by Dan Pope
“Fine,” she said.
He passed it over. She checked to make sure it was unlocked. When he turned to rejoin his reject friends, she bolted. She ran into the building without looking back and went up to the second-floor music wing. At the end of that hallway, past the band room, were the individual practice rooms, which were soundproof. You could lock the door from the inside. She liked them for the sound-insulated quiet, a good place to chill away from the masses. In one of the rooms, a kid was honking on a saxophone; in the next, a guy was beating the drums. She tried a few doors and found the last one open. She slipped inside the tiny room without turning on the lights. She closed the door behind her and sat on a wooden bench in front of an upright piano.
She opened his phone and clicked on his in-box—98% filled, according to the meter. She scrolled down, snooping through texts, but mainly looking for anything from B-Ray. She found them, finally, two texts from last Saturday. There was a photo attached to the first text, and four more photos attached to the next. He hadn’t CCed anyone on either text. The pics went to Billy alone, she was relieved to see.
She forced herself to click on the photos. One was a close-up of her tits. Another was a shot of her crotch, her legs spread open. Pale flesh, it could be anyone. But in the other three you could see and recognize her face. The worst one—she nearly got sick looking at it again—was the shot of her face with her eyes half-open, zombielike, and one of their dicks lying across her cheek, poking into the side of her mouth.
The first text said:
This is B Ray, yall. U get my leftovers Stack, to bad for U.
The second text said:
Yo, tell me this bitch deserves this!!!!! U see how big har hole is! Its from me!
From the nearby rooms, the muffled instruments seemed to get louder, a nonsensical collision of tom-toms and fast sax lines—two of the geeks from the jazz band practicing their parts. Har hole. Was that a misspelling? Or had he typed it that way on purpose? Was this some new slang—har meaning whore, like ho? Or was he just clumsy with his thumbs, as well as being a scumbag?
She deleted the photos one by one.
She checked Billy’s sent mail to be sure he hadn’t forwarded any of the photos, and went into My Pictures in case he’d saved them. He hadn’t. There was one picture of her—he’d taken it in his bedroom that first afternoon—but she was clothed (black cardigan, blue and white tube skirt). She double-checked, looking for hidden folders. Pictures of his mom and dad, little brother, friends, a few other kids she recognized from school, his cat—that was it.
In his sent box there was a text to B-Ray from last weekend, in response to the first picture:
WTF? Is that real?
The next text said:
Not cool at all, B-Ray. Totaly uncool even for you.
That seemed to be his final text to B-Ray. She scrolled, looking for more—
First bell went off, startling her. She nearly dropped the phone. In the next room, the drummer stopped, and a moment later she heard the door open and the guy walk off. The sax player kept it up, honking scales now.
She had to get going. She had Spanish in five minutes.
She went to New Messages and pressed B-Ray from Billy’s list of contacts. She wrote:
Yo, B. Heads up. Better delete those photos you sent me. You could get arrested if they find that on yr phone.
She read it over. Right message, wrong style. She deleted and tried again . . . Yo, B-Hole. Heads up . . .
Billy’s phone dinged, a new text. Anders. She recognized the name. A creep from her chemistry class. He spent half the lab staring at her ass. She’d never said a word to him. The text said:
Isn’t this your GF? Doesn’t look like your dick, bro!
Attached were the five pictures.
Her mind seemed to shut down. She smashed the phone on the piano to make it stop. The phone exploded and the battery flew across the room.
She needed to find Billy. Ask him what the fuck was going on. She bolted. Running headlong down the stairs, she almost crashed into some kids coming up from below. They stopped and gawked. The mall blondes, she saw through her tears and tunnel-vision rage.
“Watch out, Taylor,” one of them said, stepping aside, “you don’t want to catch anything.”
“You’re all such bitches!” Emily screamed, rushing past them, and the name they called back echoed down the stairwell and in her ears all the way on her long run home.
Slut.
* * *
SHE COULDN’T SLEEP. She hadn’t slept the previous night or the night before that. She hadn’t slept properly since her mother flushed her stash. Without Xanax or Ambien, her thoughts would swirl in endless repetitions. It was almost as bad as Daniel going away—the feeling that everything was over. All the things she’d done in her life, all her studying and effort and everything she’d built and wanted to do, and this was all she was now. Slut. Gangbang. The zombie-eyed girl with the dick shoved in her mouth. U see how big har hole is! She didn’t even know who took the pictures, B-Ray or his cousin. She didn’t even know whose dick it was or which one to curse to hell, but it didn’t matter. They were both scumbags, rapists, lower than dirt.
Her life was ruined.
* * *
FOR DAYS she went without sleep. When she turned off the lamp at night, her heart would pound and she would suffer a simultaneous dread of falling asleep and not falling asleep. If she managed to doze off for an hour or two, she would wake gasping in the darkness. The house was deathly still. Around 4:00 A.M. the paperboy would pull into their driveway in his rumbly piece-of-shit car and toss the Times on the front porch with a thud. Around five, in the blue-dark of coming dawn, a big plane would pass overhead; it felt like she’d waited the entire night just to hear that phantom passing, a thirty-second displacement of air and space that erased all other sounds, like the coming of the end. She didn’t dream, not when she slept. But in the daytime she would wander the house in a daze, seeing shapes in front of her that were sometimes people—Daniel, friends from the city—and then watch these dream people, daytime ghosts, vanish into nothingness. In her exhaustion, she felt like she was about to fall forward, as if her head were too heavy, and she moved hesitantly, planting one foot ahead of the other. It seemed like the only time she could sleep was when she shouldn’t—at the dinner table, in the bathtub. She called Douglas to see what was happening, but he said he had nothing, no change, dry.
She told her mother she was sick. She had no energy. She couldn’t get out of bed. Which was all true. It felt like an illness, a disease, something that would never go away. She deleted her Facebook and MySpace profiles, ignoring the postings. She got three or four prank calls, clearly from the mall blondes, who pretended her line was an escort service—before she stopped listening to her voice mail. She turned off her ringer.
After a week or maybe longer—she lost track of the days—her mother suggested she get tested for mono. Sure, fine. Whatever, Mom.
Stuck in the house, she had little to do but observe Audrey. There was primping, excessive makeup, furtive cell phone calls taken in the next room. At first Emily eavesdropped on the conversations; then she tried to avoid them. Didn’t the neighbor have anything better to do than phone-sex her mother twice a day? Emily had overheard Audrey, plotting wheres and whens. Emily followed her to his house once, but she didn’t go around to the den window. She didn’t want to witness that scene again, or anything worse. Even the thought of it—her mother having sex—made her stomach turn. The one thing a kid should never have to see is her mother getting laid. He also had a dog, a husky; she’d seen him walking it on weekend afternoons. He lived alone, as far as Emily could detect. No wife, no kids. Just good old Salt and Pepper zipping into his driveway after work, leaving the porch light on for Audrey. Otherwise, his house was as dark as a tomb; he never left any lights on. Every night after dinner Audr
ey would disappear with Sheba. Once Emily grabbed her sneakers, saying, “I’ll come too.” Her mother stiffened and fumbled and told her no, she was grounded, and besides she was ill, wasn’t she? She should try to catch up on all the schoolwork she was missing. Sure, Mom. And off she went to see her suburban suitor, who was probably so jacked up on Viagra or Cialis or some other cock stiffener to keep that up every night that he must be seeing double.
Her father, meanwhile, didn’t notice a thing. He hardly said a word to anyone. He had disappeared into the abyss of work in a huge way. Every night he’d return with his leather briefcase, tie loosened, cocktail-breathed. Dad, après work. To her: “Hi, honey. Good day? Feeling any better? I had mono too, when I was in college. I lost an entire semester and had to make it up over the summer. . . .”
She spent most of her time in bed, the comforter pulled over her head.
* * *
A FEW NIGHTS before Thanksgiving, she lay on her mattress, not feeling even remotely tired. The longer she lay in the darkness, the more alert she became. After a while she stopped trying to sleep. At 5:00 A.M. the big plane displaced the quiet, then was gone. When the first glow of predawn light appeared outside her window, she heard a noise. She looked up, and Daniel was sitting on the beanbag chair in the corner. His hair was long and curly, his face tanned.
How long have you been there?
Not long.
I can’t sleep.
That’s nothing new. When you were little you used to wake me up in the middle of the night and say you were bored. “Let’s do something fun,” you would say. Remember? We’d sneak downstairs and watch TV.
With the volume turned low so no one would hear.
Right. And I would be so tired the next day that Dad would have to drag me out of bed by my feet. But you would be raring to go. You had that pink backpack with the monster on the side—
Tasmanian Devil.
And you’d stand at the bottom of our street, waiting for the bus, swinging that bag and twirling around.
I liked spinning because after you stopped the ground would come rushing up toward you.
The world’s always spinning, you just don’t feel it.
You’re not really here.
Then who are you talking to?
Nobody.
I’m not nobody.
You’re me.
And I’m you. That’ll never change.
What does that mean?
It means I’m here, I’m always here. You just have to find me.
He turned to vapors and drifted up through the ceiling. “Don’t go,” she said aloud. But his presence had calmed her, and sometime around dawn she fell asleep for a few hours.
This was her secret. She’d never told anyone, and she never would. Daniel hadn’t really died that day. He was just waiting for her someplace else.
* * *
ON THE DAY before Thanksgiving, she got up at noon. She was safe, for now. But her mother had scheduled doctors’ appointments for her the next week. “It’s just mono,” Emily complained. “There’s nothing they can do for that anyway.” But Audrey had been insistent. She’d lined up an internist and a specialist in Lyme, since she’d had the disease herself when she was younger and she said Emily’s symptoms sounded the same. If she only knew. But that was one good thing, Emily guessed: Her parents didn’t know. For all the people who’d seen those pictures, her parents hadn’t.
Not yet, at least.
She needed to erase that possibility from her mind. She went to the kitchen for a Red Bull and added a few ounces of her father’s Grey Goose. She heard music from her mom’s room: Neil Young. Her mother had a nice voice. They used to sing together, back when Emily was a kid. Neil Young, Carole King, the Carpenters. Daniel would strum along on his acoustic guitar, good at that, like everything else he did. She and Audrey hadn’t done a sing-along in ages . . .
She could tell her mother, it occurred to her. She’d wanted to tell her, on some level, ever since it happened. She didn’t want Audrey to find out, and she never wanted Andrew to know—that was inconceivable, her father seeing those pictures. But it seemed possible, at this moment, to explain it to Audrey, to reveal the nightmare of the last few weeks and somehow lessen it.
Her hand went to the doorknob. She nearly turned it. But she heard her mother talking in a low murmur.
Jesus.
Him again.
She put her ear to the door. “I’ll be cooking all day,” she heard Audrey say. That was a lie. She bought half the stuff premade at Whole Foods. Was she trying to seduce him with her cooking prowess? God, it was so pathetic—
Then: “Really? At your ex’s? That sounds interesting. At least you’ll get to see your kids . . .”
Emily went to her room and turned her phone on. The idea came to her fully formed; she knew what she wanted to do.
His voice-mail greeting annoyed her, as usual. Yo, it’s Billy. Tell me something good.
She said, “Call me when you get this. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
* * *
HE GOT BACK to her that night. “What up? Where you been?”
“Mono,” she said.
“Does that mean I’m gonna get it?”
“What? No, of course not. I’m not contagious and I haven’t seen you in forever anyway.”
“I had a cold a few days ago.”
“Listen. You got any drugs?”
“For mono?”
“No, dumb-ass. For me.”
“I got weed.”
“I need pharmies.”
“Weed’s all I got. Take it or leave it.”
“Well, let’s go get some then.” She paused. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
He was silent. She could practically see him, mouth open, brain working. “What’s wrong with weed?” he said finally.
“You said you could get pills anytime. Or was that just bullshit?”
“You know what that means, right? You up for that?”
“I’m up for anything.”
He scoffed. “Listen to you, big gangsta girl. You practically pissed your pants last time and that wasn’t nothing.”
“We’re going inside this time.”
“Fine with me. Just say when.”
“I say tomorrow night.”
“Why not tonight?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “I know the perfect place.”
“Where?”
“I’ll show you.”
He said, “You sure I won’t get sick from you?”
“I already told you. I’m not contagious.”
“Cause that mono shit is nasty, I heard.”
“You’re fine. Don’t be so paranoid.” She paused. “How’s school?” She wanted to ask what was happening—what they were saying about her, the pictures—everything.
“Same old bullshit.”
God, he was stupid. “What are they say——”
“Hey,” he said, interrupting. “You owe me two hundred bucks, bitch. I almost forgot. I called you ten times. What, you didn’t get my voice mails? What the fuck? Bring it or I’m not doing anything with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My phone. Someone turned it in to lost and found, all fucked up. I had to put a new one on my mom’s credit card—not to mention my whole life was on that phone. What the fuck—”
“Fine. I’ll give you the money.”
“You admit it? You trashed my phone? Shit, I’m like the only one who stood up for you. And you fuck up my phone for no reason? What the fuck is that?”
“Stood up for me? How, exactly? By calling me Gangbang? Does that ring a bell? Yeah, my hero.”
“I’m supposed to be happy I find out you’re out fucking my best friend?”
“I didn’t f
uck—”
“Whatever. I don’t care. Old news. Just bring my money.”
God, he was annoying. “Fine, I’ll bring it. Tomorrow night, eight o’clock. Don’t forget.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
She hung up.
* * *
WHEN SHE FINALLY got out of bed late in the morning on Thanksgiving, her mother instructed her to change clothes for dinner. Her father got out his camera and snapped a few pictures for the family album. Emily stared into the lens without expression. She hated eating so early in the day.
“Let’s join hands,” her father said. He was sitting at the head of the table, the turkey in front of him giving off greasy vapors. He put his hands out toward Emily and her mother. They’d set a place for Daniel.
“Are you serious, Andrew?”
“Yes, I’m serious. I want to say grace. I want to say a prayer for your brother.”
“He didn’t believe in that stuff and neither do I.”
“Well, I do. So humor me, will you?”
She glanced at her mother, who mechanically extended her hand.
“He wouldn’t want this,” said Emily. But she did it anyway, and they joined hands: Andrew’s moist palm, her mother’s thin fingers. Emily held them limply, staring at the butchered animal, all buttery brown burnt skin.
Andrew intoned grace, and she tuned him out. Words of blessings, useful for inducing drowsiness but not much else. During the annual graces, Daniel used to whisper under his breath, trying to make her laugh, and he would always follow his father’s blessing with one of his own: “And let us not forget Her Majesty Queen of England, Defender of the Faith, Empress of India.” This was something their Great-Aunt Ethel had once blurted during a holiday dinner years ago, to their wonderment. Everyone blessed the Queen in Nova Scotia when I was a child, she insisted.
Her father finished his prayer and pronounced his Amen.
A silent passing of dishes ensued, the clanking of porcelain. Her mother’s good china, for special occasions only. How absurd it seemed, the ritualized feast. With Daniel by her side, the familial gatherings had held an ironic pleasure; they would roll their eyes at each other, suppressing laughter, while Grandma Mabel dribbled cranberry sauce onto her white ruffled blouse and decrepit Ethel invoked the Queen. But the elderly were now dead or interred in nursing homes, and Daniel was gone. So what was the point? Why maintain the pretense, sitting with joined hands to break bread, their sorry threesome, dressed in their Sunday finery, uttering banalities?
