by Mintie Das
Our gymnasium is pretty much standard-issue: basketball court, aluminum bleachers, and lots of team signage hanging everywhere. A picture of our mascot, a ruddy-faced, scowling man sporting a coonskin cap and a lumberjack beard, is painted directly on the center of the high-gloss wooden floor. His name is Boone Crockett, and these days he looks like he would blend in perfectly with the hipsters who hang out at the vegetarian café/hookah lounge near the university.
I inhale the permanent smell of sweat, leather, and shattered athletic dreams that never seems to go away despite the heavy industrial cleaners the janitors use. For decades, high-school legends were born and buried here.
Like the cafeteria, the gym is showing its age. The red, white, and blue paint is chipping off the walls, and the bleachers are wobbly. MHS doesn’t have an arena or a fancy ballroom like some of the rich high schools near Chicago. This means that practically every important event, from basketball games to pep rallies to student assemblies to school dances, takes place right here. I know that I’m supposed to hate all of those things, but, honestly, there’s also some good memories squished between all the terrible ones.
The gym doors burst open and a flood of varsity basketball players strut in for their preseason practice. This is their house and they always make sure to let us know it.
“Ladies! Glad you can join us,” Chad Schwartz, a junior who usually sits on the bench, calls out. “But if you really want to break a sweat, why don’t you meet me out at my car in about an hour?”
In case his comment is too subtle for us to understand, Chad points to his crotch. It’s no surprise that he’s one of the avid dick-pic senders, and his Instagram is filled with shots of him groping unsuspecting freshman girls.
“Chad may need privacy but I don’t have anything to hide. Right here is fine with me!” a gangly boy with an upsetting amount of body hair hollers as he grinds his hips back and forth.
Naomi ignores them and keeps her focus on us. “Get up. We’re not leaving here until we hit that pyramid at least five times in a row—”
She’s interrupted by a cacophony of bells, moos, ribbits, and meow ringtones. Like Pavlov’s dogs, all the kids, including me, check their cell phones immediately. Without even thinking about it, I click on the Ho Alert from H and H. After a few seconds, there’s a collective gasp that echoes throughout the gym. Our shocked silence is shattered by Chad.
“Holy shit! Is this real?”
“Now showing, #PrincessPorn.”
“OMG! It’s not pics—it’s a full-on sex tape. And she’s, like, doing two guys!” Collette announces as though we aren’t all watching the exact same video of Naomi. “And neither of them looks like Trent.”
I try to make out what I’m actually seeing. It’s hard to determine if either male is Naomi’s boyfriend since I can’t see the boys’ faces; all I can see is everything from their necks down. Everything.
But Naomi’s entire face as well as her naked body are on full display.
“Wh-what is this?” Naomi whispers as she holds out her cell phone with trembling hands. “Who did this?”
Does Naomi know that they’ve been building up to this? Not just in the past two days with their giddy texts and excited whispers but ever since she took the crown. For her, this ridicule might feel like it’s come out of nowhere, but they’ve been waiting, and now they are more than ready to hurt her like she’s hurt them for so many years.
“Naomi is always bragging that she’s the master of multitasking!”
“Five-star review for your first porn, Naomi. When’s the sequel? Let’s say my place at eight?”
Roars of laughter pour out from every direction. I look at the others and then I turn to Naomi. I don’t think she’s ever been the target of such public scorn.
I stare at the clip of Naomi, which is playing on a constant loop. This goes way beyond a nudie. This is an actual video. A video of Naomi having sex is already too much for most of Meadowdale’s upstanding citizens. But a video of Naomi having sex with two guys is going to cause an uproar from more than just the ferocious Parent Posse.
Whoever posted this isn’t trying to merely knock Naomi down a few pegs. This is total destruction.
A rapid succession of abuse shoots out like bullets directly at Naomi. I hear Chad’s voice the loudest, then the chorus of insults from everyone in the gym quickly merges into just one word: slut. They start chanting it over and over. Each time they say it, I can feel their hatred reverberate throughout the gymnasium. My ears fill with the sound. Slut, slut, slut . . .
Naomi is standing there, silent and shaking. Does she see the pleasure in their faces? The gleam in their eyes?
They enjoy doing this because it gives them power.
Don’t ever forget this, Naomi: They like shaming you. They like making you feel like nothing. They like ripping you to pieces, just like you did when you did it to them.
I stand here with the same nauseated feeling I had when Naomi was hazing Madison at the funeral home the other day except now it’s ten times worse. I know what they’re doing to Naomi isn’t right, but I remind myself that I’m just an extra in all this, a background player; it’s not my duty to do anything. Plus I’m not entirely sure I would want to stop it because there’s this part of me, a bigger part than I care to admit, that’s enjoying it. I scan the faces around me and I think everyone is. Maybe Naomi doesn’t deserve to be bitched out for a sex tape, but she certainly deserves it for all the other terrible crap she’s pulled on everyone for so long. It feels kinda like just retribution to see her finally get some of her own hate thrown back at her.
The stunned, bewildered expression on Naomi’s face is blurred by the stream of tears rolling down her cheeks. Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you like this, I want to shout to her. But I say nothing. Instead, I watch as Naomi crumples to the ground and breaks down in sobs.
* * *
“I mean, can you believe that Princess Naomi has a sex tape?” Collette asks for what must be like the dozenth time tonight.
“Naomi’s video is blowing up.” Jess seethes as she checks the number of views on H and H again. “I bet that bitch is gonna score her own reality show from this.”
I’m exhausted from my sleepless night and our grueling morning practice but Meryl insisted I go with her to Cool Beans, the local coffee shop. It’s a pretty popular place on Saturdays, so unfortunately, Collette is here, along with half of our school. Naomi is conspicuously missing, although you could say she’s here in spirit since it seems all anyone can talk about is her and the video.
“Trent and Tessa are supposedly at Naomi’s consoling her. So that probably means he’s not mad at her, which also probably means he’s one of the guys in the tape, right? But who’s the other guy? Are Trent and Naomi into doing that stuff? You know, group-sex stuff?” Collette scrunches her nose as if the milk in her latte has turned sour. “Does that make them swingers?”
“Swingers? Who seriously even uses that word? Did your mom teach you that, Collette?”
“Of course not, Meryl. We’re Lutheran.”
Meryl is about to counter but pauses when someone starts speaking into the mic. I turn toward the stage and see Austin sitting on a stool with his guitar. I can feel my whole face getting warm and a smile growing from ear to ear.
“A couple of the girls from soccer mentioned that Austin was playing tonight and I thought this might help get your mind off of things,” Meryl says.
I start to lean back in my chair and then suddenly remember that it was only yesterday when I puked on him. “I gotta go before Austin sees me!”
“Too late. I think he’s already spotted you.” Meryl winks. “Just be cool and don’t throw up on him. Again.”
My heart seriously skips ten beats. Austin is talking to the audience but he’s looking directly at me.
“Glad to see you made it here tonight.” He smiles. “I’m trying something new out and I hope you like it.”
Austin starts
strumming his guitar, then goes into a stripped-down, acoustic version of Twenty One Pilots’ “Stressed Out.” I had no idea that Austin was into music post-1900s and am completely floored. Not to mention totally turned on. Judging by the serious DTF eyes that almost every girl, guy, and dog seems to be giving him, I’m not the only one. Still, every time he looks my way, I can’t help but feel like he’s singing only to me, although I know this sounds like something a psycho fan who ends up stabbing her favorite celebrity says. Meryl is right. Being here and listening to Austin helps drown out the noise from the Aiedeo and Bat Eyes. I close my eyes and drift away to his sexy voice.
“Violet!” I hear before feeling a pain in my side that’s so sharp, I jump in my seat.
“What the—”
“You fell asleep,” Meryl hisses. “I tried to wake you up but you kept nodding off. Austin finished his show and he’s walking over here. Like, right now.”
“And you were drooling like my grandpa when he passes out on the couch after a big lunch.” Collette grimaces. “At least you didn’t make a big fart storm like he does. Or did you?”
I wipe the drool away with my hand and ignore the rest of what Collette says.
“Take these,” Meryl says as she sticks some mints in my mouth. “You have morning breath.”
“OMG! That was sooooo amazing!” Collette gushes as she throws her arms around Austin. “You’re like Ed Sheeran and Shawn Mendes wrapped into one!”
Jess and Meryl join in on giving him props. He hugs each of them while I ferociously chew my mints so that my breath won’t smell like garbage by the time he gets to me.
“I loved your version of ‘Stressed Out,’” I mumble as Austin pulls me in. There’s no need to mention that was the only song I’d heard.
“And at least you snored to the beat for the rest of the show,” Austin says in my ear.
I notice he’s still holding me and I look up to see him laughing. Even though I can feel my face turn tomato red, I’m totally relieved that he’s made a joke about it and I laugh along with him.
“Guess that means I’ll have to give you a private concert. I think I know some ways to keep you awake.”
Although I’m about to swoon like a character in a Jane Austen novel, I’m trying to find a response that’s flirty and sexy but doesn’t make me sound too desperate or too easy. But I don’t get to say anything because the sound of glass shattering makes us all stop and turn around.
It looks like Nate Hunter, Naomi and Trent’s friend, just threw a cup at Caleb Rainey.
“It was a setup, you prick!” Nate shouts, then shoves Caleb hard. Cool Beans is strictly a coffee shop but given the way Nate is swaying and slurring, he’s on something much stronger than caffeine.
Caleb falls backwards. Although Caleb has a few inches on Nate, Nate has pure farm-boy strength. He jumps on Caleb and starts pounding him.
In a flash, Austin has left me and is trying to pull Nate off Caleb. I remember Austin and Nate being tight in junior high but I thought they’d drifted apart in the past couple of years. “Nate! Stop it, man! He’s not worth the trouble.”
Obviously, Austin feels the same way about Caleb that most of us do. It takes a couple more people to step in but eventually they’re able to wrench Nate away.
“Nate’s usually so fun when he’s partying,” Jess says in a hushed voice. “When did he become such a buzzkill?”
Collette lifts her peach-fuzz eyebrows. “I wonder what that’s all about.”
I shrug. It doesn’t matter what the fight was about because Collette will make up her own reasons for it. And I am way too exhausted to hear them.
“Let’s go?” I ask Meryl.
Austin is busy trying to calm down Nate and it doesn’t really seem like the time for flirtatious banter. Nevertheless, I’m still giddy as a schoolgirl from the way he was all into me before.
“Austin totally wants you to strum his guitar,” Meryl teases as we walk out of the café and toward Old Blue. “He was so feeling you even though you fell asleep at his show!”
“I know—”
I freeze as chills run down my spine. Standing in front of Meryl’s truck is a guy who’s eerily familiar. I stare at his buzzed blond hair and chiseled jawline until it suddenly clicks. It’s the creepy intern from the Talbert Funeral Home.
“It’s the guy—the creepy intern—who works at Talbert’s,” I whisper.
“Who?” Meryl whips her head around. “Where is he?”
“Right there,” I say. I point straight ahead but he’s gone. “I swear he was standing right in front of Old Blue just now.”
Meryl’s brow furrows. “Okay. Maybe he was just walking by or something ’cause he’s not here now.” Meryl gets in the truck and reaches over to unlock my door.
“Yeah, maybe he wasn’t actually standing there,” I say, more to myself than her.
“You haven’t told me much about him.”
I half shrug. I haven’t really mentioned him because with everything else that’s going on, telling Meryl about a random guy who gave me the creeps seems pretty insignificant.
“I don’t want to talk about the creepy intern right now.” I crank up the music as we head onto Highway 51, Meadowdale’s main strip. “Let’s stop at the store and load up on Ben and Jerry’s, then spend the rest of the night planning my next hookup with Austin.”
Eight
Day 4: Alive
I SAY GOODBYE TO MY DAD and click off Skype. A crappy phone call with Naresh seems the perfect ending for a terrible week. I’ve barely been in school a month and he’s already harping on me about midterm exams. I realize the whole strict-Indian-father-with-unrelenting-expectations-for-his-daughter is a tired cliché, but Naresh is a total Tiger Dad, straight down to the eight years of piano lessons he forced me to take.
I go to the fridge and grab a package of shrimp, a lemon, and a bushy sprig of cilantro that’s straight from Dede’s garden. Cooking helps me relax. It’s Sunday and so far there’s been no sign of the Aiedeo or Bat Eyes.
But I am still riding the wave from seeing Austin yesterday. Plus, having Meryl stay over helped me get a decent night of sleep. Even though she snores louder than a drunken bear, I’m happy that she’s coming over again later tonight.
I pick up a shrimp and start to peel the shell off. I’m going to make a lemon shrimp risotto for dinner. It’s funny that when I tell people that cooking is my hobby, many of them assume I only make curries.
My phone rings and I reach over the counter for it. It’s Naomi. I tense for a second, then press the red button. She’s called me three times since the bitch-out in the gym and I haven’t answered once.
On top of all the effed-up stuff going on with me, I bet Naomi is getting ready to wage a war. Which in some ways might turn out to be deadlier for me than the Aiedeo or Bat Eyes. I don’t know what her game plan is but I’m pretty sure that right now, she’s looking for allies.
I haven’t been keeping up with it all but from what I’ve seen on the threads and social media, it’s brutal. Things have really exploded into a total Naomi hate-fest. Like I predicted, it went beyond the high school, but I hadn’t realized that even people who didn’t live in Meadowdale would start trolling her. This is probably on account of H and H linking the sex video with Naomi’s blog. Collette texted this afternoon to say that the tape has gone viral.
I pick up my phone and scroll through the comments on Naomi’s Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, and blog. They read like the graffiti in the bathroom stalls at school except these particular messages are for Naomi alone. The comments range from typical insults (slut, ho, whore, bitch) to calls to action (shut your twat; die, bitch; watch out, slut) to creepy (daddy’s little slut; like mother, like daughter). And there are some lifted straight out of Urban Dictionary that are just too vile to say.
I gather the shrimp shells and throw them in the garbage disposal. A wave of guilt washes over me. I know I’m heartless for not answering her calls, but, seriously, wh
at loyalty do I owe Naomi? There was a time that we were really close but it was ages ago. I admit that I don’t hate her as much as a lot of other people apparently do, but that doesn’t mean I want to ally myself with her. No one’s copped to posting the video on H and H yet, but when Naomi finds out who it is, it’s gonna be a total takedown.
I don’t want to be around when that happens. I’m barely surviving high school as it is. A frightening thought comes to my mind and I stop chopping onions for a second: What are the consequences if I’m not on Naomi’s side?
I pour some olive oil in a hot pan, then add a handful of chopped garlic. The toasty aroma wafts into the air and I inhale it.
Naomi’s carefully curated social media image—or, more accurately, the image that Jim Talbert curated for her—makes her seem like the cool best friend who everyone wants to hang with. But now that she’s got a sex tape, she’s public enemy number one. Slut, ho, whore, bitch. A second wave of guilt washes over me. No one deserves that kind of cruelty. Not even Naomi.
My WhatsApp beeps to indicate that I’ve got a new message. I grab my phone while I stir fish stock into the rice. Speaking of the devil, it’s a text from Naomi. I click to open it. At first, I think that she meant to send it to someone else, except that she used my name. I read it again and drop my stirring spoon into the pan.
I know it was you, Violet. And I’m going to kill you.
The air in my bedroom turns hot and suffocating; it’s like an overheated sauna. I kick off my comforter and try to breathe. I’m annoyed that for some reason Dede turned on the heat in the middle of a summer night, but I’m too tired to get out of bed and shut it off.
A cloyingly sweet smell like rotting bananas fills my nostrils, and a hot chill runs down my body. I creep through the sludge of exhaustion until my mind starts to wake up. I hear a low, dry hiss up above me that sounds like a feral cat about to attack. Slowly, I realize I am not alone. My pulse races.
I didn’t hear Meryl come in so I don’t think it can be her. Has Bat Eyes come back for me? Is the Aiedeo here with another trap? I desperately want to keep my eyes shut but they fly open against my wishes. At first, I don’t know what I am seeing. I blink hard.
