“No thanks.”
We stop at the administration center, and he takes me directly into a counselor’s office, just like this has all been preplanned.
“I’m Mrs. Rollins,” a middle-aged woman tells me. “You must be Elise Storton.”
I nod, but tears are filling my eyes and my legs feel like wet noodles.
“Please sit down.” She motions to the chairs adjacent to her desk. “I’m the guidance counselor at Garfield High, and I’ve taken the liberty to call your mother. And I requested that Detective Lewiston stop by here before taking you down to the precinct . . . so we can talk.”
“The precinct?” I ask.
“You are under arrest,” the detective reminds me.
“But why?”
“For distributing child pornography,” he repeats slowly, like maybe I’m not too bright. “Just like I told you.”
“Otherwise known as sexting,” Mrs. Rollins says in a weary voice. “You see, even when you send photos of yourself, it’s still illegal if you’re a minor or sending them to a minor. I thought all you kids knew this by now.”
“But I didn’t do that,” I insist.
“We know for a fact that you sent a pornographic image of yourself to Asher Gordon,” Mrs. Rollins says. “And according to Asher, someone else, not him, then forwarded that photo on to other students.”
I feel sick to my stomach. How could he? Why would he? I want to die—just shrivel up and die.
“How old are you, Miss Storton?” Detective Lewiston asks me, although I can tell he already knows.
“Sixteen.”
“That means you are still a minor. And that means sending that photo will be considered distribution of child pornography.”
“But I had my swimsuit on,” I say.
“Must’ve been an invisible swimsuit,” he says as he writes something down in a notebook. “Maybe like The Emperor’s New Clothes. My kids used to like that fairy tale.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask him as Mrs. Rollins hands me a tissue. “It was a swimsuit, a real swimsuit.”
“Sexting is a serious crime,” he says. “And unless your counselor has anything else to say, I’m taking you downtown, young lady.”
I look at Mrs. Rollins. “How can he do this? I haven’t done anything. I’m innocent.”
“That’s right,” the detective says. “Innocent until proven guilty. Want to come willingly, or should I get out the handcuffs now?”
“What if he’s not a real cop?” I quickly ask Mrs. Rollins. “What if I’m being kidnapped and—”
“My partner’s in the car,” he tells us. “A female. But Mrs. Rollins is welcome to accompany us outside if you’d like.” He nods at me. “That’s actually a smart move, Miss Storton. Too bad you weren’t smarter about distributing child porn.”
It feels like the whole school is watching . . . and laughing . . . as Mrs. Rollins walks out with the detective and me. Then he introduces me to his partner, a woman named Officer Jones, who’s in uniform. The car, although unmarked, does seem official in a drab-gray way. I’m about to get into the backseat, perfectly willingly because I want to get out of sight of my classmates, when Officer Jones tells me to put my hands behind my back.
“It’s policy,” she tells me as she handcuffs me.
I hear hoots and laughter from behind me, but I don’t look back. I simply bend down and allow Officer Jones to help me into the backseat, where she proceeds to buckle me in like I’m a four-year-old. Then I lean my head forward and just cry. What is going on? Why am I being treated like this?
At the precinct, I hold up a card with my name on it and am photographed from all angles. Then I’m fingerprinted. Although everyone is polite, I am basically being treated like a criminal. So much for innocent until proven guilty.
Finally I’m placed in a room by myself to wait. What I’m waiting for is a mystery to me. Maybe they plan to blindfold and execute me. I’m not even sure I would care.
I tell myself that this is all just a bad dream, and anytime soon, I should be waking up. But then Detective Lewiston and Officer Jones come in.
“We’d like to get a statement from you,” the detective tells me.
“Unless you’d rather wait to have an attorney present,” Officer Jones interjects.
“My statement is that I’m not guilty,” I tell them.
“So you didn’t send that photo of yourself?” Detective Lewiston says. “Even though Asher says it’s from you? You deny this?”
“I sent a photo of myself in a swimsuit,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time. “I realize now that was a very stupid thing to do, but it’s not illegal, is it?”
“A swimsuit photo that’s really a swimsuit photo is not illegal, Elise,” Officer Jones gently tells me. “But a nude photo, even if it’s to your boyfriend—if either of you are minors—is illegal. Do you fully understand this?”
“Yes,” I tell her, nodding. “I get that. But I didn’t do that.”
“Then tell us who did,” she urges.
“No one,” I say. “Because it never happened.”
“In other words, you refuse to cooperate with us,” the detective snaps at me. “In that case, I have better things to do.” He stands and marches out. Officer Jones stays behind. Now she smiles, and suddenly I imagine good cop–bad cop scenarios.
“Listen, Elise, this will go much easier for you if you cooperate. We know that sexting seems acceptable to some teens. They don’t fully understand the implications of the law. But first-time offenders can get off pretty lightly. Some community service, a class . . . no big deal. We might even be able to get your record expunged.”
“But I swear I didn’t send a nude photo of myself.” I’m starting to cry again. “Why won’t anyone believe me?”
“Then tell me who sent it, Elise.” Her voice is growing impatient now. So much for the good cop.
“I don’t know.” I lean my head onto the table as new tears come. “This is all like a bad dream. Nothing makes sense.”
“Who took that photo of you?”
“No one.”
“You took it of yourself then?”
“No, there is no such photo.”
“I can only help you if you’re willing to help yourself, Elise. That doesn’t seem to be the case.” She stands.
I look up at her with blurry eyes. “I don’t know how to help myself. All I want is to tell the truth.”
She smiles. “That’s what we want too. Just the truth.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong. I mean I didn’t do anything illegal. I know I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”
“Then you’ll have to prove that, Elise. Because the evidence says otherwise. And you’ll have to prove it in a court of law. If you won’t tell me what really happened, I can’t help you.”
She stands there looking at me now, like she’s waiting for me to pour out some big confession, but when I don’t, she just shakes her head and leaves, and I am left alone in this stuffy room again.
After what seems like hours, my mom comes in. She is obviously very distraught.
“Mom,” I say hopefully, getting up to go to her. But the way she looks at me—the anger and rejection in her eyes—stops me in midstep. It feels like I’ve just been slugged in the gut. I sink back down to the chair.
“I cannot believe you did something like this,” she seethes. “I’ve never been so ashamed and humiliated in my entire life. That my daughter would lower herself to such a level, sending a nude photo—”
“But I—”
“Do not speak to me.” She shakes her finger at me. “I was tempted to let you stay here in jail after they showed me that nasty photo.” She shakes her head in disgust. “That a daughter of mine would—”
“What photo?” I demand. “What did it look like?”
“I think you know what photo, Elise. Now get up. Let’s go.”
“But I never—”
“Don’t talk to me,” she snaps. “Let’s just
go. I have a lot to do, thanks to you. I have to make excuses at work. I need to find an attorney, which won’t be cheap. And the police want to escort us back to the apartment in order to confiscate our computers and cameras—” She gives me another withering look. “This is just way too much, Elise. I am so furious. I don’t even have words to—”
“But Mom, I didn’t—”
“Shut up!”
So I do. I just shut my mouth and am determined to keep it shut forever. Even if I’m being convicted of something I never did, or if I’m accused of sending a lewd photo, well, fine, just lock me up and throw away the key. I really don’t care.
Detective Lewiston and Officer Jones follow us to the Tropicana Suites, and then they come up the stairs and instruct my mom to unlock our apartment. “You come and show us where things are located,” the detective tells her.
“Elise will wait right here,” Officer Jones says crisply. I stand by the front door, while the police, aided by my mom, proceed to confiscate our computers, Mom’s camera, and even her cell phone, which I can tell is really ticking her off. Although she’s not saying anything, she is seething mad.
“That should be it for now,” the detective tells Mom. “And you know the rules for posting bail. You signed the agreement. So don’t be taking any unexpected family vacations or anything.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Mom says in an irate voice.
As soon as the police leave, I go straight for my room. I wish I had a lock on the door, but since I don’t, I simply slam it loudly. Naturally this infuriates my mom. And this time she doesn’t hold back at all.
“You have to be the most ungrateful spoiled brat on the planet!” she yells. “When I think of how I pinched and saved to buy you that car, how I scrimped so you can have ridiculous things like your own cell phone, and this is the thanks I get—sending nude photos of yourself to—”
“I did not send—”
“I saw the photo, Elise!” she screams. “I saw the evidence for myself. It was sent by you! The photo was of you! You sent it to that stupid Asher Gordon boy you’ve been so crazy about! And I do not want to talk about it anymore right now!” She puts her hand to her forehead with a grimace, and I suspect she’s about to have a migraine, which is not that surprising. I think I feel one coming too. I just stand there mutely and watch her storm out of my room, and this time she slams the door.
I’ve always considered myself a fairly upbeat person. And my faith in God has been a fairly stabilizing force as well. But suddenly it feels like I’ve been cast out into a very rough sea, with no lifeboat, no flotation device, and a bunch of sharks moving in to devour me.
Seriously, everything around me looks bleak and hopeless. Everyone at school thinks I’m a slut or a joke or worse. Asher totally hates me—I could see the disgust in his eyes. Stacie won’t even talk to me. Phillip is probably embarrassed to admit he knows me, and I can count on the fact that we won’t be going to homecoming together now. Even my own mother has turned her back on me—is humiliated by me. I didn’t even do this thing that I’m being blamed for. But no one will listen to me.
Even when I make an attempt to pray, begging God to get me out of this mess, I get the feeling that he’s not very sympathetic . . . like maybe he thinks I’m partially to blame for all this. And maybe I am . . . maybe this is what I get for trying to steal Asher from Brianna. And yet I know I’m innocent. I never sent that photo!
This must be how Hester Prynne felt in The Scarlet Letter. I remember reading that book in English Lit last year and thinking that it was so wrong and unfair. Hester’s life was ruined and she was scandalized—she bore all the blame and shame—just because she was a woman and was slightly careless. Meanwhile the man, guilty as sin, simply went his merry way. I remember thinking then that if I were Hester Prynne, I would either run away or just kill myself.
Now, for the first time in my life, I seriously consider both of these options. There must be some way out—some escape from this mess previously known as my life. I consider how hard I’ve tried to make this move work. How I didn’t give Mom too much grief about switching schools, when any normal teen would’ve thrown a fit. And even though my dad is a jerk, I try not to be too bitter at him, and I’ve actually forgiven him for most things. I think about how I’ve tried to make friends—even spending time with a fourteen-year-old with an inferiority complex. Or how I try to be a Christian—how I pray about things and go to church.
But really, what is the point? For the first time, I wonder whether life is even worth the trouble. I honestly do not see how things will get any better. In fact, it seems highly likely they will get worse. How can I go on?
10
______
Dark and depressing thoughts chase me like hungry wolves through the night. I wish I could sleep and escape this torture, but it’s like my mind keeps racing over details—replaying all that was said and done, trying to make sense of it. Like maybe I can solve this thing, but really I’m just going around in circles like a dog chasing its tail, or a hamster on an exercise wheel. Going nowhere fast.
Unable to sleep, I sit on the edge of my bed and feel so weary and beat up that I am utterly hopeless. Maybe it’s the way a soldier might feel after being in battle. Shell shock, I think they call it.
Nothing about this day makes sense. And the more I try to wrap my head around it, the more slippery and confusing it seems. It’s crazy—how can I be in this much trouble for sending a swimsuit photo?
Then I wonder—did Asher use Photoshop to alter my picture? Did he somehow remove my swimsuit and doctor the image to make it look like I’m actually naked? I’m sure it’s possible to do something like that, but why would he want to? Furthermore, why would he forward something that skanky to everyone else? Wouldn’t it make him look as bad as me? Wouldn’t it get him into trouble with the law too? And if he did that, why would he act like he was mad at me? I remember the fury in his eyes. He was seriously outraged.
Nothing I can come up with makes any sense to me. And with no phone, no computer, and no one to talk to—just questions and confusion—it feels like my head is going to burst. I think I’ll never get to sleep.
Finally it’s three a.m. and I’m desperate for sleep. I tiptoe into the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. I quietly search until I find an amber bottle of Ambien tucked behind a tube of HeadOn. I vaguely remember that the sleeping pills were prescribed for Mom a few years back. She’d been going through a rough spell at her old job. The date is expired, but I don’t feel concerned as I pry off the lid and pour the small blue pills into the palm of my hand. There appear to be about twenty or so. More than enough to ensure a good night’s sleep—or perhaps a permanent escape.
I fill the smudgy bathroom glass with water, sit on the toilet seat lid, and look at the blue pills in my hand. Really, what difference would it make if I were gone by morning? Who would really miss me? I close my eyes and let out a big sigh. Wouldn’t it be easy? Just sleep my troubles away. End of story.
I take a deep breath, bracing myself to gulp down the pills and wash them down with lukewarm tap water. I think I can do this.
Suddenly it occurs to me that I haven’t really prayed about today’s trauma. Not specifically anyway . . . and not with faith. I wonder if it’s even possible for God to unravel this mess. Or if he’d even want to. Right now, it feels like no one wants to help me. I am on my own . . . and everyone else is just waiting for me to go down.
The police want me to confess to what I didn’t do. My mom wants me to shut up and disappear. Most of the kids at school want to ridicule me. Brianna and her friends probably want to kill me. Even the school counselor looked like she was tired of me—or stupid girls like me.
But I’ve known about God long enough to realize that he never gives up on us. I’ve read in the Bible that his love is endless and his mercy is new every morning.
I open my eyes and my hand, staring at the moist wad of pills in my palm. The blue dye is starting to
stain my skin. I just stare at it in wonder. Instead of my hand, I see the hand Phillip drew in Art—the man’s hand with the dark hole in the center. Jesus’s pierced hand.
“Please help me,” I pray quietly. “I need you more than ever right now. I know I’m innocent and you know I’m innocent. You know how it feels to be punished for something you didn’t do. Please help me through this mess.”
Feeling a flicker of strength, I stand up and lift the toilet lid. I dump the blue clump of pills inside the bowl and flush it, saying, “Amen.” The blue stain remains in the center of my palm—but it’s just a stain, not a hole.
As I return to my room, I feel a tiny glimmer of hope. Still, I’m as limp as a dishrag that’s been squeezed and wrung out. I crawl into bed and close my eyes. I want to trust God for this. But more than that, I just want to sleep—to escape all this for a few hours. More than ever, I wish I could wake up only to discover it really was a dream this time—a very bad dream.
But when I wake up, it’s to the sound of my mom’s voice. Only it’s not enraged like last night. Now her tone is flat and emotionless as she tells me to get up and get ready for school.
“School?” I repeat like she’s nuts. “I am so not going to school.”
“Oh yes you are,” she tells me. “We’re going right now so I can drop you off. You can pick up your car and bring it back home, and then you can ride the bus. And just so you know, I’m going to sell your car and—”
“You’re going to sell my car?”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You didn’t actually think you were going to get to keep it, did you?”
I don’t answer.
“I just hope it’ll cover the attorney’s fees.” She scowls at me. “Now get ready. I do not want to be late for work.”
“I’ll help you pick up the car,” I agree. “And you can do what you want with it, but I am not going to school. No way. No how. You can take me back to jail if you want. But I refuse to go back to that school—ever!”
She glares at me, and I’m pretty sure we’re about to have our most serious argument ever, but I mean it. I am dead serious. I am not going back to school. Juvenile detention or prison or hard labor—anything would be better than the humiliation that’s waiting for me at Garfield High.
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