My mouth gaped and I turned to her.
“We won!” she said and she put up her maimed hand for our high five. Some part of her must have wanted me to get used to the feel of her hand.
We high-fived.
“Here,” she said and she opened a nearby drawer. “I’ve got something for you.” She pulled out a white, number-ten envelope with ‘Victor’ written in orange girly-calligraphy.
I took the envelope and instantly realized it was full of money—my cut for helping her win her contest. My twenty pieces of silver. It was heavier than I wanted it to be. A quarter-inch stack of twenties so new that my first thought was ‘counterfeit’ and my second thought was ‘yes… real!’ Five hundred dollars new cash. I wanted to smell it because I knew that it would smell ‘green’. But I stopped myself. “I feel weird about this,” I said.
“Careful, Victor,” she said, “That envelope was real close to turning into a cute, D&G purse.”
She met my eyes with a look of maturity and honesty. “I’m true to my word, Victor. That’s important to me.”
I held the envelope out to her. “I just don’t feel like I earned it.”
She pushed my hand back. “What? Are you having an ethical dilemma?” She cupped my cheek with her warm hand, “That’s so cute.” She touched over the envelope. “Put it in your pocket. You think too much. Let it grow on you.” She studied my expression. “It’s not dishonest money or anything. It was a contest.”
“Yah, but, you won the contest, not me.”
“But you’re a good photographer, Victor. You have an eye for things.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yah,” she said. She looked to her computer. “I want your opinion on something.” She opened up her My Pictures file and there were about forty folders within, all with the default ‘folder 1, folder 2, folder 3’ names. “These are my pictures,” she explained, “all my pictures. Every picture I’ve ever taken. I want you to tell me if any of them are good.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I’m going into modeling,” she said. “I’ll still have my degree to fall back on. Modeling’s my passion.” She watched to see if I was taking her seriously. She spoke to the wall. “There’s lots of modeling I can do even with this hand. John Redding—sorry—my new agent, John Redding, says I may even do some runway work, overseas,”—she turned to me—“Doesn’t that sound exciting?”
“Yah,” I said, touching her hand, a little more naturally this time.
Her pupils dilated to black marbles.
“I think that will be exciting for you,” I said.
She flicked her fingers toward her screen. “Browse around. Tell me what you think. I respect your opinion.” Her cell wolf-whistled. “One second, Victor,” she said.
I opened a few folders. Baby pictures, college pictures, modeling proofs and candid, sexual teases could all be found side-by-side. “You’ve got an eclectic organization system here,” I said.
Over my shoulder, I heard her, pacing and talking, “Yah, this is she. So, when you do the spray tan is it, is it a person that does it or is it a machine. Uh-huh… Uh-huh, ‘cause sometimes they say it’s a machine and it’s a person. Which—I don’t care—but, then, I feel like, I’m like, ‘Hi, you’re a person and I was expecting a machine.’”
I opened a folder that had a thousand variations of her holding her good hand to her face. I felt pity for her. She had made each one unique and special with facial nuance, make-up, lighting and attire. She was a good model. But I didn’t know what she was reaching for with all those pictures.
“Yah… no, I don’t care. As long as it’s a good job. I don’t want my hands to look strange. You know? with orange knuckle lines.”
She finished that call and took another. I was so bored of looking at her in her pictures. Why did she want my opinion of her pictures? Did she know, somehow, how much I had looked at her online? The more I watched her talk with that phone pressed against her cheek, the less she seemed like a real person. With all those calls coming in, she was the unsecured router everybody in town stole broadband off of. But I wanted her. I wanted to block out all those other broadband stealers and just plug myself in. Only me. The words ‘blind greed’ floated to my mind as I felt myself warming in her cool, dim room.
“I’ve decided on my favorite one!” I said in an attempt to get her off her phone. She wrapped up the call with her history classmate.
“Which one is it?” she asked and leaned in close to the screen.
I thought I’d give her a test. I picked one that I didn’t like. “This one,” I said, pointing to an Em-with-Good-Hand photo, numbered 437.
“Really?” she asked. “You like that one?”
“Nope,” I replied. “Just seeing if you’re paying attention. I like… this one,” and I pointed to number thirty-nine.
“Yah, I agree. That one’s the best. Why do you like it?” she asked.
“It shows more honesty than the rest. What were you thinking when it was taken?”
She turned to me. “The accident.”
“Funny,” I remarked. “You don’t seem sad in the picture.”
“No,” she looked at it, “Sadness wasn’t what I was going for. It was more of a ‘peace’. Do you know what peace feels like, Victor?”
“No,” I said. “Not really.”
“It’s a good feeling. After I was done with angriness over what happened, I felt a peace. I think the accident helped me get my life back on track—you know?”
“No,” I said. “I can’t really imagine.”
“Trust me.”
“Okay,” I said. “I will.”
She turned to look in my eyes. “I like that.”
“What?” I asked.
“You don’t pretend to understand things.”
“Em,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Can you come over here with me, back to this, this futon thing you’ve got? There’s something serious I think we need to discuss.”
She looked me in the eyes and waited. “Sure.”
We sat, hip to hip, on her futon. “Now. Let me see your phone. I think it may be malfunctioning.”
“Really?” She asked. She crinkled her nose and tried to figure me out. “Really?”
“Yes. Quick. There’s no time!”
She handed it to me, sensing my rouse, “Here.”
I flipped the phone open. “Ah-hah!” I examined the screen closely and fiddled with the side-buttons.
“What?” she nuzzled a little.
“It’s worse than I had originally thought,” I said.
“What?”
“This… this… this ringer volume!—it’s much too loud.” I decreased her volume bars with my thumb.
“Hey!” she protested, playfully, “you can’t do that.”
I held the phone away from her and she play-fought to get it back. She felt good. “It’s the worst case I’ve ever seen!” I blurted. “She’s addicted to her phone, doctor.”
“Give it back!” she protested.
Our eyes met. She licked her lips a little. She waited.
My heart beat. “You smell good,” I said.
“What’s it remind you of.”
“Uh…” I said. “Closeness. Fingertips.”
She leaned in an inch closer. “Mmm. Nice.”
We leaned in and she closed her eyes. Her lips hadn’t seemed that full but, I got lost in their wetness and size. She gave a submissive moan as my hand stroked her shoulder. We made three or four more closed-mouth kisses together. She pulled away.
“Wait,” she said. She turned her knees away.
“What?”
“I not sure about the way this feels.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
“It doesn’t feel right.” She scooted away.
“Why?”
“I have to get ready for—we’ve got an alumni dinner at 6:30. Boys have to be off the upper floors at 4:00, today.”
&nbs
p; “That doesn’t answer my question. Why doesn’t it feel right?” I pressed.
She studied my cargo shorts and my bare knees. “You’re skin is so pale. Don’t you go outside much?”
“I’m fair-skinned. What does that have to do with anything?”
“It just doesn’t feel like it should.” She turned to me. “Victor,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Are you a virgin?”
“What? What does that have to do with anything?”
“It has a lot to do with things. I lost my virginity at fourteen. The idea that you could still be a virgin at twenty—it’s… weird.” She studied me. “What do you do in your spare time . . ?”
“What?” I asked, “I, I study, I, I work-out. I watch movies.”
“No,” she said. “Besides that…”
“So that’s what you think of me. Is that why you really wanted me to come here—you thought since I look at pictures of girls online all-day, I should look at your pictures?”
“I told you, my computer was locked up. Victor. You didn’t answer my first question. Are you?”
“What? A virgin? No. I’m not. What’s it matter, anyways?”
“Victor, just tell me.”
“Tell you what? Why? No. I told you, no. I told you I wasn’t one.”
“You don’t have to be ashamed.”
“I know,” I said. “Because I’m not.”
She took my hand. “Come over here.” She led me back over to her computer and sat at her director’s chair.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m not doing this to be a bitch,” she replied and she navigated to YoYoutube. She typed in ‘Frat Court’ and I swallowed hard. “You see?” she asked me as she paused it so the video could load.
“See what?” I asked her. I considered walking out her open door.
Though the image was grainy and small, it was undoubtedly me, turning to face those Alphas, saying, ‘Hasn’t anyone else in here had some of these same—you know—experiences with the Internet?’ I ‘x’ed-out the window and looked toward her open door. The worst part was that she thought she knew me now.
“You opened your hands, asking them for approval of your habit. A guy with bedpost notches wouldn’t have done that.”
“What do you know, anyway?”
“I know how guys act. Ten guys hit on me everyday.”
“So that makes you a saint, then, huh? Everyone should try to be like you.”
“No, I just want to know who I’m dealing with.”
“Looks like you’ve already got your mind made up.”
“Well, you’ll never get anywhere with anyone if you just whine and cover up the truth.”
“I’m not a virgin, Em,” I lied. “And I don’t spend all my time looking at girls online.”
“Yah—sure, right,” she said, impatiently.
“Well, do you like guys looking at you in your online pictures?”
“No. I don’t care. Pervy guys can think whatever they like. I can’t control what they think.”
“Why are most of the photos you put up so, you know, sexy, then?”
“What are you saying?”
“They’re sexy; aren’t they, Em?”
“Yah, I guess they are.”
“So you agree that you are intentionally or unintentionally putting a lot of sexy photos on the Internet. Those are the only options, right?”
“You’re making me uncomfortable.”
“Which is it, Em? Intentional or unintentional?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think about it.”
“So, that means it’s unintentional.”
“Okay. Whatever.”
“Do you agree or not.”
“Ah, I agree. It’s unintentional. But I don’t make a big deal about sex and all that stuff like other people do. I already told you, I can’t control what pervy boys think.”
“But you know what pervy boys will think, so it should be obvious what the result of putting sexy photos on the Internet will do?”
“Sure. Yah. I know. Some pervy guy’s gonna jack-off. So what?”
“That’s right. Do you like the idea of guys jacking-off to pictures of you?”
“No. Gross! Fucking gross. I don’t put up pictures of myself for that. It’s for fun.”
“But most of your pictures are sexy and you just said that you know what pervy boys do with sexy pictures. So, do you like what pervy boys do with your pictures or don’t you?”
“I don’t have to like or dislike it. It just is.”
“So, you’re doing something that you don’t like or dislike. Why’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you know if someone’s doing something intentionally, Em?”
“Huh? What are you trying to do, Victor?” Her eyes reached into me.
“I’m trying to ask you how you know if someone does something on purpose?”
“They tell you what they did and why they did it. This is stupid. What are you trying to do?”
“I agree with you. So, do you think that you intentionally put pictures up on the Internet?”
“I don’t know. You’re being weird. How could someone unintentionally do something?”
“Does it feel good when you put things up on the Internet?”
“Let’s stop talking about this. Okay?”
“What’s it feel like?”
“I told you, ‘I don’t—!’ I, I guess, I get this rush before I click the button.”
“Does it feel good?”
“Yah. So what?”
“Why do you think it feels good?”
“It’s the feeling of anticipation like you’re about to figure out how you stack-up against the competition. It’s the feeling you get in your stomach before a soccer game. Girls get jealous. Boys give more attention.”
“Why’s that important?”
She smiled big. “So I get what’s mine.”
“What’s yours?”
She smiled big. “The boys.”
“So, you put up pictures on the Internet to get the boys.”
“Yes.” She theatrically tossed her hair. “I do it all for the boys, Victor—you guessed it.”
“Makes sense. Do you think your Internet pictures got this boy?” I said, pointing to myself.
“I know they did. I get more boys with the Internet.”
“So you like the idea of guys pleasuring themselves to your pictures before they’re with you.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s the outcome that naturally follows. The boys fantasize without you there; then, the two of you make-out or mess around.”
“That’s not what I want. That’s gross!” She punched at my shoulder as we looked fixedly at each other. “Stop being weird!”
“But that’s what’s gonna happen.”
“I don’t care. That’s not what I want.”
“Emily…”
“Yes.”
“I've enjoyed myself with your Internet pictures a lot of times before this.”
“Gross! What?”
“What?” I smiled, falsely. “This wasn’t what you wanted? I thought you wanted the answer to that question, earlier.”
“Don’t be an asshole, Victor. You just kissed me. You’re freaking me out right now. What’s wrong with you?”
“So, you don’t want guys that kiss you to have jerked-it to pictures of you before they kiss you?”
“Of course. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
“Why. Why’s it matter?”
“Because it’s fucking gross, Victor. Are you fucking retarded?”
“Why’s it gross?” I turned back. “I think I’m confused on that,” Why was I doing this? Was this really what I wanted? to lecture her in her bedroom about sex?
“Look, you don’t want some guy kissing you if you know he’s been thinking pervy thoughts about you.”
“And why not?”
“It’s not romantic.” Her eyes begged, pushing forward.
“Why not?”
“Because the Internet does things to guys. It makes them into weirdos, like—like you are!”
“Ohhh! I see. It makes us into weirdos.” I pushed back in my chair, uncomfortably. “Because we use the pictures that you supply us?”
“Sure. Whatever. Or maybe you were weird to begin with. How should I know?”
“Well, we must have become more weird by looking at your pictures since we are the only people you don’t want to kiss?”
“That’s right.” She scooted back and stood up from her chair. “I need to get ready for the dinner now. Do you mind?”
“I don’t mind.” Standing quickly, I faced her dead on.
She walked away from me, toward her closet.
“But,” I continued, “if you put your pictures on the Internet for everyone to see, how are you gonna know who’s looked and who hasn’t?”
She stopped riffling through dresses to turn back to me, “I can tell by looking at the guy. I can pick-out the weirdos.”
“Which weirdos?” I stepped toward her. “The weirdos you create?”
“That’s right.” She nudged a dirty clothesbasket out of the way. “Fine. Whatever, Victor. It’s all my fault. Everything in this world is my complete and total fault.”
“Emily,”—I opened my hands to her. It felt like I should leave—“what’s your most important goal in life?”
“I don’t know—shit—I really need to get ready,” she threw a dress on the floor. Another met her appraisal and she crumpled it, distractedly. “—to love, to be loved, or something, I guess.” She looked up with hurt eyes. “I’m tired of this! I want you to leave!” Her hips locked onto me with her lips swelling red. “Can you understand that, Victor? Get out!”
I swallowed and took a half step away from her. “To love and to be loved. Would you say that since that’s your biggest goal, everything else you do must be to support that?”
“Okay. Sure. Why? Stop trying to set me up. Stop being a jerk. I need to get ready in here.”
“So, then, you put pictures on the Internet to love and to be loved.”
“I don’t care. Yes, Victor. That’s exactly why I do it.”
“And you want to make guys love you more than you want to make girls love you.”
Growing Up Wired Page 23
