish I could ave been the dauughter you though I was. The good girl who allways did as she was told. Aorry for follwing Grmpa Joe. But it’s better this way. WIthout me.

  Sorry Dad. I’m sorry. The boots weere great

  Goodbye said the slut on her way to lie down..

  But here I am, still typing. Still tappin away at the keys only to here them clic. I could do it forevr. At least my screwed up version of forever limited as is now. But no I want t be lying on my bed in internal repose. Internal inside? Eternal yes. Eternal repose. Not slumped over like som drunkard. Like wheen it happen.

  Call me dramatic, but here goes: You chisel me with your names laughter photos (Thanks for that Tina. HOpe your mouth feels better, yoou bitch) You all took something from me I can’t never get back. And what’s worse—you don’t evn care. Right Cay mermaid? You were my best frien and still you choose Zac. Hope it was worth it. He’s He’s an animal but in your hearts of hearts you already know that.

  Not even you Thomas the Rhymer.

  God, I liked you so much. Thought you we different. A good person. even. How completely stupid of me. But there’s no time to dwelll on such things. Not anmore.

  I read in National Geographi once that some cultures don’t let yo take photos of them. THey think a photo will captures their soul and steal it away.

  They were right my soul was ripped form my body
alongside my cloths. On little wings it flew away. But will this reunite us, my sooul an me, or will it mean were are forever seprated?

  Unknown. Unknowable. Goobye.

  Head swirling, I push back from the desk and lie on my bed. My thoughts are a torrent of rushing noise and wind. Prisms of color pop before my eyes. Burst, shimmer, swirl.

  And then the roaring falls away. Ears mute. Silence. Heart slows. Calm.

  Only a kaleidoscope: neon stars of morphing shapes and too-bright colors. A frantic carousel, spinning and spinning and spinning so fast, like my marble.

  My marble. Cold, smooth. Obsidian. A galaxy of stars. I almost forgot. I need it. To hold. Its weight in my hand.

  Too far away?

  I stumble, flop. Hands, knees, crawl to backpack.

  Zippers. Too many. Which?

  Small.

  Sliding. Fumbling. Grasping.

  Nothing.

  A realization.

  Not there.

  A realization.

  Dropped it.

  A realization.

  Death.

  Realization.

  My death.

  Now?

  Scared.

  Scared.

  SCARED.

  Not ready?

  Black clouds gathering.

  Smothering.

  Not ready.

  Choking.

  Scared.

  Rising.

  Not ready.

  Not Ready!

  Hurting.

  Can’t breathe.

  NOT READY!

  “Mom!”

  Aloud?

  NotReady.NotReady.

  Hurting.

  Can’t breathe.

  Scared.

  The door.

  Try?

  NotReady. NotReady.

  Hurt.

  Locked.

  Breathe.

  Can’t!

  Dark.

  NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.

  HURT.

  BREATHE. CAN’T.

  DARK.

  NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.NotReady.Not

  F

  a

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  l

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  g

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  F

  a

  l

  l

  i

  n

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  PART THREE TUESDAY

  THOMAS

  I’M IN SPANISH CLASS WHEN they come for me.

  I’ve been staring at Erica’s empty desk, feeling caught between disappointment and relief. Mostly relief. Everyone’s saying she got suspended for punching Tina. But who could blame her for snapping? Everyone has been an absolute prick to her.

  Me especially. God, the look on her face as I tore into her yesterday. The image won’t stop haunting me.

  At the front of the classroom, Señora Roberts discusses our homework, but even if I cared, I forgot something to write with. Last week I would’ve welcomed the excuse to talk to Erica and ask to borrow a pen. She would’ve said, “What’ll you give me?” or “It’ll cost you, Thomas the Rhymer.” Because Spanish used to be so much fun, us tossing each other notes behind Señora’s back. Erica’d fold them into these complicated origami creatures, and I’d have to guess what animal it was, plus unfold the note without ripping it. But I could never get the note back to its original shape so I’d either fold it at random or wad it up. Normally the latter. She’d raise her eyebrows at the paper wads and whisper, “Lemme guess. Another lacrosse ball?” To which I’d reply, “What are you trying to say? It’s a baseball. Can’t you tell?”

  But today I can barely bring myself to look at her desk—it’s never been empty before—or the crack in the plastic chair that always catches her hair, or the “ES” star logo she scribbled in the top corner. I press my feet against the metal legs trying to push Erica from my mind, but the whole desk slides forward, ramming into Victoria’s back. She swivels around, a question on her face.

  Sorry, I mouth, straightening as I do, wincing with how much my body hurts all over. I can only hope Zac’s as sore as I am today.

  It’s fine, Victoria mouths back with a small smile as she turns around.

  Sorry. What I couldn’t say to Erica yesterday. Not that anything I could’ve said would’ve changed much. Or maybe it would have. I don’t know.

  Ricky shifts in his desk behind me, and I wonder if he’s thinking about Erica too, or yesterday’s practice, or maybe his phone that, with any luck, I wrecked. I haven’t said a word to him since lunch yesterday, or anyone else for that matter, which is fine by me. I did hear rumors about Jasmine breaking up with Stallion last night, which is crazy because they’ve been together since eighth grade, and apparently it got pretty ugly. But that’s all I’ve heard, and maybe that’s a good thing.

  What’s going through her mind right now? Does she hate me?

  God, my body hurts.

  Red and blue strobes flash through the open windows from the direction of the parking lot, blazing across the walls and whiteboard. Señora Roberts’s dry erase pen halts mid-word. Everyone who’s ever seen a crime show knows what those lights mean. Someone’s in trouble. But police at Bay City Prep? It’s gotta be a first. We all crane our necks for a better look.

  A radio crackles through the parking lot. Two doors slam in unison. I wipe my palms on my jeans as the strobes keep flashing. This couldn’t be about my fight with Zac, could it? Or Erica’s fight with Tina?

  Who am I kidding? The cops wouldn’t show up over a few punches thrown yesterday. This has to be… bigger than that.

  I swallow hard and glance back at Ricky. He shrugs, though his whole body’s tensed.

  The class erupts into whispers, but for once Señora doesn’t use her annoying trill to quiet the room. Even she’s craning to see. And even though Señora has a cellphone jail where she locks up any phone used during class, I reach into my backpack to pull mine out. Chances are good someone’s got an explanation. Then I remember it’s on my bedroom floor, crushed.

  Several people stand, and Señora moves over to the window just as I’m pulling my Band-Aid-covered fingers from the front pocket of my backpack.

  The classroom door flies open. Principal Renall strides in and over to Señora. They hold a hushed conversation before Señora points in my direction. I freeze as a sea of faces turns on me. “Thomas VanBrackel. Richard Demoine.” Principal Renall beckons Ricky and me forward. “Boys, accompany me to the office.”

  I stumble out of my desk. Ricky follows. He’s always been good at following.

  “Grab your things,” Renall adds.

  Heat sears the back of my neck as I scramble for my backpack. Every eye drills into us. The rumor mill’s about to explode. I shouldn’t care, but I do.

  It’s happening.

  Renall leads us down the hall toward her office.

  Panic hammers in my chest with every step. This definitely isn’t about my fight with Zac. They called Ricky in too.

  Ricky walks beside me, head bent. He whispers, “Is this because of her? ’Cause that was just a joke.”

  Her—Erica.

  Renall throws a glance over her shoulder. “No talking, boys.” She leaves Ricky in her office with a somber-faced secretary before marching me into a small conference room.

  Two police officers sit at the table. Both rise as I enter.

  Renall takes her seat at the head of the table, gesturing for me to sit across from the cops. She introduces them as Officer Rodriguez and Officer Shiva.

  The female cop, Rodriguez, holds a file of papers—Papers about me?—and studies my face. The male cop, Shiva, is well built and knows it. He leans forward on massive f
orearms. Renall explains that the cops want to ask me questions once my father arrives.

  We sit in awkward silence. Thoughts bombard me:

  What do they want?

  She’s not at school….

  A coincidence. Has to be.

  But why isn’t she at school? Did she call them—the cops?

  What do they want?

  And the scariest question of all: Where the hell is Erica?

  ERICA

  i’m floating

  cool waves lap at my skin threads of silk tendrils

  run through my veins

  muscles

  organs

  i drift

  settling onto the

  surface of the water

  how strange

  it cushions me smooth and buoyant i will not drown peace finally at peace the clouds

  above my head

  look spongy if i could only reach up but no something

  tugs at my elbow like an

  anchor

  my arm feels so heavy so heavy pulled to the bottom

  of the lake

  by an invisible rope hooked

  into the

  crook of my elbow

  but i want

  to move

  it’s silent here

  just a tiny cicada screeching

  eeeeeeeeeeeee

  through thick

  cotton in my ears i

  want to hear the water the cool

  lapping waves that ebb and flow through

  me i reach my other hand not the anchor hand to my ears but again the

  tug this time from the tip of my finger anchoring my movement stuck what if i tip over pulled down cant

  break free from my weights now the lake is marbles countless obsidians press around me sink suffocate drown me i try to scream but marbles fill my mouth no a snake slithered down my throat i choke

  will die out here a prisoner in this lake of dead calm heavy spheres and no one will hear me

  die

  i start to twist rolling left then right pull my arms from my side writhing and i feel the anchor on my finger slip slip away and then the tiny animals i didn’t know were there chattering but then the one pinning my elbow cuts into my flesh with its beak tearing a hole i cry out but don’t hear the sound the snake blocks my throat and then there is