by Jody Gehrman
“To Hero,” PJ said.
Hero was standing near the living room window, and the light from inside illuminated her like an actress waiting for her close-up. She looked so fragile and pretty in her pink strapless dress with her mother’s diamond choker sparkling at her throat.
PJ looked at her, cup in hand. “God only knows what they taught you at that boarding school, Hero. Back when I knew you in junior high, no one could say a word against you. But now that you’ve destroyed my man Claudio, I got to say I’m disappointed.” He paused. “More than disappointed. Honestly, you make me sick. To see you smile so sweetly, no one would suspect you played all innocent to win this guy’s heart”—PJ clapped a hand on Claudio’s shoulder—“then took off your clothes for some sleaze with a camera, like a B-list porn star.” A bunch of people hooted, some laughed, and PJ raised his drink into the air. “To Hero, the ho.” Then he and Claudio knocked their plastic cups together and drank.
Things came a little unglued after that. People were laughing, shouting, calling out names. I saw Uncle Leo turn from pink to white, and watched as Hero dropped to the ground in a dead faint. Purple Hair turned on some old school punk— maybe the Sex Pistols. I felt dizzy, standing there on the upper deck watching it all.
“I’ve got to go down there,” I said to Ben. “Hero needs me. What is this, anyway?”
“Someone posted pictures—it’s all over MySpace.” Ben looked as miserable as I felt.
“Pictures of Hero? Doing what?”
“Just, you know, posing, I guess.”
“Naked?” My head was spinning.
“Sort of, yeah.”
None of this made any sense. “This is bullshit. I’ve got to go.” I turned toward the stairs, but he grabbed my elbow.
“Geena, what can I do? I want to help.”
I stared at him, speechless. Could I even trust him? His homeboys had just shredded my cousin’s reputation. Having bogus pictures on MySpace was bad enough, but to have the crown prince of Sonoma denounce her in front of everyone was even worse! Now everyone would think it really was her, even though it couldn’t be. Suddenly, all boys were suspect again.
I looked Ben in the eye. “Make PJ and Claudio regret this, or I will.”
“What, like take them on?”
“No, read them poetry,” I said, my voice thick with sarcasm. “Come on! Make them sorry. What else do guys understand but in-your-face threats?”
“I can’t do that! They’re my friends.”
“Fine.” I felt my chin quiver, but I forced myself to maintain control. “Then you’re no friend of mine.”
I ran down the stairs, ignoring him as he called my name. The living room and yard were thick with bodies and I had to push my way through them, like wading through a forest of torsos and limbs. Hero was nowhere in sight. I asked everyone if they’d seen her. Corky told me, “Her dad dragged her down the hall. Man, if that was my daughter, I’d slap the bitch.”
That was it; I couldn’t take anymore. I pushed him back so hard, he fell against a table and his hand landed in the guacamole bowl. Everyone around us scattered and then circled in, ready for a fight. Corky was built like a Mac truck, and when I saw him staring at me crazy-eyed, his hand covered in green goo, I wondered briefly what I’d done, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins was so intense, I couldn’t stop.
“You say another word about my cousin, you’ll have me to answer to.”
Corky laughed. “I never hit a girl before, but I could start.”
I felt a hand on my arm, and whipped around to see PJ staring at me. Beside him was Claudio; his eyes were lined with dark circles and looked puffy, as if he’d been crying.
“Come on, Geena, this has nothing to do with you,” PJ said. “I just had to tell the truth for my man here. We got no quarrel with you.”
“The hell you don’t!” I said. “You can’t spread lies like this.”
“Pictures don’t lie,” he said.
“Oh come on,” I scoffed. “Hero posing nude? Please!”
PJ and Claudio just shook their heads like I was crazy.
“You’re going to be sorry,” I told them. “Trust me.” Then I ran into the house, looking for Hero.
I found her hiding in her bedroom, crying into her pillows like she’d never stop. Dark rivulets of mascara stained her pale cheeks, and her lips looked swollen, like that time when she had an allergic reaction to rhubarb pie. I couldn’t get her to talk, so I just rubbed her back and stroked her hair while she sobbed. When she calmed down a little, I moved back and forth between her bed and the balcony, giving her frequent updates.
First Uncle Leo got on the mike and told everyone to go home. When that didn’t work, he told them he was calling the cops. That got about half the crowd to clear out, but the other half still lingered, congregating on the lawn mostly, smoking cigarettes, laughing and gossiping at top volume. That’s when the party planner suggested Leo try the sprinklers. I guess she earned her fee with that one. The stragglers dispersed within minutes, cursing and climbing into their cars, shaking themselves like wet dogs.
When the commotion died down and everyone seemed to be gone, Uncle Leo came into Hero’s room. I’d never seen him look so dead tired; his wrinkles were deeper than usual, his mouth set in a scary frown. He leaned against Hero’s dresser while she sat up on her bed, hugging a pillow to her. I sat beside her, holding her hand.
“What’s this about, Hero?”
“Uncle Leo,” I said, “it’s a misunderstanding.”
He shot me a look of warning and I shut up. He turned his attention back to Hero and said, “Don’t you dare lie to me.”
Just then the party planner knocked lightly and stuck her head in. “Leo, I—don’t know what to say. I’m sorry things got so . . .” She trailed off, glancing at us, then back at him.
He didn’t look at her. “It’s okay—it’s not your fault.”
She lingered in the doorway. “There are three boys still in the hot tub. I thought you’d like to know. The clean-up crew will be here first thing—”
“Yes, fine,” he said curtly. “Thanks.”
“Good night, then.” She disappeared.
Uncle Leo pounded a fist on top of the dresser and left the room. I snuck back out onto Hero’s balcony and spied three heads in the hot tub: one bleach blond, one shaved bald, and the third in a Rasta beanie. I knew them right away. It was Dog Berry, Virg Pickett, and George Sabato—aka the stofers. They were passing a fattie around as they relaxed in the hot tub. The water level was only about waist-high, but they looked perfectly content.
“Psst!” I whispered. “Dog, up here. You guys have gotta go! Uncle Leo’s pissed.”
“Hey, Geena,” Dog drawled in a lazy, totally baked voice.
“It’s cool. We got something to tell your uncle.”
“Go on,” I urged them. “Get out now, before he—”
But it was too late. Uncle Leo burst out onto the deck.
“If you kids aren’t out of here in ten seconds, I’m calling the cops.”
“Man, you gotta chill. We got something to tell you,” Dog said.
I crouched down, trying to hide in the shadows on the balcony, hoping Uncle Leo hadn’t spotted me.
“Are you smoking pot? Goddammit, get out of here!”
Dog motioned for Virg to put the joint out. He obliged by dipping the tip into the water, laughing as it sizzled. Dog shoved him and he shut up. “Listen, Mr. Hero’s Dad, we got to tell you something, okay? Are you going to listen quietly, or do we got to shout?”
“What is it?”
“First I got to tell you, man, I love your wine. Seriously. It’s like tasty. I mean, I’m not a wine guy, you know, I like Corona, little lime, maybe shot of tequila sans worm, but one time I tried yours and it was like—wow. Man. That was some gourmand shit. You got that down.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Uncle Leo’s demeanor softened for half a second, but then he remembered himself. He folded
his hands in front of him and said, “I need you boys to leave. You understand that, right?”
“The dude set Hero up.” This from Virg, the bald one.
Dog glared at him. “I’m getting to that. See, what my friend’s saying in his own loquacious way is that we got information you’re going to need.”
“I’m listening,” Uncle Leo said, though I could tell he was losing his patience.
“It’s the Cheez Whiz guy, man. He’s behind this mess. We heard him talking to his muscle-buddy.” Dog looked pleased with himself. “That’s what we’re trying to tell you.”
Uncle Leo nodded very slowly, like he was taking this all in. “The ‘Cheez Whiz guy,’ you say?”
“That’s right,” George said. “That’s the real deal.”
“We couldn’t leave without telling you. It was our civil duty. Hey man, how do you make your wine, anyway? It’s hella tasty.” Dog was licking his lips, looking like he could go for a sip of Cab right about now.
“Listen, guys, I’m going to tell you one more time: You need to go.”
Dog nodded. “Oh, yeah, that’s cool. Just wanted to give you the four-one-one, man. Come on, kooks, let’s hit the road. Later. Keep up the good vintnering, huh?”
They got out of the hot tub and dripped across the patio to their bus, climbed in still soaking wet. Those guys. It was frightening to think they’d soon be of age to vote.
When Uncle Leo got back to Hero’s room, he started the interrogation where he’d left off. This time he had a glass of wine to fortify him. “All right,” he said. “Explain what happened last night, and remember, not telling is the same as lying.”
Hero took a deep breath. “I got drunk. I don’t remember everything, but I’m sure I didn’t do what PJ—” Her voice broke. She tried again. “I’m sorry. Don’t be mad. I can’t take it if you’re mad at me.”
Uncle Leo ran a hand over his face. “Hero, a girl’s reputation is very important.”
“I know.”
“These are serious accusations. You say you got drunk. What have I told you about drinking?”
Hero looked confused. “Um . . . not to do it?”
“In moderation, a little alcohol’s okay, but if you get carried away, you lose your sense, boys take advantage. My God . . . I’m disappointed.”
I couldn’t keep my mouth shut another second. “Uncle Leo, it’s a lie! She didn’t pose nude for anyone—I was there.”
“But she was too drunk to remember!” He was shouting. He’d never shouted at me before, and it made my blood run cold.
“She had a few drinks, yes, but I didn’t. I saw what happened. Your daughter’s no porn star, if that’s what you’re so worried about.” I was yelling back! I couldn’t believe it. I was raising my voice to my uncle.
His hands were shaking as he lifted his glass of wine to his lips. He drank, swallowed, and looked at the ceiling. “It’s been a long night. We’re all tired. Let’s just get some sleep, okay?”
Hero and I both nodded.
When he was gone and the lights were out I heard Hero crying. I left the fold-out sofa bed and crawled under the pink satin bedspread with her. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “We’re going to fix this.”
“Claudio hates me,” she whimpered. “What did I do?”
“It’s a crazy misunderstanding. Something about MySpace. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
She sat up on one elbow. “What do you mean? What about MySpace?”
“I guess someone posted some nudie pictures that looked like you.”
She made a tight, squeaky sound in her throat, then mumbled, “Oh, God. Come on—we have to look.”
“You think? Won’t it just upset you?”
She scoffed. “Like I’m not upset already?”
“Okay, I’ll go get your laptop.” I tiptoed across the room and returned with her Mac. We booted up and searched MySpace until we found what we were looking for. It didn’t take long. The photos had spread to just about every under-twenty MySpace account in Sonoma County and beyond.
The caption read "Monte Luna princess gets down and dirty.” There were a couple shots of Hero at the party in her thigh-high boots, fully clothed, dancing on the coffee table. There was one of her leaping into the pool. And then there were two pictures of a girl who looked exactly like Hero; at least, she had Hero’s face. She was wearing a lace thong and cami in one shot, but she was sans-cami in the next. In both pictures she wore Hero’s thigh-high boots.
“Shit,” I said. “Where did these come from?”
Hero just sat there, tears streaming down her face. “It does look like me,” she said. “But it’s not.”
“Of course it’s not.” I squinted at the screen. It looked to me like someone who really knew their Photoshop had pulled an all-nighter for this mean little trick. They’d done a good job, unfortunately. Most of the postings also had announcements about Hero’s “sweet sixteen” bash; that explained why every derelict within a hundred-mile radius had shown up.
“Amber,” Hero said.
As soon as it was out of her mouth, I knew she was right, but I didn’t want her to be. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“Oh my God. Last night—she stayed at the party, put on my boots, and had a little photo shoot. That bitch.”
“Okay, maybe. But I’m sure she didn’t think anyone would see—”
Hero blinked at me, incredulous. “Are you going to defend her? My life is ruined, and you’re making excuses for Amber?”
“Your life isn’t ruined, Hero. I’m just saying”—I glanced at the screen, had to look away—“there might be an explanation.”
All of a sudden, Hero bolted for her bathroom. I could hear her retching into the toilet. She flushed, and came back, looking paler than ever. “I don’t think I can talk about this anymore.”
“Of course not,” I said, shutting her laptop down. “And by tomorrow I’m sure the MySpace guys will delete these. They can’t post stuff like this. If they’re not gone by the morning, I’ll keep reporting it until they do something.”
“You think John took the pictures?” Hero climbed back into bed.
“Definitely.” I got in beside her. “Don’t worry. He’ll pay. So will PJ—and Claudio.”
“Oh, but not Amber?!” She was really irritated. I could see why, but I still wasn’t ready to assume the worst.
“Let’s just wait to hear what she says.”
After a long pause, Hero whispered, “Maybe this is stupid, but I don’t want Claudio to pay. I want him to like me again.”
I sighed. “We’ll see what we can do.”
I don’t think either of us slept much; I know I didn’t. It was the worst night I can remember since Aunt Kathy died. We tossed and turned and once, when I finally drifted off, I woke to the sound of Hero sobbing in her sleep. An hour later, when the sunrise started to color the windows a pale, delicate blue, I got up and wrote all this down. I feel like I could sleep for a week. Life sucks. To top it all off, I have to work today. My God, what’s happening to my summer?
1:50 P.M.
Sunday: the horror, the horror.
Operating on zero sleep. Caffeine props me up and moves me around, but underneath it all I can feel my innards, heavy and slimy and sleep deprived.
Everyone around town is talking about Hero, the perfect little boarding school princess who is now a confirmed skank. I could murder someone, I really could. I just haven’t decided who.
Clearly, PJ and Claudio totally blow. Even if they didn’t post any photos, they fell for it and publicly humiliated her, which is almost as bad.
I keep thinking about the stofers telling Uncle Leo, “It’s the Cheez Whiz guy.” Obviously they were talking about John. It’s not like he was stupid enough to post the photos to his own account, but a suspicious number of his friends had them on their pages. Now, like I predicted, they’ve all been yanked, but it hardly matters; the damage is already done.
Hero’s summer is total
ly screwed. Claudio won’t return her text messages or e-mails. Uncle Leo grounded her for two weeks. Thank God he never actually saw the photos; luckily, he’s computer-illiterate, and since MySpace is mostly the domain of non-geriatrics, none of his friends saw them either. Still, he’s gleaned enough information to understand that his baby was drunk at a party, where she behaved somewhat badly, resulting in scandalous photos appearing on a mysterious Web site he keeps calling YourSpace.
She’s allowed to work at TSB two more weeks, but then it’s back to boarding school for her. He’s being way harsh, in my opinion. I mean really, what evidence does he have against her? Everyone’s so quick to believe the guys and disregard the girls. Um, excuse me, but does having a penis make you inherently more honest? This is so Scarlet Letter, man. Okay, so we wear skinny jeans instead of hoop skirts and camis instead of corsets, but the basic idea is exactly the same.
Case in point: This morning at TSB Jana Clark and Sarah Williams drove up in Jana’s black Honda Prelude. Hero and I were on shift. Amber was supposed to work, but called in sick. I haven’t gotten to talk to her since her phone call last night. Anyway, here come Jana and Sarah with their scary fingernails and their motionless hair.
Jana’s like, “Two grande Frappuccinos, please.”
“Quick reminder,” I said, “this isn’t Starbucks. We don’t carry Frappuccinos. But I can get you a Betty Blitz.” I was very polite about it, even though I could tell from their smirking, highly glossed lips that they were looking for trouble.
“How many calories are in those? Oh, never mind,” Jana said. “Hi, Hero!”
Hero smiled weakly and waved with just the tips of her fingers. Jana, Sarah, Hero, and I all started out in kindergarten together, but somewhere around sixth grade they’d become foundation-caked she-devils with hairspray abuse problems.
“Sorry we couldn’t make it to your birthday,” Sarah said, flashing her enormous choppers. “We had backstage passes for This Is My Fist. It was wild.”
