I swallowed my bite of sandwich. “Actually, you’re not supposed to be here. I was here first, which means you have to stay away.”
She cocked her head to one side, like I was some kind of imbecile. “I sit here every day and you know it.”
I sipped my milk. “But today I got here first, which means you have to find somewhere else to sit. Which is what I’ve been doing. Only I’ve been doing it with a lot less drama.”
“Von? For real?” Rachel whined, putting one hand on her hip like she was challenging Vonnie to kick me out. I held my breath, waiting to see what Vonnie’s response was going to be. I kept my food in midchew, not daring to swallow. Vonnie had told me she was going to stop hanging around with Rachel. This would be the real test of our friendship. If Vonnie chose Rachel, I was done with her.
“I’m sitting with Ashleigh,” Vonnie said, and Cheyenne and Annie nodded in agreement. I swallowed, breathed.
Rachel squinted at Vonnie’s back, a look of total hatred, and then huffed. “Whatever,” she mumbled, and turned her back on us as she scanned the cafeteria for somewhere else to sit.
A part of me felt victorious. I’d won a small battle. My friends had stood behind me in their own tentative way. And if they hadn’t, I’d been prepared to go find better friends. I was owning my existence. Maybe for the first time ever.
Vonnie and the girls went back to their lunch and chitchat, but I zoned most of it out, only adding to the conversation when someone asked me something specific. Mostly I thought about Rachel. About what had happened between us. It needed resolving.
When the bell rang, we all sprang up out of our chairs. I dumped the garbage and set my tray on the conveyor belt, and then turned and peered through the crowd for Rachel.
I finally found her, leaving the cafeteria with a couple of girls I didn’t know. She turned the corner and I followed her, catching up with her as she reached her locker.
“Rachel,” I said.
She turned, her face going from curious to disgusted instantly. “What is your deal?” she said. “You’re supposed to stay away from me.”
“For my protection, Rachel, not yours. Remember? I didn’t do anything to you. It was the other way around. But it doesn’t matter now. I think we need to talk.”
She leaned back against her closed locker. The girl at the locker next to her tried to look nonchalant, but it was totally obvious that she was listening to us. “What do we need to talk about?” Rachel asked in a bored voice.
I took a deep breath. “I don’t ever want to be your friend again, but I think it’ll be impossible for us to always avoid each other. So I know it’s in the court order that you have to stay away from me, but I honestly don’t care if you don’t.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, so you’re all bigger than me now, is that it?”
“No, but… what you did really messed up my life. And I thought we were friends, which made it even worse. I still don’t know why you did it. But I’m sick of thinking about it. I’m sick of my life being about that picture. So if you come around, I won’t make a big deal out of it. I want life to get back to normal. I’ll just… ignore you.” I couldn’t offer her friendship, but this seemed like the closest I could come to it.
The girl next to us finally shut her locker and moved on. The crowd in the hallway was getting thinner; soon it would just be the two of us standing there. I noticed Mr. Green, the French teacher, standing in his doorway eyeing us warily, as if he expected a fight to break out.
“It was supposed to be a joke,” Rachel said. “I wasn’t trying to be mean.”
“Well, it wasn’t funny,” I said. “But I’m over it now. What you say or do doesn’t matter to me anymore.”
I turned and walked away from her, and it felt so good to leave her back there, leave her with the understanding that I didn’t need a court order to keep her out of my life. Leave her with the knowledge that no matter what “joke” she played on me, I would come out on top. Fighting Rachel only spurred her on. Telling her that she didn’t matter—and really meaning it—was the best way to disarm her.
She wouldn’t give me any grief anymore.
I was a long way from peace, but I was at least one step closer.
After school, I told Mack all about what had happened, as we walked around the building taking down the posters, per Mosely’s orders. He laughed out loud when I told him about the look on Rachel’s face when she realized I wasn’t going to kiss her ass anymore.
When we were done, we went back to room 104 and straight to our computers. I only had a few hours left to finish my pamphlet. My community service was almost complete.
But before I got to work, I rolled up a few of the posters and slipped them into my backpack. I planned to hang them in my bedroom. My time in room 104 was about to end, but I didn’t want to forget it. Not all of it.
LAST DAY
COMMUNITY SERVICE
Mrs. Mosely brought in pizza for my graduation day.
I stood up in front of the semicircle of chairs, my stomach growling for some pepperoni.
Kenzie’s seat was empty because she’d gone into labor the night before. Nobody knew if she’d had her baby yet or not, even though Angel kept texting her to find out. Kenzie never answered the texts, which led us to all speculate on whether that meant she was in labor at that moment, and we all joked about how we felt sorry for the nurses who had to deal with Kenzie in pain.
Kenzie would have to finish her community service after she got out of the hospital, but by then I would be gone, and I would probably never find out whether she’d had a boy or a girl. Not that it mattered. I doubted our paths would cross again. At least I hoped they wouldn’t.
We’d gotten two new people in Teens Talking. One was a girl who was only twelve and had gotten busted for running away from home too many times. Another was a boy who’d broken his mom’s arm for trying to take away his car keys. Neither of them went to Chesterton High, but both of them knew why I was there. But I found that I didn’t care about that as much as I used to. People talked. Let them talk. Nothing I could do to stop them. They knew the thousand words, but they didn’t know the rest of the story.
And of course Mack was still there. I’d brought him a whole bagful of candy as a good-bye present.
Mrs. Mosely gave her usual speech about being respectful and listening to my presentation, and then I got up and talked about the events that had led to me being there.
Finally, I opened my pamphlet, which was packed with facts about sexting, and held it face-out so everyone could see.
“Studies show that one in five students ages twelve to seventeen have sent or received nude photos via text,” I began, and I found that as I talked, I was a lot less mortified about what had happened to me. I wasn’t alone. It wasn’t just me. Others had gone through what I’d gone through, and some of them had come out okay. Maybe I would, too. In fact, maybe I would come out more okay than some of the others who’d sent my photo to their friends to be cruel. Because you can get past a mistake, but it’s much harder to get past being a cruel person.
I read all the facts in my pamphlet. I was proud of the work I’d put into it. I hoped it would help someone not get into the mess I’d gotten into. And I’d shown off Mack’s poster, because I was proud of it, too.
When I was finished, Mrs. Mosely told us we could take a pizza break. I grabbed a paper plate and piled a couple of slices on it, and then headed to my usual spot at the computer next to Mack’s. Only this time, as I munched, I didn’t have anything to work on.
I pulled up the same video game Mack was using and started playing.
“You glad to get out of here?” he asked, sliding into his chair, holding a plate piled high with pizza slices.
“Yes. Definitely.” I threw a grenade.
“What are you gonna do with your time now?” he said.
“Besides school? Run, I think,” I said. “I miss it. I thought I wouldn’t, because I wasn’t running with Kaleb
anymore, but it turns out I like to run. I won’t miss him.”
And that was the truth. As much as at one point I’d felt like I would die if he was seeing someone else, I didn’t even think about him most days anymore. I hated that his life had been so messed up by what had happened, and I believed he was sorry. But what happened to him wasn’t about me anymore. We were broken up, and I had moved on, and that was all that mattered.
Mrs. Mosely got busy helping one of the new kids with research, and everyone went back to work, their greasy pizza fingers leaving little wet swipes on the keyboards.
Except for Mack and me. We slouched down until we were comfortable in our chairs. We stretched an earbud cord between us and both jammed out while playing a video game. After our pizza was gone, he opened the bag of candy I’d brought him and we both dipped into that as well, filling our bellies with chocolate and sugar.
When our time was up, we filed out like any other day, only this time I wouldn’t be coming back, and that seemed really weird to me.
Dad was waiting for me inside the doors, his overcoat buttoned up to the top and a scarf wrapped around his neck. It was finally getting cold outside, and I could see Mack’s breath puff out in front of him as he traipsed along the sidewalk.
I paused and turned to Dad. “I think I’ll walk home today,” I said.
His eyebrows went up in surprise. “It’s freezing out there.”
“I’ll run some of it,” I said. “Plus I’ve got my coat. I’ll be fine.”
Dad shrugged and pushed open the doors. He walked toward his car, and I jogged up next to Mack.
“I’m coming with you,” I said, bringing my knees up high to my belly with each jogged step to keep warm. “Skate park?”
He nodded. “Okay.”
We didn’t spend much time on the ramps at all. It was too cold. But that was okay with me, because what I really wanted was to go back into the creek. I had something to take care of.
I led the way, Mack silently trundling along behind me. It was surprisingly warm inside the tunnel, and now I understood why Mack sometimes slept there, especially when it was dry. Our footsteps echoed off the walls like before, only this time they had more purpose to them. I walked right toward the rectangles of light and turned to face the tag wall.
“I brought something,” I said. I opened my backpack and pulled out a small can of silver spray paint that I’d gotten out of my garage that morning.
Mack didn’t say anything, just grinned, his skin cold and tight under that greasy mop of bangs, and watched as I shook the can and pulled off the lid.
I crouched to find an empty space right next to Solo and poised my finger over the trigger. I knew exactly what I was going to write. I was not just Kaleb’s pining girlfriend. I was not just Vonnie’s bestie. I was not just a cross-country runner. I was definitely not Slut Up for Grabs.
I was not my mistakes. I was not defined by anyone else.
Only I got to say who I was.
And I was… me.
Just Ashleigh.
I pressed the trigger and drew a big, loopy, celebratory “A.”
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Items found in the Thousand Words Thrift Store of Novel-Writing Appreciation (and their stories):
A pair of ginormous, glittery pom-poms, a soft handkerchief, and a set of crutches: Belonging to my agent, Cori Deyoe, whose unrelenting support and encouragement never fail to see me through.
A spelunking headlamp and a safety line: Owned by my editor, Julie Scheina, whose revisions helped me mine a story, bring it up to the surface, and see it in a much fuller, deeper light. A bundle of bright red pencils and a pair of X-ray goggles: A gift from Pam Garfinkel, who answers questions, offers opinions, and makes suggestions like nobody’s business. A worn and well-loved dictionary: Property of Barbara Bakowski and Barbara Perry, who never cease to amaze me with their command of the English language and attention to detail. And an artist’s smock: From Erin McMahon and her beautiful design work.
A rubber chicken and a bottle of bubble bath: Removed from the closet of Susan Vollenweider, the first person to read chapter 1 and encourage me to keep going, but, more important, the person who listens the most, who makes me laugh, and who resists the urge to throw things at my head when I get whiny. A doctor’s kit: Once belonging to Rhonda Stapleton, who dropped everything to read and make suggestions on chapter headings. A cozy bathrobe: The tag inside the collar reads MICHELLE ZINK, the lovingest and most supportiest author I know.
A clock with no hands and no batteries, and a teddy bear for snuggling: Donated by my children, who are so patient with my divided time and the sharing of the laptop. You are all Mommy’s favorite.
A big box of… awesome: A gift from my husband, Scott, who does nothing but provide boundless support, ideas, troubleshooting, research articles, contacts, hugs, and, most important, belief. I love you.
Thank you to all of you!
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I was a teen in the 1980s. We had no cell phones. No laptops or social networking, no Skype, texting, or instant messaging. Our cameras were 110 point-and-shoots, which turned out grainy photos that took about a week to get developed, unless you were loaded enough to afford the fancy-schmancy one-hour processing.
In so many ways, we were less instantly connected, forced to rely on passing paper notes in class and waiting—sometimes hours or even days—for our friends to write back. Having to call friends while tethered to the kitchen wall by a curly phone cord (that our hair always, always got tangled in). And every snapshot we took was gandered at by the film developer. In fact, the film-developing shop at my local mall dropped the finished photos, one by one, off a conveyor belt into a window on the outside of the shop, so everyone who walked by could stare at our business.
Before the days of camera phones and texting, if we fretted about being caught naked by our peers, what we feared was a terrifying Public Nudity Accident, such as the classic Showing Up Naked in Algebra Class nightmare coming true, or a Great Bikini Elastic Disaster occurring at the municipal pool.
But that’s not to say we didn’t get naked in front of people we maybe shouldn’t have. Of course we did. The 1980s may seem like prehistoric times, but we were still human. And humans get naked. Humans experiment with things like sex and do dumb things like take on ridiculous dares or make bad decisions to show off or to get attention or as a joke, or sometimes for no reason at all.
And because we were human, we messed up, and certainly there were negative consequences to some of our more naked decisions. Some consequences were worse than others—embarrassment, ridicule, grounding, arrest. Just like experimentation and poor decision making, all those unfortunate penalties existed before sexting, too.
Recent statistics say that 20 percent of teens have sent nude or seminude photos or videos of themselves to someone else. That’s a lot of nakedness floating around out there in cyberspace, just waiting to be seen by the wrong eyes. Just waiting for an accident or a joke or a bully or a revenge plot. Just waiting to be passed around.
But whether or not you’ve ever had a nude episode in your life, we’ve all had our moments of feeling awfully exposed in front of our peers. We’ve all had our moments of being… bare.
Nobody wants to be in a “bare” situation. Nobody wants a naked body—or a naked soul, for that matter—to be out there for the world to see, to judge, to comment on. We want to keep our most private parts covered, whether they be internal parts or external ones. We want to decide when and how and to whom we are exposed.
But if we find ourselves in a naked situation, in 1983 or 2013, literally or figuratively, how we handle the fallout is what matters most. There’s nothing you can do to take back that naked moment, that nude
text. There’s no way to turn back time so you can cover up and keep it covered. But there’s plenty of time to learn how to move forward. As Bea told Valerie in my first novel, Hate List, “Just like there’s always time for pain, there’s always time for healing.”
Do we let the people with the judgmental comments and the quick Send finger take us down emotionally? Do we let those intent on hurting us define us? Do we let them get to say who we are, just because they think they know us, based on one bare moment?
Or do we, like Mack, remind ourselves that our unveilers know only part of the story, know only part of who we really are? And do we, like Ashleigh, ultimately take back ourselves, because no matter how naked we get, one bad decision does not an identity make?
Ultimately, it is up to us how bare we want to be in front of the world. And it always has been.
Technology aside.
A CONVERSATION
WITH JENNIFER BROWN
WHAT MADE YOU WANT TO WRITE THIS STORY?
As with all my books, I wanted to write it because it’s relevant. There are teens out there who are experiencing the humiliation and embarrassment that Ashleigh goes through, simply by virtue of making a poor decision. A lot of teens who need to hear that they’re not alone.
I spent much time during my teen years feeling isolated, so it’s important to me to reach out to teens in pain, to let them know that there is a light at the end of this tunnel they’re going through and that things will get better for them. I don’t have answers, but if I can create a character readers can relate to and then give that character hope, and in turn give the reader hope, I’m happy.
WHAT HAPPENS TO ASHLEIGH AND KALEB IS PRETTY SCARY. CAN THAT REALLY HAPPEN?
Can and has! While several states have changed, or are currently working to change, laws surrounding teen sexting, in some states sending a nude photo of a teen is considered distribution of child pornography, a felony offense. Teens and young adults could find themselves arrested, charged, convicted, ordered to do community service or other diversion programs, or even given jail time and required to register as a sex offender.
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