by K. Ryan
“Emma.”
Her cool voice reached out to me, wrapping around my spine with its icy spikes, and threatening to pull it out through my throat.
“I didn’t realize you would be here.”
I huffed a little and shook my head. “Where else would I stay?”
She just lifted a stiff shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess I hadn’t thought about it.”
Of course she hadn’t. Why would she give a shit where I slept as long as it wasn’t under her roof?
“Well, I was just dropping off some food for Noah and Cristina when they come home from the hospital later today.”
“Oh.”
What else was I supposed to say? Oh, that’s nice that you actually seem to care about at least one of your kids. You know, the normal one with the wife and kid that you can actually brag about to all your catty, judgmental friends at church?
“I was going to stop over at the hospital right after I left here.”
Right. I knew what that meant. That was her not-so-subtle way of telling me to either make myself scarce or risk creating unnecessary tension at the hospital. It was like no time had passed at all—I’d only been in the same vicinity as her for less than two minutes and she’d already manipulated me into doing exactly what she wanted. Exactly what would make her happy and comfortable. Who gave a shit about anyone else?
I didn’t want to do anything that would upset Cristina at the hospital and showing up when I knew my mom was already there wouldn’t do anything but cause problems. Besides, I knew when I wasn’t wanted. This wasn’t the first time she’d dismissed me and it wouldn’t be the last.
Thankfully, my mom’s visit was short. Painful, but short. She discarded those dishes in the refrigerator and promptly left the house without even bothering to ask me how I was doing or if I was okay. Who was I kidding? She didn’t care. In her mind, she didn’t have a daughter. I’m sure I didn’t even exist in her memory.
So, I did as I was told and I waited an hour before texting Noah to see if my mom was still at the hospital. Once I got the all clear, I took my turn at the hospital, held my niece and kissed her goodbye, all the while feeling, once again, like my life had somehow spiraled out of my hands and completely out of my control. It wasn’t until I was already in my car and driving back towards Milwaukee that the magnitude of what I’d done hit me.
I’d hidden in my brother’s house like a deer in the headlights all because my mom showed up. All because I couldn’t stand to spend more than minutes in her presence mainly because I knew she couldn’t stand more than minutes in my presence, too. It probably also had something to do with the fact that every vile, hateful thing she’d ever spewed at me ran through my mind the second I laid eyes on her.
I’d let her win. Again.
My hands clenched around my steering wheel until my knuckles turned white and the miles kept right on rolling.
I hated that she got to me this way. It took next to nothing—one cold word, one icy glare—and I was sunk, drowning and flailing in open water while my mom sat in the lifeboat with a preserver clenched in her hand and an evil smile on her face.
There were so many better ways I could’ve handled that. I could’ve put her in her place. I could’ve stood up to her. I could’ve put my foot down and told her I was going to the hospital whenever I felt like it whether she liked it or not. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Something deep-seated inside me pushed back, shoving me even further down the rabbit hole and into a black abyss of my own making.
The problem was that I still had some control. Or, at least, I could if I wanted to take it. Instead, I just handed it on a platter to everyone else because...I don’t know why. Was it because I just wasn’t strong enough? Was it because I just didn’t know how to be strong in the first place? The answers to those questions weren’t ones I wanted to take the time to reconcile.
I’d even been too afraid to stop at a gas station outside of town on my way back to Milwaukee for fear of anyone seeing me. The crippling dread, that cold terror at even the idea of showing my face anywhere here other than the hospital, which couldn’t be avoided...the worse part about it all was that the dread and the terror I felt wasn’t entirely misplaced either. Shards of panic splintered down my body as my mind leapt to every ugly, painful possibility of what would happen if I really did stop, if I went into Mike’s Market or Jessie’s Coffee Shop or anywhere else—the glares, the people shaking their heads in disgust, the whispered sentiments of horror, all with little regard for whether or not I could see and hear it.
I’d been subjected to that enough. I wouldn’t put myself through that again if I could help it.
As the miles passed by, the next song on my playlist sounded through my speakers. Damien Rice’s heartfelt, passionate timbre sung those familiar words from “The Blower’s Daughter” to me and now, the memories washed over me.
I was sick of not having control. Sick of feeling like there wasn’t anything to control. Sick of being manipulated. Sick of choices being ripped right out of my hands. Sick of being treated as less than. Sick of feeling like my life would never truly get better, that I would never truly heal.
“No love, no glory…”
I wanted to tell Finn. There were plenty of reasons to tell him. I felt like I owed him an explanation. I didn’t want him to find out from anyone but me. I wanted to be honest with him. I wanted him to know me, the real me. I wanted him to understand why we needed to take things so slow, why I wasn’t ready to be the normal girlfriend he deserved to have.
But the bottom line was...I wanted to tell him. I wanted him to know. I trusted him enough to know. He deserved to know.
Maybe it was time I started taking back some of that control. This was something I could do and do it on my terms.
“No hero in her skies…”
And then, my mind flashed back to that day, the day I belly-flopped off the deep end and landed face-first on the cold, wet floor of rock bottom…
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A Year, Six Months, and Sixteen Days Ago
Some days you wake up and you know it’s going to be a good, productive day. You can just feel it in the air—you have a little bounce in your step, your routine rolls along without a hitch, you have a few extra minutes to sit down and really eat your breakfast instead of resorting to scarfing it down on the ride to work. Everything’s going as planned and with a new day, you have the world at your feet.
Other days, whether you slept through your alarm, burned yourself with your coffee, spilled on your outfit, forgot your lunch...whatever it is, you just know the day’s going to devolve into shit because it already started out there.
That particular day, I woke up hopeful. Ambivalent and anxious, but hopeful.
A week had gone by since I’d called off my engagement and I remember feeling almost buoyant at the prospect of starting anew. My future had never looked so terrifying and so boundless all at the same time. I could go anywhere, do anything I wanted without having to answer to anyone. I was even considering the possibility of packing up and taking off for the horizon. Maybe I’d teach abroad in London or Paris or even just spend a year traveling around Europe because I was young and because I could. The possibilities were endless—I was a new woman with a new lease on life, unchained, and finally free at last.
I didn’t know what the future held for me that morning as I walked into Kennedy High School with my heavy computer bag and my steaming travel mug and maybe, in hindsight, that wasn’t a good thing. If I’d known what I was walking into, I might’ve been able to mentally prepare myself for the shitstorm that was about to rain down on me and I probably would've turned around and ran the other way altogether.
Instead, I walked in thinking it was just another Monday.
It wasn’t just another Monday.
Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re walking down a crowded hallway and everyone is staring, pointing, laughing, and whispering...because everyone is wearing clothes e
xcept you? You look down, cry out in mortification, one hand flies out across your chest while the other covers your privates, but it’s already too late. They’ve already seen everything there is to see and the damage is done. And you’re screwed. Absolutely screwed.
That day, the dream became my reality. While I’d arrived appropriately dressed for the school day, the majority of my students and most of my colleagues had already seen me naked.
I just didn’t know it yet.
As I rounded the corner from the usual staff entrance to the center hallway, two girls walking towards me stopped right in their path.
“Morning, ladies,” I nodded to them with a tired smile and stifled back a yawn.
I was never much of a morning person and that was probably why it took me so long to realize the root of their baffled silence. The two girls, Lacey and Rae, hesitated, their eyes darting back to one another before Rae muffled a giggle with her hand as Lacey tugged her away, whispering something inaudible in Rae’s ear.
“Nice to see you, too,” I mumbled under my breath. “Geez.”
But as I continued my trek down the hallway, something peculiar was happening around me. Every head turned, whether it was a student or a teacher. Every mouth moved to part in disbelief or to murmur to the person next to them. Every pair of eyes widened. Some even pointed. Most whipped out their phones the second I passed them by.
My lips curled into a tight frown. Was my shirt inside out? Something on my face? I tried discreetly wiping my mouth, my cheeks, and finally smoothed my hair down to make sure everything was in place. Looking down at my outfit, all I could do was shrug. No spills. No weird stains. Nothing in my teeth, as far as I could tell.
I got all the way to my classroom, fumbling with my keys to find the right one and somehow balancing my lunch and my travel mug in one hand while using the other to unlock my door when hushed whispers erupted behind me. One glance over my shoulder told me it was just more of the same, but this time three boys huddled together in one of the desks in the pod, their heads bent close together as one boy pointed to something on his phone and then all three heads whipped up in my direction at the same time.
Coincidence? I think not.
Still, I was willing to shrug off the odd attention for the time being and finally got my key in the lock to let myself into my classroom. I flipped the lights and went about my normal routine: setting my coffee down on my desk, booting up my computer, putting my coat in my closet, and perusing my lesson plans for the day. In an effort to save some time, I grabbed both my lunch and a handout I still needed to make some copies of and headed back out of my room to once again trek down the hallway. Maybe, if I worked quick, I’d have time to squeeze in a bathroom run before the first bell rang.
As I stepped out into the hallway, my eyes fell on one of my department members, Andrew O’Reilly, an older, greying economics teacher nearing retirement and when I rose my hand to wave to him, he gaped as if he’d just realized I, too, was in the hallway and promptly turned on his heel to steer himself the way he just came.
Huh.
I huffed out in annoyance and hitched my free hand on my hip, watching Andrew scamper back down the hallway and disappear around the corner. Was anyone going to invite me to board the crazy train or had they all left without me?
You expect students to act like aliens because, honestly, most of the time they behave like they’re from another planet anyway. But that did not explain or excuse Andrew’s behavior, someone who’d been a close friend of my dad’s when he was still alive and when he worked in this very same department all those years ago.
I’d made it halfway down the hall when another department member, Steph Neilson, sped out of her room and made a mad grab for my elbow, her normal cheerful and peppy demeanor flipped on its head with a frenzied fervor.
“Emma!” she cried out frantically, gripping my elbow in a death-hold to tug me closer to her. “Are you okay?”
My head reared back in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
Steph’s free hand flew up to cover her mouth, her chocolate brown eyes wide with horror. “Oh my God. You don’t know. You haven’t seen it, have you?”
Little pinpricks of heat spread across my lungs. Words strangled in my thick throat. Somehow, my head shook from side to side.
“Oh my God,” Steph exhaled, her face chalky and ashen.
She pulled me into her classroom, shut the door just as quickly, and hurried over to her desk, gesturing for me to follow. Steph’s smartphone materialized in her hand a second later and I waited, heavy and numb, while she clicked through a few screens and then held her phone out to me with pain etched across her face.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing. The image in front of me just did not click. Who was that? What was that? Why did it look familiar…and then I got a good look at the Twitter handle responsible for posting the picture: @JustinVeloso.
And then the walls closed in on me.
I blinked. It didn’t work.
The picture was still there, one that reflected a much-younger version of myself. I was lying on the bed of my college dorm wearing nothing but a lacy black thong, my legs spread wide and the caption read: Hot 4 teacher or is she hot 4 u?? #kennedyhighwi #iwannabeurcougar #emmaO #open4me. I blinked again, but my vision had fogged up, clouding the air around me until the image blurred through my stinging tears.
“Emma,” Steph’s gentle voice called out to me. “I hate to tell you this, but...there’s more.”
I sucked in a harsh breath, barely getting in enough air to fill my stuttering lungs. “What?”
She nodded and gingerly slipped her phone out of my hand. She swiped down with her thumb and then held the phone back out to me. I didn’t want to look. I already knew what I would see anyway. But, being the glutton for punishment that I was, my eyes flicked to the screen. My mouth fell open, but all words died in my throat. It was a wonder air even passed through my lungs.
Picture after picture...and ones I definitely remembered not just taking six years ago, but sending, too. Up until this moment, I’d forgotten they existed in the first place. I couldn’t remember if Justin had told me they’d gotten deleted or he’d lost the files, but I did remember him telling me he didn’t have them anymore…oh, how foolish I was to have ever believed a word he said.
“I can’t believe he would do this to you,” Steph whispered. “To use his own screen name and that Kennedy High hashtag…”
He wanted me to know he’d posted the pictures and he wanted to make sure the entire school would get wind of it, too.
“Doesn’t Twitter have some kind of policy about this?” I mumbled as I thrust Steph’s phone back out to her. I couldn’t even look at it anymore. “Don’t they have some sort of filter that catches this shit?”
“I think Facebook does,” Steph offered helplessly and shook her head, her brows still furrowed into a deep, disturbed frown. “I don’t know about Twitter.”
Of course. Which explains exactly why he’d chosen this platform to do his dirty work. But who knew where else he’d posted these pictures? Who he’d sent them to? I could almost see it—my mom, my brother, or Cristina clicking on an email from Justin, not thinking anything of it and bam! Demolition in two seconds flat.
The reality was that even if there was a filter, even if I somehow found a Twitter hotline I could call to file a complaint and subsequently get the pictures removed from Justin’s account, and even if, by some miracle, Justin deleted those pictures immediately, the damage had already been done. Those pictures were out there. Those pictures had been seen and now, couldn’t be unseen.
Life as I knew it was over.
Bile burned my throat, tears clouded my eyes, and the walls charged at me, suffocated me, devastated me.
I don’t know how I made to the girls’ bathroom at the end of the hallway. That part is still a blank for me. But I do remember skidding into the first open stall, ducking my head into the toilet, and heavin
g up my breakfast. When my body finished rebelling against me, I picked myself off the floor and opened the door only to find three girls—two I knew and one I didn’t—gawking at me like I’d started stripping there right in front of them.
Blinders, Emma, I told myself. Just pretend they’re not there and it’ll go away. Please God...make it go away.
But when I stepped over to the sink so I could splash some water on my face, the three girls huddled together, whispering and giggling and I wanted to put my fist through the mirror.
“I wonder if she’s pregnant, too,” one of the girls hummed to the others, eliciting a round of muffled giggles behind me.
“I’m not pregnant,” I mumbled over my shoulder.
I didn’t even bother to stick around long enough to make sure the message had been received. By the time I was back in the hallway, rounding the corner towards my classroom, it was like every person in the building had lined the walls, staring, glaring, whispering, pointing, snapping pictures to tweet...sure, that was an exaggeration, but that didn’t dissipate the prickles of humiliation snaking down my chest and the hot sweat pooling underneath my armpits.
To add insult to injury, when I passed by Susan Metcalfe’s classroom, my former mentor and favorite teacher from high school shook her head at me, her lips curling with disappointment and disgust.
Feeling that burn following me all the way back to my own classroom, I thought I was safe for a little while. At least, in my own room, on my own turf, I could have a second to catch my breath, to figure out what I needed to do next, to call someone, to scream, to cry, to throw something...wouldn’t I?
I stopped short in my classroom’s threshold. I was blinded. Gutted. Devastated. Humiliated. Shamed.
Because there, written across every empty space of my whiteboard in bright red marker, was the word: SLUT.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
