Michael gives me a You good? raised-eyebrows stare till I nod, then he follows our father to the elevators.
Zac starts in, “So, I know we’ve had our differences…”
Differences. I think of Erica passed out on the bed, Zac sticking his dick in her face. “Differences” doesn’t exactly cut it.
“And okay, yeah, I made some mistakes too,” he adds, reading the disgust on my face. “I know I have, but so have you, though there’s nothing that we can do about that now. So, we gotta keep looking forward, keep our focus on the horizon.”
Like this is all just a pre-game pep talk.
“I need to know that you’re in for tomorrow,” he adds.
I shake my head. “In?”
“That you’re going to tell the police what happened. Well, what we talked about today. Because like your dad said, everyone has to be on the same page. The same team.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “Boyd, you and I are done being on the same team.”
“Aw, c’mon, man.” His smile is tight as he gestures between us. “You and I, we’re like family, right? Like brothers, even. Been playing lacrosse together since we were rug rats.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “You’re not my brother, Zac. Never have been. So, don’t pretend like you are.”
Fear flashes across Zac’s face. I flinch as he steps forward, grabbing my arm. “Thomas, please. I need this. I can’t lose this scholarship. It’s not about the money, man. They could ban me from the sport. I’d be blacklisted. No division team would want me then. None. Then who would I be?”
His voice catches, and for a second, I’m too stunned to respond. In all the years I’ve known him, Zac’s never sounded so earnest, so desperate.
Zac releases my arm and clears his throat, attempting another smile. “And, hey, I know you wanna think you’re so different from me.” He slaps my chest with his good arm. “But we’re a lot alike, you and me. Both of us want more out of life. You with your music. Me with lacrosse. And we’ll both get it so long as you do your part.”
Anger rips through me. Of course. This is just another power play, trying to get me to go along with whatever he wants. “Oh, you’re so full of shit, Boyd,” I spit, beyond caring that everyone passing this hall can hear. The too-friendly smile slides off his face. “What?” I scoff. “You thought you could come over here and buddy-buddy me with this ‘we’re the same’ bullshit and I’d eat from your hand like a little lapdog? Say or do whatever you wanted? All you’ve ever cared about is everyone watching you. All eyes on Big-Shot Boyd! Well, guess what, you piece of shit? You’ve got your audience. Everyone’s going to be watching you now.”
For just a second, everything’s completely quiet. Then Zac gets right in my face, finger raised, all fake-nice dropped. I sense Michael approaching as Zac growls, “You think I’m the only one who’s gonna lose in all this? Think Thornton is going to want you with ‘rape’ on your record?”
My chest squeezes. They’ll find out. They’ll never take me then.
“So, don’t you forget, Music Man,” Zac spits. “If I go down, you go down. I’ll make damn sure of it.”
“Is that so?” I sputter.
“You bet your ass it is.”
Smacking Zac’s hand from my face, I blow past him, nearly crashing into Michael as I make for the elevators. But then I pull up short. My father stands by the closed metal doors, having watched the whole exchange, a dark expression twisting his face.
ERICA
THE POLICE HAVE COME TO the hospital to see me. They say they’ve been waiting all morning to ask me questions.
Mom looks angry, though, because they’re here or because of the whole situation, I don’t know.
Both cops stand tall, hands on their belts like in the movies. Officer Rodriguez has hair pulled back in a ponytail that’s as severe as the expression on her olive face. Officer Shiva, a short, burly white guy, holds a stack of papers that I try not to look at.
They’re standing so close, which is the only reason I can hear some of their conversation with Mom above the cottony hum in my ears.
“Didn’t you… classmates already?” Mom asks. “…tell you all you need to know?”
“…conduct interviews at…,” the female cop answers.
I cringe at the word “interviews,” thinking about the cops rounding up my classmates in groups, asking who’s heard what, who’s seen the video.
“…But our jobs require… question all parties… standard protocol… place blame or cause undue… verify Erica’s side of the… said online… is of the essence if… accountable for their actions.”
My head throbs as I try to piece it all together while Mom’s lips press shut, spent of excuses.
Officer Rodriguez’s eyes meet mine, and she comes very close, enunciating every word. “Erica, is it okay if we sit down?”
I nod slowly, completely drained as they take their seats. Unable to meet her eyes, I study her uniform—midnight-blue collared shirt and tie; metal name tag with RODRIGUEZ above one pocket, silver badge above the other; gold Police Academy pins on either side of her collar; American flag patch on one shoulder, Bay City Police Department patch on the other.
“We’re going to need to ask you a series of questions. Try to be as… and detailed as you can in your answers. The more you give us to… the stronger your case will be.”
Case.
Officer Shiva hands me a folded stack of papers, though I’m staring at the leather sheath of his gun as I take it.
“…need you to look this over… confirm its accuracy,” he mumbles.
I open it with fingers that haven’t stopped trembling since I woke and flip through the first few pages. It’s a copy of the last few posts from my website, the one where I tell Caylee everything and the one after I took the pills. The last page is a mess of misspellings. It scares me, to see what my own fingers typed, and precisely how out of it I really was. Teetering on the edge of not coming back.
A cold chill runs through me.
“Would I have to testify?” my own voice asks. Too loud?
“More than likely… be asked to give a statement, yes,” Officer Rodriguez replies.
I imagine a trial: Thomas, Zac, Ricky, Forest, Stallion with all their expensive lawyers and rich families on one side, Mom and Valerie and me on the other. Would they call in Tina, too? Ms. Adams? And Caylee? I imagine the judge pulling everyone up one by one to question. Then it would be my turn. I’d get cross-examined, grilled about everything over and over and over again. They’d project images onto a white screen for the jury to see, images of me, naked and covered in writing. They’d play the video. Jurors would burn me with their eyes: So that’s what you look like naked; Mom would hold back tears as Ricky fondles my breast, as Zac slaps my face with his penis. Everyone would see it: my mom and aunts and uncles, my grandparents and grandmother, and old friends, too. And perfect strangers, sitting there, silently judging me, their brains asking why I’d gotten so drunk, or why I hadn’t gone to the police right away. What was I trying to hide? Why was I lying?
Maybe the boys’ lives would be ruined. Maybe they’d despise me, send me death threats. Break windows in our apartment. Light fires on our welcome rug. I’d have to face them all in court, and in school every day. We’d have to move away. Everyone would be talking about it, about me—the stupid drunk girl. And would I even be able to hear the questions they ask me in the courtroom? Would my body still be broken? Even before this hospital, I felt broken, but now? I can’t take it.
I flip further into the printouts so I can buy myself some time. The images are a gut-punch. It’s the illustrated spread I did of Erica Strange fighting off a horde of zombie pirates. I trace the outline of her cape, her superhero hair.
Erica Strange would tell. She’d do it. But I am not Erica Strange. I never was.
I can’t do it. I can’t.
I won’t.
“None of it’s true.” I drop the papers into my lap. My h
ands are shaking too hard to hand them back. “None of it’s true,” I repeat.
“Bug…,” I think Mom says.
In my periphery, I can see the officers glance at each other and then back to me.
“Erica,” Officer Rodriguez begins. “These are very serious allegations… need you to know that what you say matters.”
“I know,” I say, fighting my heavy limbs and fuzzy thoughts. Because they need to believe me. “I made it up. I didn’t… I only wanted…” But I have no excuses, nothing that would explain what happened, where I am now.
For a second, I fool myself into thinking they do believe me, that they’ll take my word at face value, chalk it up to me being a hysterical girl and go away. That this will all go away. That it can all go away.
But this is reality and that’s not how it works. Things don’t just go away when you want them to. Didn’t I find that out the hard way, with the pills?
Officer Rodriguez looks at me. “Erica, I know you’re going through a lot right now… need you to be honest with us about what happened to you.”
When I keep shaking my head despite the head rush it gives me, she rises, her partner following, and hands a business card to Mom. “In the meantime, we’ll continue the investigation… leaving my card. Call me when you’re ready.”
THOMAS
I’M IN THE KITCHEN HELPING Mom with the lunch dishes. After the meeting, my father had stayed at his office, so Michael had driven me home. Then, after sitting through a near-wordless brunch of bacon and waffles, he’d gone to his room and closed the door.
Mom dips a plate in rinse water before placing it in the drainer. “Thomas, I want to talk to you about tomorrow.”
The dish towel freezes in my hand. “What about?” But it’s not like I’ve stopped thinking about tomorrow. I can’t. Every time I try to come up with my speech, Forest’s face flashes in my head. Tomorrow could change his future. Ricky’s, Stallion’s, Zac’s, and Tina’s, too. And mine.
It’s like I finally hold music school in my hands. I can feel it, cupped in both palms, something I’ve worked for my whole life. And now it’s being threatened. But I won’t let anyone rip it from me. Not Zac, not the cops, not anyone. I’ve worked too hard.
Mom suds up another plate, choosing her words. “Well, your dad called while you and Michael were on your way home, and he mentioned that you seemed a little… indecisive about what you’d say tomorrow. But you have to do what’s right, you know?”
“And what is that, exactly?” Michael cuts in. He stands in the doorway, leaning into the frame, hands tucked under opposite arms.
Mom turns, wiping hair from her face with the back of a soapy hand. “Well, the truth, of course. That Thomas and his friends didn’t mean it how it looks. And, well, that maybe that girl is a little troubled. She does sound like she needs some help.” At the look on Michael’s face she adds, “But I guess that part’s not for us to judge.”
Michael stares at Mom long enough to make us both uncomfortable. “I seriously can’t believe what I’m hearing right now.”
Mom’s taken aback. “Well, Thomas has a lot riding on tomorrow. They all do, and he should remember as much.”
“Are you even listening to yourself?” Michael’s close to yelling, hands flying. “You’re talking about this girl like it’s her fault.”
I run my thumb over the little duck on the dish towel. Does he think it’s my fault, then? Does he blame me?
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Mom says. “I don’t think it’s her fault exactly…”
“Well, that’s what you implied. But what if this had happened to Chelsea or Chrissy, or even Barbara? Would you feel differently then?”
Chelsea and Chrissy, our eighth-grade twin cousins. Or Barbara, Michael’s girlfriend. But I would never do anything like that to them.
And you thought you’d do it to Erica?
Michael wheels on me, and I nearly drop the towel. “And I love you, Tommy,” he says, “but you are so in the wrong. You all are. What you do tomorrow won’t only matter for a day. It’ll matter for the rest of your life. And no, I’m not talking about you getting in trouble. I’m talking about being a decent human being because I sure expected better from you. From all of you.” Michael storms out, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
Mom stares after him until his footsteps fade before picking up her sponge. “Tommy, why don’t you go find your clothes for tomorrow. I’ll get the rest of these. Your father said to wear the gray slacks and blue button-down. I’ll iron them after I clean up.”
I hesitate then toss the towel in the dish rack, still stinging from Michael’s words. Decent human being. When I pass by his old room, the door’s closed, though a bar of light shines underneath. I approach, knuckles raised to knock, when I hear him muttering into his phone.
“…unbelievable, Barbs. Seriously… it’s tomorrow… not sure what he’ll do… They’re all nuts, my father especially…. I know, I know….” He’s talking to his girlfriend about me.
I let my hand fall and turn away, trying to summon the energy to find my clothes.
In my room, the first thing I see is the spray of pages from Erica’s webcomic held together by a binder clip, the ones I stepped around this morning trying to ignore. I throw myself onto my bed and away from the pages, wishing with all my might that they didn’t exist so I wouldn’t have to read them.
ERICA
IN THE WILD, SHARKS HAVE been known to circle their prey for hours. Circling, circling, feigning indecision, and right when you think they aren’t interested, that they won’t actually attack, they move in for the kill.
At least, that’s what I saw on Animal Planet once. And it’s what I’m thinking about as I stare at the scrubs Psychiatrist Austin is wearing as he sits by my bedside—tiny gray and green smiley sharks printed randomly across the cloth. White-haired and Asian with a kind smile, Austin’s watching me with all the patience in the world, waiting for me to answer his question, insisting I call him by his first name like that makes us friends. He’s the mental health provider assigned to my case, and his presence should bring comfort.
It doesn’t. He’s here to figure out why I tried to kill myself, why I wouldn’t talk to the police. But I can’t talk about that.
The walls of this hospital have become a safe haven, a massive machine holding me in its steel belly, and I never want to leave. Its steady rhythm, its routine order, and the sameness of every hour bring me comfort. Life’s not complicated here. Leaving is what’s complicated—clawing your way out of the steel fortress only to be met with blinding sunlight and a feeling of nakedness that won’t go away.
Well, technically, I guess I may not be going straight home after this hospital stay, or so I found out from Mom this morning. There are talks of sending me to some residential treatment center for “further evaluation and care” that’s supposed to help teens with my “level of anxiety.” Like it’s all my anxiety’s fault I’m in here right now.
And clearly Psychiatrist Austin is just dying to talk about this right now, judging by the way he’s leaning forward in his chair. But honestly? All the sympathy and expectation oozing from him makes me want to jump out of this bed and take off down the hall in this stupid, paper-thin gown of humiliation. This is wishful thinking, of course. I can’t do anything with these machines looming over me like they’re feeding on me as they meep and groan. Their wires snake through the sheets and into my skin, dripping liquid into my veins and monitoring every output. The hospital gown twists around my body, smothering me. My long hair catches between my back and the pillow, yanking my neck.
Austin already visited once, last night after I woke. Mom had held my hand, trembling as badly as I was while he asked me a million questions using Valerie’s whiteboard, bothering to write my name with each question like it somehow gave more weight to everything he said. Or maybe so he wouldn’t forget it in his massive caseload.
How are you feeling, Erica?
D
o you know why you are here, Erica?
Erica, are you having any more thoughts of hurting yourself or others?
And on and on and on.
Last night, above the never-ending whine in my ears, I’d given him the answers I was supposed to, the “should” answers, though it took all my brainpower to form the thoughts. I should feel this way. I should comfort Mom and say this. Nod your head here. Shake your head there. Meanwhile I was wondering what Austin’s fail rate was, how many people passed his test only to go home and off themselves for real. Not that I wanted to be one of those people. Still, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a small part of me that wished I’d succeeded with the pills. Then my mother had squeezed my hand, and instantly, I’d felt ashamed. She looked more exhausted than I’d ever seen her, a bird that had braved a storm, stripped of half its feathers. And yesterday, when Austin had gotten to “So why did you try to hurt yourself, Erica?” that’s when I’d shut down. He had a copy of my online posts. He knew. He just wanted me to say it. Tell him why I’d lied to the police about the website being mine.
“You told a lie, an odious, damned lie.” Or so says Emilia to Iago in Othello and my mind to me now.
And now here he is again, sitting too close so that I can hear him, asking the same questions that I don’t want to answer while my stomach aches, my head aches, my body and heart ache.
“Sharks can circle for hours before they attack,” I tell Austin.
“What’s that?” I’ve caught him off-guard.
“Sharks,” I repeat. “They can circle their prey for hours before attacking.” When he still looks confused, I add, “You asked me what I was thinking.”
And I’m sure he’s thinking about the zillion things he has to do on his rounds that don’t involve getting lectured on shark behavior.
“Oh,” he finally says. “I didn’t know that, Erica.” But I can tell what he’s really thinking. What do sharks have to do with anything? With why you’re here? Why you won’t talk to the police?
After the Ink Dries Page 22