by Billie Dale
“I wish you had told me Chase Masters was SnapTalking with you; I would have told you to stay away. Everyone knows he’s a player and a dick.” Frowning she continues, “This is my fault. I signed on to be your guardian, while you live in the dorms since you’re under eighteen; I’m responsible for you. I dropped the ball on this one. There is no bigger dickcanoe on campus than Chase, he may be fun to look at but inside he’s nothing but horrendous,” she says with her slight southern twang, making the curse words sound foreign coming from her mouth.
“This isn’t your fault. Even if you had warned me, I still would’ve done the same thing. He made me feel special.”
Yes, I’m that girl. I fell for the jock. The hot basketball star who has every girl on campus wanting to drop her panties. Feeling complete elation when I received the first message from him, being so happy I was even on his radar. Almost giddy when he knew me. Naïve in believing he saw me among all the perfection surrounding him. I ignored the warning signs and trusted him.
With an IQ of 160 and SAT scores of 1500, finding someone to talk to is hard at times. I miss social cues a lot and often speak over people heads, ramble on about useless facts and hide behind knowledge. When I registered for classes, I tested in at the sophomore level, Chase and I crossing paths in a few of my classes.
He’s beautiful—Adam Levine style eye-candy. Almost seven feet of solid, lean muscle infused man. Dark hair, short on the sides and floppy on top often styled into a faux hawk, always looking like someone just ran their fingers through it, his bright childlike smile lights up his whole face, his bedroom eyes will give you wet dreams and his charisma draws you in like a moth to a flame.
When I first started receiving messages via SnapTalk, I thought, this is my fresh start, a college man would look past all the superficial bullshit and like me for me. I never thought he had malicious intentions. I’m the moth who gets electrocuted by the bug zapper.
His beauty shined, bright like the sun but staring into the sun will leave you blind and seeing spots. Those glowing colored dots clouded my vision, blocking what was right in front of me.
SnapTalk is a social media app allowing the user to communicate with photos that disappear within seconds of being viewed, never to be seen again. Unless the person viewing them takes a screen shot. A reminder to everyone, what is out on the internet, is always there. Lurking, waiting to destroy. Screaming to be careful of what you send.
Chase and I talked back and forth for two weeks, hundreds of messages, touching on everything from our families to his basketball career; we became great friends with the promise of more, I thought. I knew something was fishy when he suggested we keep it to the messages. Advising we not acknowledge each other in class or any other public place. Claiming it was for my benefit. Having no association with him would keep the ‘wolves’ away from my door, the ball groupies and other people who are always after him.
The warning signs were blaring at me but I ignored them. I enjoyed his attention so much I was blinded by the obvious.
Chase Masters, the campus king. Wanted a picture of me. Tensanne Craig, the invisible, fat, smart girl. I should have asked “why?”, I should have said “no”, I should have been smarter. If should have’s were money, I would be a rich woman with all of them.
I was so flattered when he started asking for me to send him a topless picture, thinking he found me sexy when most thought I was revolting, that I forgot who I am. I believed he was so enamored with me, so infatuated with my inner beauty, he found me attractive on the outside too. Forgetting he’s shallow and self-serving, I believed he wanted something to get him by, our hidden relationship never allowing for alone time. We’d had a few heated exchanges in our messages, a few times where I wanted him so bad I could taste it and I believed he wanted me too.
He convinced me he needed to see ‘more’ of me so he could take care of himself. Telling me if he couldn’t touch me in person, a visual image would let him look at me while he fantasized about the bliss he would find when could sink into my body. Instead of offering to meet and move our relationship into the land of physical contact, his request rang as romantic in my attention starved brain. His words were something I would read in a romance novel, the fantasy world I could lose myself in from time to time when my brain needed a break. Right off the pages and into my life, bewitching me beyond foresight.
I wouldn’t agree to a topless nude picture, no matter how much he begged; he changed tactics asking me to send him one of me shirtless. He was relentless in his pursuit until I agreed, the biggest warning sign was his persistence.
If he genuinely cared for me he would have respected my reluctance but for one small second, I felt sexy. My brain recalling all the times I heard girls in high school talking about sending pictures to their boyfriends, finally, someone wanted one of me.
I took off my glasses, whipped my shirt off my head, posed in my best duck lips because that’s what sexy vixens do, snapped the picture and sent it off. Butterflies eating at my stomach while I waited for a response. The response never came.
Wondering if something was wrong, I pulled up my contacts to call him when Ronnie came charging in the room, furious. When she said there is an unflattering picture of me pinging on every phone on campus, I knew why I hadn’t received a response.
My boobs, better known as North America and South America, and I had gone viral.
Why didn’t I leave my face out of the picture you ask because book smart does not always equal good common sense.
Now, when I step out of the dorm, I hear nothing but disparaging comments, giggles, and pointing.
“Fat ass.”
“Stupid, ugly fat chick.”
“Did your Grandma give you that bra?”
They wouldn’t stop. I locked myself in my room after that, the humiliation too much to handle. Emailing my professors, claiming I had some form of sickness that wouldn’t go away. Working on my assignments and emailing them back, so I didn’t fall behind. It was working well until Ronnie pointed out that if I didn’t make a physical appearance in class I was going to fail.
I’ve never failed a class in my life and although the thought of walking out of this room makes me want to hurl everything I’ve eaten in the past three weeks, I know it’s something that I must do.
Of course, no one traced the picture back to Chase, he covered his tracks well. If anyone found out he’s the source, he would be kicked off the basketball team and expelled from school.
JSU is a very liberal college, this sort of inappropriate conduct would land him back home with his parents. I could tell my advisor what he did but then I risk being thrown out also.
If I’d paid better attention when someone screen shots a photo on SnapTalk it alerts you, if I would have looked, I’d known what was in store for me.
Even though I stopped leaving my room, I still read the comments—the horrible, horrible comments. Not one person had something nice to say.
Someone even printed the picture and hung it in the student union. Social media wasn’t enough of an attack whoever was doing it wanted everyone to be able to see it even if they didn’t own a digital device.
The comments all focused on the bra I was wearing and how fat I was. Harsh words about my audacity of photographing something so disgusting. No one caring I was underage, or that I’m an actual person. They all thought I was sharing it, revealing myself for attention. As if I would ever expose any of my body to the public, people are gullible sometimes.
Fashion is not something that interested me; if it doesn’t’ challenge my brain I could care less. I’m a person more interested in comfort than style. Up until an accident a few years ago, my Mom did my shopping. I never gave a second thought to my plus size, full coverage beige bras or my full granny panty style underwear. I’m the only one who ever saw them. If they’re comfortable, I don’t care what they look like. I don’t see the point in wearing a piece of string up my ass to be sexy. A constant wedgie doesn’t seem
like it would compel me to feel better about myself.
I’m a 46 triple D bra size. If a bra holds up the ladies and eases some pressure on my back, I’m good. Only wide straps and large cups provide the support I need, not something to pushes them up and make them look larger than they already are.
I live in yoga pants, leggings, and big baggie sweatshirts, praising Ryan McLatchy for inventing the most comfortable pants on the planet.
My wardrobe hasn’t been updated in years, the photo had one intended viewer, one person was supposed to see me bare but instead, thousands are reveling in my humiliation.
Give me a book on The Mechanics of Human Psychology and I’m a happy girl. Matching my bra to my panties will not make me smarter, I don’t see the purpose.
Once upon a time, I had dreams of being a novelist, a soothsayer of words. When my Mom’s condition became my reality, I decided my brains were better used to help people.
I never go to the mall; I never go shopping. When I sent the picture, I sent the real me. The girl he had been talking to for three weeks. Flat hair, squinting eyes because I took my glasses off, cleavage so large it looks like a baby’s butt, beige Cross Your Heart bra with a fat roll showing underneath, and pouty duck lips. I thought it would make him lust after me, I thought he wanted me the way I am. I hoped it would bring him rushing to my door, unable to contain his lust for me. I thought dealing with a man instead of a boy would produce a more mature outcome. I was wrong on all accounts.
Proving a high IQ, high test scores and graduating high school at seventeen years old doesn’t mean shit if you don’t have the common sense to recognize an evil snake when it offers you an apple. We never will learn not to bite the damn apple, no matter how many times it’s offered, the shitty people of the world always win.
Now I must pay the piper, I must go back to class. Today’s class, Psychology 1201: Your Brain on Drugs. One of the classes I have with Chase and all the other basketball players. A required general education class for most degree programs.
Wearing my black yogas with little holes in the knees, an old Hyper Color sweatshirt that was my Mom’s, throwing on my Chucks, pulling a beanie over my head and putting large sunglasses on. I head out to face the firing squad.
The Quad at JSU.
Hoping my hat and glasses mask me enough to hide from the harshness of cruel words.
Chapter Two
Social Media sucks big hairy balls!
—Tensanne to Ronnie
Tensanne
“COME ON, I’LL walk you to class,” Ronnie calls.
“Do you know viral is a medical term? It’s used to describe something that is small but can infect all types. Everyone who views a viral picture or video becomes infected. Evoking emotions from a viewer is what makes the watcher share the item they have seen. People want to share their elation, laughs or, in my case, their disgust with everyone,” I ramble.
“Stop stalling, we need to go,” she orders.
Sighing in defeat, I grab my backpack. Grabbing Ronnie’s hand, I drag her down the hall, to the stairs as fast as my chunky legs will carry me. Pushing her down the stairs and out the front door before I run into any hatefulness from the people in my dorm.
With a death grip on the strap of my bag, looking to the ground, I watch my feet move waiting for the comments and laughs. Passing several groups of students, I’m shocked when no one says anything. Maybe Ronnie was right, I think, maybe it has all blown over or my hat and glasses are keeping me hidden.
Maybe is a wish for another day, I realize when I leave Ronnie and enter my own private hell. The Quad may not have said anything but the people in this class are not willing to let it go.
Did I mention I have this class with all the basketball players?
Fuck my life.
The classroom is set up like a large cafeteria. Long rectangle tables on the left and right with an aisle down the middle. A podium stands in front of a wall of dry erase board at the end of the aisle, a doorway to an office off to the left. Huge windows line the right side of the room, letting in the morning sun.
Laughter fills my ears, glancing to the source of the ridicule, sitting atop the tables on the right, in the middle of the room is the fab five of the National Champion, Division II, JSU Fighting Berries. Yes, you read that right. The Jalapa State University Fighting Berries. Chase Masters, Jackson Raines, Brendon Holly, Austin Clem and Kohl Black. The starting lineup, the pride of JSU and three of the five are staring at me. Laughing. Except for Kohl and Jackson. Kohl is not laughing or staring in my direction, he’s looking out the window. Jackson is looking but his face is somber.
The whispers and laughs of everyone on that side of the room continue while I force myself to continue to my seat in the front, on the left.
“I can’t believe she has the nerve to show up,” a female voice sneers.
My head down, my heart beating a deafening beat in my ears I watch the floor move below me with each step. Spread across the tabletop in front of my seat is a red bra with nipple cutouts and see-through lace. Lifting it with my pencil under the shoulder strap. Crinkling my nose in disgust, thinking this is so small it wouldn’t even cover one of my nipples. A raucous roar erupts from the other side of the room. One of the girls from class jerks the offending garment from the tip of my pencil.
Silence descends, so all the assholes can hear her hateful words, “We thought you could use some help figuring out what a real woman is supposed to wear,” she glares, disgust painted all over her face while her eyes rake over my body, “It’s obvious this won’t fit your fat ass, though.” Stuffing it into her bag, leering one last time over her shoulder, she returns to the other side of the room. Laughter erupts once again, breaking the silence.
Bathing in the cruel taunts, face heated in embarrassment, I lower myself in my seat as fast as I can.
“Ahem,” Doctor Parker says standing behind the podium. Clearing his throat kills the laughter as students rush to take their seats and all eyes focus on the front.
“Before we get started in class today, we seem to have a predicament on campus right now,” Dr. P says his eyes scanning the group on the right side of the room. “I’ve just been informed a few a weeks ago a photo of one of our students started circling among the student body. An inappropriate and highly illegal photo. I would just like to remind everyone who’s sharing this particular photo that child pornography is a very serious crime.” The entire room gasps, “Just a reminder, the subject in the photo you are all passing around and laughing at is seventeen-years- old.” Arms locked tight across his chest, he pauses letting this settle into our brains. Heat covers my skin from all eyes focusing on me. JSU is a small school, the only scandal right now, is me.
“For those of you slow on the uptake here, that means all who possess or share this picture are participating in the act of possession and distribution of child pornography.” His glaring eyes zero in on the basketball players, he continues. “This is a very serious crime. I’m sure none of you would do very well in prison. I expect this picture to disappear from all digital devices and all social media accounts, today. If any remain, I have a friend with the FBI who will track its origins and speak to those who refuse to remove it,” he commands, compelling each person in the room to heed his words, reaching me last.
I’m mortified, frozen to my seat, my face feels like it’s on fire, my eyes boring holes in the table top, wishing it would open and swallow me up. I’ll never live this down. Forget coming back for a class reunion, I will always be known as that girl, the one who shared her tits with the entire campus. Dr. P’s intentions are pure, he’s trying to help but the burning glares of each student have me itching to flee and continue hiding in my room.
“Since you all find bullying so amusing, that is your final assignment for the semester. To be precise, the effects of bullying. 49% of students reported bullying of some form in the last year. For this project half of you will take the side of the bully and the other half w
ill take the side of the victim. Students on the right side of the room will be the victims, students on the left will be the bullies,” Doctor Parker says, drawing the student’s attention away from me as pencils start moving across paper writing down the assignment details.
The way the room is set up these assigned roles are the opposite of the real-life situation in class. The right side of the room is the popular people who have probably never experience being bullied in their lives and the left side is people, like me, who may have experienced some sort torment. The irony is not lost on me that Dr. P has reversed our roles for this assignment.
“This assignment requires more than putting ‘canned’ internet information down on paper. You are required to interview a person from your side. The people acting as the bullies will need to find a bully to interview. The people acting as the victims will need to find a victim to interview. If you have trouble finding the type of person you need, I will give you extra time to complete your project. You’re dismissed for today so you may begin planning your project. My office hours are always posted if you need help.” Moving around the podium, his voice softens, “Tensanne, may I see you in my office please?”
Nodding my head, I rise from my chair at a turtle’s pace and beg my legs to carry me down the aisle to his office while the other students begin to file out of the room. Once I’m inside, Dr. Parker points toward one of the two blue padded chairs in front of his desk. “Here, Tensanne, please have a seat.” Easing my body into one of the chairs, Dr. P situates himself on the edge of his desk in front of me, his hands clasped together in his lap.
Dr. P is handsome, for an older man. He first came to me when I was getting ready to graduate from high school, trying to recruit me for JSU, I may have developed a small crush on him. He’s about forty-five years old with shaggy, sandy blonde hair that hangs in his eye on one side with just a little bit of gray peppered throughout, a healthy muscular build that shows he takes care of this body and wonderful chocolate brown eyes. Forty looks good on Dr. P.
