by Leah Johnson
Basketball wasn’t invented in Indiana, but some still call it the birthplace of the game. Hoosiers didn’t become one of the most popular sports movies of all time because it was such a riot to watch. People love it because it’s true. (Seriously, to so much as talk about IU men’s basketball’s Christian Watford making the buzzer-beating shot against number-one-ranked University of Kentucky in 2011 still brings some alums to tears.)
To be a small-town basketball star in Indiana, especially one on your way to the league, makes you bigger than a celebrity. It makes you untouchable.
“Of course I’ll be there!” I giggled. “Imani will have to drive me, obviously, which means I have to wait for her to finish her homework because you know she won’t go into the weekend with an unfinished—”
“No, I mean just you. I’ve got the place to myself for the night.” He brushed his brown-blond hair to the right so it wasn’t hanging down in his eyes. “I think we should be alone.”
The way he said be alone told me everything I needed to know. He’d been getting more and more insistent about the fact that we should be moving faster than we were since the day after he asked me out. I knew what he wanted, what he thought I was already well-experienced with, but I was too embarrassed to tell him the truth. That no matter how many people I’d dated and been dumped by, I’d never had sex with any of them.
Maybe it hadn’t felt right or been the right person or they hadn’t stuck around long enough for us to get there, but whatever the reason, I wasn’t the person Troy thought I was. And it was a constant reminder that another person in my life wanted something that—try as I might—I couldn’t give them.
“Oh,” I said. I stepped back slightly and shut my locker with a soft click. “Troy, I … I can’t really do that tonight.”
I could see myself, even then, and knew what a cliché I had become: the delicate little flower of a girlfriend afraid to give her virginity away to the hot jock. But I also knew that I liked being the girl under his arm, liked being the person who people envied for once. I liked that Kayla Mitchell—the captain of the girls’ tennis team and junior homecoming queen—told everyone that Troy would never settle down if not with her, just for him to ask me out a week later.
It made me feel powerful, valuable.
“Well, what are we gonna do, babe? I’m a growing boy, I need something to keep me from going crazy.” He growled then, like it was all some big joke, and so I laughed a little like I thought it was funny. Because that was the role I played.
If he was the Hot Jock, then I was the Doting Girlfriend. I dropped by his locker in the morning with notes from classes I knew he wasn’t paying attention to. I showed up after his practices with freshly baked cookies or a bag of takeout from Steak ’n Shake and offered myself up to him like a prize he’d already won. I’d kiss him at his car, to the soundtrack of his teammates jeering, and I’d slip into the passenger seat and let him drive me home. I molded myself perfectly into the character I needed to be to keep him. Except for that one thing.
But I knew the underlying truth of it all: If he didn’t get it from me, he’d find it somewhere else.
Making the decision to send him pictures of me in front of my floor-length mirror at home later that night, dressed in nothing more than the only sexy-ish bra and panty set I owned, didn’t take that long. I’d like to say that I wrestled with the idea for a while, tried to come up with a pros and cons list and found that the reward outweighed the risk, but that’s not true. That’s not me.
I don’t think ahead, I don’t consider consequences. I just leap and hope that the fall is worth it.
So when he sent me back the tongue emojis in lieu of any real response, I still felt like I’d done the right thing. It wasn’t until Imani called me at one a.m., half-frantic, that I knew I’d finally gone too far. This time, I’d leapt straight off the cliff and there was nothing below to save me.
And I was paying the price.
The pictures made it to Confidential, and on Monday, they were plastered all over my locker. The entire school had seen me practically naked, and there was nothing that could’ve prepared me for how exposed that would make me feel. It’s different being bold and noticeable when you choose it, I learned, but when that choice is taken away from you, it’s like being stripped bare in the worst way possible.
The fallout happened pretty quickly after that: Troy’s very public denial that he had anything to do with the photos being leaked. His insistence that I released the pictures myself for attention. The embarrassing and unceremonial breakup. Principal Meyer delaying and then delaying again the judicial hearing to come to a decision about what to do about Troy’s involvement in the photos getting out, or whether he was involved at all, until after basketball season. My mom not speaking to me. Nia practically disowning me. The friends that I thought I had shunning me for having the audacity to try and hold Troy accountable instead of just living with what I’d done.
I had my best friend, but I didn’t have much else. I wanted to go back on it all, to say that it was no big deal, that I didn’t want to move forward with any punishment, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Every time I almost marched myself down to the principal’s office to ask them what they were going to do, remembering Troy’s giddy face doing a post-game interview on WTHR after another win would stop me.
There are no good options for someone like me. If I testify against him, I could destroy his future. I could position him to lose his basketball scholarships and his only chance to play division one basketball. I’d make my mom’s work life so uncomfortable that she might have to leave her dream job. I would become even more of an outcast at school, and the worst kind.
I would never get those pictures back anyway. I would never get that sense of privacy back. I would just be making things harder for everyone. People like Troy don’t get punished, they get full rides to college. They get the glory and the sympathy and a line of people who will always call them heroes.
People like me, on the other hand? People like me are lucky if we end up with anything at all.
There will be a hearing at the end of the week, and Troy Murphy will be there in his crisp white button-down and that bright red tie he always used to wear on game days. He will smile and he will charm and he will walk away unscathed. Because I won’t be there to defend myself. I refuse to beg them to care, to explain to them how I was hurt and all the things I lost. No, my silence is the only way for me to hold on to what’s left of my dignity.
He’s already taken everything else.
SATURDAY NIGHT
The more Olivia says, the more my heart breaks. I want to go back in time and destroy all the people who have ever hurt her. I want to find this boy and use more than just my words to tell him that Olivia’s body, and her privacy, will always, always matter more than his ability to dribble a basketball. I want so much more for her than what she’s been given.
But all I have right now are my words, and that’s never been my strong suit.
Once, when I was younger, I’d been crying in my room at night, missing my dad. My mom cracked open the door and padded across the wood floor to sit next to me on my bed. She shushed me quietly and placed a soft hand on my back, rubbing it in circles before saying, “Sometimes people don’t know how to show you how much they love you.” I hiccupped into my pillow. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t.”
It was the first time my mom and I had ever acknowledged the Jackson Foster–sized hole that existed in our house, in our family. And it didn’t seem fair. I wondered how many times she’d said the same thing to herself, after a missed phone call or another tour extension. I wondered if she felt the same way that I did: like no amount of goodness would be enough to make someone want to stay.
Olivia sniffles and pulls herself closer to me, like she could hide herself from everything bad that’s ever happened to her in my arms. And I finally understand where my mom went wrong. Loving someone is being big enough to admit when you mess
up, and then doing everything in your power not to do it again.
“If someone loves you, they should show you. And if they don’t know how, loving someone means you learn,” I say. “You deserve to be handled with care, Olivia. I don’t know what those people …”
My voice hardens before I stop to gather my thoughts. The thought of all those exes, of what Troy did to her, makes my entire body pull taut. I’ve never fought anyone before, but in that moment I’m sure I could rip him apart with my bare hands.
“That big love you give everyone else—you deserve to save some for yourself. You’re worth that much. You’re worth every good thing.”
“I’ve dated so many people.” She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “And it always ends up the same. A disaster. I’m the problem.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting people to love you. Lots of people, even. That’s your right.”
“Yeah but … it’s always wrong. It always ends up ruined. It’s me. It’s what I do,” she says, eyes shutting tight.
“Look, you’re not a bad person for wanting someone to love you. That’s not wrong, okay?” I pull back slightly. I tilt her chin up so she has to look me in my eyes. “Okay, Olivia? They were wrong for treating you poorly. You have to know that.”
“But I should’ve known better. I—” She pushes up and shakes her head. “I always do this. You don’t know, because you haven’t seen all of me yet, but I always go too far. It’s just inside me.” She holds her hand in front of her chest. “Something in here keeps me from being like other people. Logic, reason, all fly out the window when I …” she pauses.
I don’t wait for her to finish her thought. I need her to understand.
“Love is showing up. Period. You deserve someone who shows up.”
I know it’s true. I can feel the truth of it as deeply as I’ve felt anything. But that’s the problem. If love means showing up, being better to the people you care about than my dad was to me and my mom, then I’m not sure I’m capable of it.
And I’m not sure I’ll ever be the type of person who is.
SUNDAY MORNING
I don’t remember falling asleep with Toni in the Ferris wheel, but I wish I did. Because then I could stay in the moment of feeling safe and protected in her arms as we tangled up in the too-small seat a little bit longer. Instead, I’m being woken up by a burly security guy—with eyebrows that are surprisingly immaculately arched—roughly shaking my shoulder.
“You two can’t be here,” he says. “Y’all shouldn’t have even been able to get in.”
I’m disoriented for a second until Toni’s arms drop from where they’ve been holding me and she mumbles, “Could use some better bedside manner.”
The security guard stands watch with an unamused expression until we get out of the gondola, and when I look over my shoulder at him he’s shaking his head at the two of us. But it’s not the type of headshake of an annoyed employee, it’s the headshake of someone who gets it—why two girls might risk a breaking and entering charge for one last night together—but has to do his job anyway. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
I expect Toni to grab my hand on the walk back, but she doesn’t. There’s a foot of space between us that I don’t understand, but I try not to read too far into it. I try to hold on to the buzz of knowing I spent the night wrapped up in her arms, even if it’s the last time we get to do it for a while. I try to hold on to the fact that she knows everything about me, that I told her the entire story of me and Troy and the damage I cause just by being me, and she didn’t leave. She looked at me with so much patience it hurt, and she held me anyway.
No one has ever done that for me before—not even Imani. No judgment, no I told you so, no disappointed looks. Just held me close, without the intention of holding me together. Like she trusted I was strong enough to make it through without her, but she wanted to be there for me anyway.
We haven’t talked about it, but this must be the real deal. This must be what it feels like to be with someone and know—really know, deep in your bones—that it isn’t going to be some short-lived thing. That you’re in it for the long haul. When I look over at Toni, lines from where her sleeve pressed against her face in the night and yawning without even thinking to cover her mouth, I don’t see this ending tomorrow. I see more mornings waking up together in her dorm room in Bloomington or weekends watching shows at The Vogue or nights debating the best songs in Fleetwood Mac’s discography.
Whole years of possibilities stretch in front of me.
“I’m gonna …” Once we reach our pod of campsites, she jerks her thumb in the direction of her and Peter’s spot. I want to kiss her, but I figure maybe with morning breath it’s not the best move for either of us. I nod.
“Okay, um, see you later.”
When I turn my back, I’m a little delirious, and more than a little nervous at the thought of what last night must have meant. I was honest with Toni, and she still stayed with me. That has to mean something, right?
“Where were you all night?” Imani demands as soon as I get within reach. I look around our campsite and everything that was inside the tent is now out in the grass, and she’s started breaking down the tent. I immediately feel my heartbeat pick up, a sign of my body entering panic mode.
It’s too early for this. We’re not supposed to be leaving yet. We can’t. I can’t.
After my conversation with Toni last night, I feel like there’s so much left to do. So much left to figure out. It took sitting with her, crying on her, being honest with her to see what kept getting swallowed up by the trolls on Confidential and the unsubtle warnings from my mother and the pitying looks from Imani all these months. Maybe I am a little much. Maybe I am a little over-the-top, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to be treated with dignity.
Troy discarding me, violating my privacy, and then moving on to the next girl with no punishment or accountability isn’t on me—that’s on him. So the consequences should be his to bear as well.
I wasn’t sure about testifying against him before—didn’t think it would be worth any good—but if only for me, if only because I deserve better, I think I have to. No matter what comes after. If Imani would just listen to me, she’d be happy I figured things out. But she fumes instead.
“I’ve been texting and calling since I woke up and you weren’t here.” Imani shakes her phone at me. I shake my head, disagreeing before she’s said anything else.
“Why are you packing everything up?” I start reaching for things she’s already packed to move them back to where they belong. The couple who used to be on our left is already gone and the group of friends who were camping to our right are shoving their stuff into the back of their SUV. “We don’t even know if they’re canceling things today. We can’t just leave.”
Imani rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m ready to go. I think I’ve had about enough adventure for one weekend.” She turns back to the tent and starts folding the obnoxiously colored nylon. “Why didn’t you take your phone? I was worried about you.”
“I didn’t even think about it,” I say. I want to get her to stop but I don’t know how. Imani is a woman on a mission, and she’s ready to go. “Imani, wait—”
“You were with Toni all night, weren’t you?” Her voice isn’t loud, or angry, just toneless.
I know the promise I made Imani, that this would be a best friend weekend, but that was before. She spent the past two days getting closer to Peter, laying the groundwork for what could be something really great (thanks to me!), and I now have Toni. Imani didn’t want me to bail, to leave her by herself out here while I chased after the high of being wanted by somebody. But this wasn’t that.
I wasn’t chasing Toni. I stumbled into her, almost literally, and she caught me. And has kept catching me all weekend.
“Yes,” I say carefully. “But it’s good! I told her everything, and she was okay with it. She’s … different.”
She breath
es out slowly. “What about our best friend weekend, Olivia?”
If she would just listen, she would see that the change to our weekend was a good thing. The best thing. I open my mouth to tell her I changed my mind about testifying against Troy, that I’m going to do it. That Toni helped me see what I hadn’t been able to see before, but she cuts me off.
“You haven’t thought about that, but I bet you figured out exactly what the color scheme for you and Toni’s wedding is going to be. Or no, I know, you’ve probably already decided to name your kids after some pretentious dead musicians!” She runs a hand over her hair, the loose wave of it still somehow flawless after a weekend in this humidity. “This is your problem, Olivia. You’re always worried about the wrong people.”
And wow. That one hurts. It’s confirmation of exactly what I’ve feared this entire time, that Imani sees me the same way everyone else in my life sees me: as a hopeless screwup. That my judgment can’t be trusted anymore. That maybe it never could.
“That’s not fair. You haven’t even given her a chance. How would you know she’s the wrong person?”
“Because you’re the one who chose her.”
I gasp. I don’t mean to, but it’s like she’s poked a hole in me and I’m deflating where I stand. Neither of us speaks. We just stare at each other, waiting for the other to break. Finally, Imani sighs.
“I’m going to see if I can find some food,” she says. She turns away from me to grab her fanny pack. “When I get back, I’m leaving. I can’t wait to get as far away from this festival and this nightmare of a weekend as possible.” She looks over her shoulder. “You have a half hour. You can either come with me or stay here, but I’m gone.”
