Blaze

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  A series of panels depict insulting words gaining mass as a crumpled wad of paper soars toward me in slow motion. The close-up drawing of the crumpled paper bouncing off my head leads to a close-up drawing of a laser pointer circling my breasts, which leads to a close-up drawing of a hand grabbing at my ass as I walk down the hallway.

  A page divided into four vertical panels shows me day after day with my head dipping lower. I pile on layers of clothes so butt pinchers will only get a handful of loose cotton. Words penetrate where fingers can’t, and I’m filled with fear that the weird girl in my gym class will make good on her threat to “nail that bitch” between classes. My alternate reality What if… ? comic shows a close-up of a bead of sweat on my temple as the class bell screams, Brrrriiinng!

  The images grow more scribbled and disturbed and my features more distraught as I’m followed by the whispered words: “Slutbag.” “Skank.” “Ho.” I start to wonder how this issue is going to play out. It definitely doesn’t have one of those choose-your-own endings because if it did, I’d choose to end it all now.

  • • •

  “Hey, slut! Why don’t you just do us all a favor and go kill yourself?”

  It’s not the first time I’ve gotten this suggestion. In fact, it’s the reason I finally deleted my FriendsPlace account. But it is the first time someone’s saying it in person.

  “Cut Blaze a break, would you?” A male voice rises to my defense. “Go give somebody else a hard time, she’s had enough.”

  I turn to thank my rescuer but stop when I see who it is.

  Mark.

  It’s as if I have my very own arch nemesis standing right in front of me. Except that I have no energy left to make him pay, pay, pay for his horrible misdeeds.

  “You won.” I turn and stride away, but Mark catches up quickly. He puts an arm around my shoulders and I allow him to steer me to the dimly lit banks of the eighth-grade lockers.

  “What the hell do you want?” He’s wearing his stupid Kick Some Grass! T-shirt, and in my mind it morphs into the more fitting “I’m An Ass!”

  “I’m so sorry.” Mark reaches to embrace me, but I shove him away.

  “I just wanted you to like me. To be my boyfriend,” I say. “You were the first guy I ever had sex with, and you turned around and screwed me all over again with that photo.”

  “Blaze, I feel so bad about all of this. Stu’s girlfriend talked me into doing it after that comic you drew. Mark the Shark was such a big hit, and I was just so mad at you. I had no idea the photo would go viral before I had a chance to take it down.”

  Viral? My photo is now “viral”? I am never going online ever again. Mark looks absolutely miserable. He is still so good looking it’s almost breathtaking to have him stare at me like this. He takes my hand. “I really wish I could take it all back, Blaze.”

  I stand there. Seeing him. Really, clearly seeing him. Dating him would’ve been sentencing myself to an ego beating wrapped in a long, boring stream of sports-themed movies. I can’t believe I ever thought he’d rescue me from my lame soccer mom life. Like some boyfriend superhero. What a crock of shit.

  I just shake my head as I move to walk away.

  “Hey, Blaze.” I turn and he gazes into my eyes with gamma-ray intensity. “Maybe I can take you to the movies sometime? You know, make it up to you?”

  I erect a force field to refract the influence of his grey eyes on my heart. I think I’ll skip another battle round with the Shark. I think of Quentin and tell Mark honestly, “You don’t deserve my time.”

  I can’t believe I ever obsessed over waiting for him to call or send me a text or email. And boy, do I miss those days of having an empty inbox. Before I deleted my account, mine was stuffed with accusations. Oh yes, and offers. I’ve gotten plenty of squicky offers. Plus, for some reason folks seem to think I enjoy receiving links to porn sites. I suppose they figure I might want to start a book club with all the other sluts and whores.

  I think of the kick-butt gang of prostitutes in Frank Miller’s neo-noir comic Sin City that Quentin showed me and can’t help but give a little smile. Quentin has been texting me, asking when we can hang out.

  But I can’t see him in person.

  There’s no way I can hide what’s happening to me if I see him in person. When I look in the mirror I see the horror of it all etched in my face. Maybe it’s better to have him wonder what happened to me rather than risk him ever finding out the truth.

  • • •

  Thankfully, my pornographic debut has yet to make the leap to the middle school. I figure it will only be a matter of time before some big brother or sister introduces my disgrace to Josh’s classmates. I watch him, waiting for a sign that he knows and dreading how bad it will be when he finds out. But so far he seems to be watching me as carefully as I’m watching him.

  Amanda and Terri stop telling me to act normal, and our conversations are reduced to them asking me, “How are you doing?”

  My hope that things will just blow over at school eventually dies, and I realize I’m stuck in this continuity of What if… the Blazing Goddess Can’t Survive Her Senior Year? There’s no going back to Earth 616.

  “It sucks, huh?” says a girl’s soft voice.

  I nod in agreement without even looking up. There’s no need to clarify what she’s referring to. By now, my social shift has become legend at our small school.

  When I see who’s talking, I understood why she sounds so friendly. Catherine Wiggan. Of course. My infamous predecessor as the school slut.

  “Well, you must be happy.” I drop my head back down and turn away.

  “Why on earth would I be happy?” Catherine touches my arm so I face her.

  “I just figured people are so busy calling me names now, they’re not bothering you anymore.”

  She gives a tight smile. “I wish.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks a bunch.” I pull my arm away and move to go.

  “No, wait. I just mean I wish there was some way to go back to being anything other than a… slut.”

  “You’ve been a slut since the eighth grade,” I say, which isn’t being mean because it’s just the simple truth. “Nobody will treat you differently unless you start acting differently.”

  Catherine gives me a half-sneer. “Blaze, do you know why people call me a slut?”

  I shrug, not wanting to say the reason out loud.

  “Go ahead. It’s okay, you can say it.” Catherine gives my shoulder a light shove, and it’s more than I can take. Getting abused by random people for two weeks has been bad enough. I don’t need this whore pushing me around.

  “I’m not like you!” I say. “You screwed the entire junior varsity basketball team in the locker room the summer before eighth grade! And you’ve been with almost every guy in the school since then. Including Mr. Arturro.”

  Catherine closes her eyes against my accusation. “God. I hate the Internet,” she says under her breath. Shaking her head, she gives me a direct gaze. “Blaze. I’m a virgin.”

  She smiles at my wide-eyed reaction. “My only crime was growing big boobs too soon and having Missy Henkel’s boyfriend notice them. I didn’t even like him, but he wouldn’t stop coming on to me until finally Missy started that awful rumor about the basketball team.”

  She’s lying. I cross my arms. “So why didn’t the basketball players admit it was a lie?”

  She shrugs. “Maybe they liked everyone thinking they’d had sex with me? Either way, they just stayed quiet and let Missy’s rumor do its damage.”

  “Missy left our school in tenth grade. The truth would’ve come out by now.” I can’t believe Catherine is honestly trying to convince me she’s a virgin.

  She crosses her arms back at me. “I read online that you got caught giving some guy a blow job in the back of the comic book store at the mall.” Her words knock the wind out of me. “Is that true?”

  “No! That’s totally not true!” I nearly shout. “Who the hell…” The thought
of Quentin getting dragged into my nightmare is too much.

  “Welcome to the dark side, Blaze.” She raises an eyebrow.

  I think of all the awful things I’ve heard about her over the years. I picture the comment threads and message boards. The mystery handle called @wiggantheslut who would post blurbs about her sexual exploits. Looking around the hallway, I can practically see the endless whispers weaving through the crowd like the Red Ghost. I believed every story without the slightest doubt, I realize. It was easy to imagine her with all those boys, letting them squeeze her huge juggs.

  “If you’re so virginal, why don’t you at least dress…” I gesture to her V-neck tee that shows more than a hint of cleavage.

  “What? Like a nun? When you have big boobs, you either end up looking matronly or sexy.” She shrugs. “I wore turtlenecks for a while, but I got teased just as much, so I made a decision to dress how I wanted to and not let the haters win.”

  They won, all right. But as she holds my gaze, I realize there has never been any actual evidence that Catherine is a slutbag. I’ve never seen her out with a single guy, let alone hordes of them the way everyone says. Come to think of it, she does get pretty good grades for a skank-ho, and she hasn’t even had a bathing suit photo posted online, let alone one of her wearing sexy lingerie.

  Looking at hard evidence alone, I’m the only slut standing here.

  “Why didn’t you deny the rumors?” I ask.

  “I did. At first. It just made me seem more guilty. If you want my advice, just ignore everything as best you can. Fighting back just makes things worse.” I feel my inner-resolve gasp its final breath at her words.

  “What am I supposed to do?” I plead with my unexpected mentor.

  “Just do what I’m doing. Stay offline as much as possible. Hang in till graduation and then move as far away from this town as you possibly can. I’m cutting my hair, changing my name, and starting my life over at a SUNY school in Upstate New York.” As she turns to go, I consider her hunched posture and realize all these years of being taunted have clearly branded her in a way no magical haircut will ever erase.

  “Wait.” Why had I believed the stories about her so easily? My mind whirrs with all the times I’ve heard ugly things about her.

  And each time I was the one saying them.

  Tears sting my eyes. “Catherine, I am so sorry,” I say, but I know it isn’t nearly enough. “I had no idea.”

  “Yeah, nobody does.”

  I give her a pleading look. “How do you deal with it? I feel like everyone hates me.”

  “That’s because they do,” Catherine answers brightly. “I guess some people just need someone to hate on and whether we have big boobs or blonde hair or just make bad choices, we end up fitting the bill.”

  “Does it get easier?”

  She looks at me a moment before answering. “I just got doused with a bottle of water this morning as people chanted, ‘wet T-shirt!’” She pulls on the front of her now-dry shirt, obviously still pained. “But, hey, at least now you believe I’m not a slut. That’s a start.”

  I nod, but guilt slithers down my throat and blocks any reply as Catherine walks away. Why didn’t I ever stand up for her? That’s what the Blazing Goddess would’ve done. She would’ve fought for Catherine, and now it’s too late for me to help her.

  Now I can’t even help myself.

  • • •

  My new profile looks something like this:

  Rounding the hallway corner, I see Terri and Amanda, aka the helpful collaborators of Super Slut’s origin story. I hug my books tightly to my chest and duck back to wait for them to pass. I’m letting them off the hook.

  After all, how much can I ask of friendships founded on the convenience of living a bike-ride away?

  I think of Suicide.

  No, not doing it. The character from the early nineties. He’s a guy with a death wish who gets suckered by Mephisto, just like Johnny Blaze did. Suckering saps is apparently some sort of hobby with the guy, but then Mephisto is also known as the devil, Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, and the Lord of Evil (place of birth: Hell), so you know he’s got a rep to protect.

  Apparently he also has an overdeveloped sense of irony, since he went ahead and made Suicide immortal. Even when the poor guy gets burned down to just a skeleton he’s painfully regenerated to full health.

  I picture the comic cover with Ghost Rider giving Zodiak the penance stare as Suicide stands by in a rage shouting “Don’t kill him! Kill me!” I understand that now. The desire to make all the pain and shame stop happening. To just want everything to go away.

  I get that.

  If it wasn’t for how much Josh depends on me, I might even consider ending it all. Just to get a little peace. But Lord knows I wouldn’t beg someone else to kill me, like Suicide. And I refuse to become some tragic chick who gets bullied into hanging herself. No, I know just what I’d do. I’d park in a cornfield with a hose running from Superturd’s tailpipe to the window. That’s how I’d go. If I was the sort of person to do that sort of thing. Which thank goodness I’m not, because that guy Suicide may be portrayed as some sort of reluctant hero, but really he comes off as more whiny and sad than anything else. It doesn’t help that he’s stuck wearing some wacky fishnet disco outfit as he tries to get Ghost Rider to kill him. What an idiot.

  Everybody knows Ghost Rider won’t spill innocent blood.

  • • •

  “On your way to the comic store to give some more sexual favors?”

  “Wha—?” The cutting comment axes through my thoughts as I’m walking toward Sector Comics! My last small corner of unspoiled reality.

  I’m even more surprised when I see my accuser. It’s the red-haired girl who was nice enough to turn the lights off on my minivan back when I used to be awesome. My fan. But her open admiration is gone. In fact, I barely recognize her with the sneer she’s wearing.

  I look around. “Do you live at this mall or something?”

  “I heard you got caught having sex with the comic book guy in the back of his store,” she says, ignoring my question.

  “What are you talking about?” I say. “I have a job there. Sort of.”

  “What kind of job?” she shoots back. “A blow job? Why didn’t you tell me you were such a slut?”

  “I’m not a…” my sentence trails off as I watch the girl turn to go. I guess my photo has gone totally viral if even she—

  “What kind of person does that sort of thing?” She pops back into my face.

  “I…” She has me completely rattled.

  “You acted like you were so innocent in that comic you drew and put online, and meanwhile I saw the photo you sent. You trapped that guy into having sex with you and then you called him a shark.”

  “I never sent that photo,” I start, but she just scoffs and strides away muttering “whore,” under her breath. My Small Town Infamy has officially come back to bite me in the ass. After giving myself a moment to regain my composure, I command my feet to move toward Sector Comics!

  “Lo! She returns!” Quentin greets cheerfully when I walk through the arched entryway. He runs a hand through his adorably messy hair, looking genuinely happy to see me. Maybe he heard the rumor I’m here to give him a blow job. “I thought you forgot about us.”

  I shake my head no as I pull the most recent comics he loaned me out of my messenger bag and place them on the glass counter between us. “I just came to return these.” I glance nervously toward the door.

  “Oh, okay.” He reaches for the small stack. “So, what did you think of the storyline? I know you hate it when the resolution comes completely out of nowhere.”

  He’s inviting me to enter a discussion, but I carefully keep my hair between us. “Story was okay.” I shrug. “Art was better than the plot deserved.”

  “So, how would you compare these to the old school ones you’re in love with?”

  At the word love, I glance at him. He smiles, and I stare at the dimpl
e under his mouth a moment before dropping my gaze. “Really, they’re too different to compare at all.” Which I know is not the reaction he’s looking for. Nor is it the one I want to give, since I actually have some strong opinions about the way comics have clearly evolved over the years. But I’m afraid more banter will just create more rumors.

  He looks at me. “Well, I’ve got some other issues picked out that you should read next. And there’s another bin in the back that’s ready for organizing.” He lifts my chin to force me to look him in the eye. “You know, you can’t just disappear on us like that.”

  My heart aches to settle into our routine, standing side-by-side sorting comics while discussing some small nuance of one character or another. Even more than that, I long to show him my most recent sketches. I’ve had plenty of time to draw lately, and the ugly tone of my newest work has an interesting feel that I think is fairly unique. But honestly, I can’t give in. I have to get the hell out of Sector Comics! before someone else sees me and makes up a new batch of rumors. Or worse, decides to come in and show Quentin that awful picture of me.

  I finally look at him. Damn, he’s cute, I think as his brown eyes search my face. “I’m sorry. I can’t be here.” Quentin’s brow furrows with concern. Which hurts. He’s a really nice guy as long as you’re not an underage customer. And I think there could’ve been something special between us. “I’ve got to go.”

  “When can I tell Stan you’ll be back?” he asks in a rush. He clearly wants me to stay as much as I need to go. I turn and give him a sorrowful look, ready to break the news that I’m not coming back.

  “Wait. A. Minute.” Quentin’s face suddenly brightens. “I know who you are!”

  Oh, God, No! I nearly scream, “It’s not me!” I telepathically will him to believe the photo is of some other slut.

  “Yes, it’s definitely you.” He seems oddly happy, and I just continue shaking my head no.

  “Just now I saw it so clearly,” he says. “You stood in that same doorway looking back at me about five years ago. I can’t believe we’ve been hanging out all this time and I didn’t realize it was you.”