by Amanda Grace
She leans in, so close I think I can smell the strawberry Pop-Tart she had for breakfast. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?” My heart climbs further into my throat. This is about the party … isn’t it? My eyes dart around, like somehow I’ll see what the hell it is everyone’s talking about. Like there’ll be this big sign that says, “Yo, Student Body! Samantha Marshall is a virgin!”
Oh God. What if he told everyone I’m not? What if he said we slept together or that I was willing to sleep with him? It wasn’t like that at all. I was just using him to get Nick.
I glance around again, quickly confirm that I’m still the focus of half the people in this hallway. I try to figure out what kind of a rumor Carter might have started that could be this newsworthy. But I’m not sure I really want to know.
It’s easier to look at Veronica, because now I’m sure I’m right. People really are staring at me. People who didn’t glance my way last week.
Veronica takes this low, deep breath and leans in even closer. Now I swear I can smell the sprinkles on the Pop-Tart. “About Carter Wellesley … in his bedroom … last Friday?”
The air whooshes out of my lungs until I’m pretty sure they’ve collapsed in on themselves. I can’t get any oxygen anymore because the edges of my vision are a little fuzzy and dark.
He totally did tell everyone I went after him, and I bet he exaggerated.
Is that why this is such a big deal? Because no one sees me as that kind of girl, and they’re all shocked, thinking I’d go that far?
Veronica is still staring at me. All I can smell is artificial strawberry.
“Oh, um … ” I run my hands through my hair. I look away from her, and all I see are a hundred sets of eyes still burning into me. Then I nod. “Uh, kinda. Just, please … don’t tell anyone, okay?”
It’s stupid, because obviously he’s already bragged to half the freaking school. How could he do that? Are they all amazed that mousy little Samantha Marshall was willing to put out? Was drinking?
I wish I could rewind, undo everything I did, especially since I never had to go for Carter at all. Nick broke up with Reyna a month ago. He was thinking about what it was like to kiss me.
The whole thing with Carter was a mistake.
What if Nick hears the rumor that I slept with Carter and no longer wants me? I feel sick. What if the very thing I tried to do to get Nick is the thing that makes me lose him?
Veronica wraps her arms around me so abruptly I don’t have time to react. Just a quick hug, and then she steps back. The perkiness created by her extreme makeup completely disappears when I see the soft, caring look in her eyes.
Confusion twists through me. She feels sorry for me? Maybe she feels bad that everyone thinks I gave up the V-card to Carter at a party. Everyone says she’s a man-hater, so I guess that makes sense.
“I’m here if you need anything, okay? I mean, I know that sounds stupid or something since we haven’t talked much the last few years, but you don’t deserve … that.”
I nod, but I don’t know what to say to her. Instead, I just turn away, look at the faces staring back at me.
And then I blink; it’s Nick walking toward me, an adorable half-smile on his face, and everyone else vanishes.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” I say, walking away from her.
“Hey,” Nick says, leaning in to give me a hug. His scent washes over me, something fresh, like Ivory Soap.
“Hi.”
“How’s your morning going?” he asks as we turn toward our joint English class.
“Oh, you know, the usual.” I make a vague sweeping motion with my hand. What if Nick wants to know why everyone is staring? What if he hears the rumors? It could ruin everything.
“I didn’t sleep well at all last night,” Nick says, reaching out for my hand. I let him interweave our fingers as a warmth floods my insides. I want to stare at our hands, but instead it’s everything I can do to just walk normally, keep from looking robotic and unnatural as my best friend holds my hand.
“Why not?”
He catches my eye and grins. “You.”
“Oh,” I say, flushing.
“We should go out this week. Do something …
different.”
“Dinner?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Or a movie.”
I try to keep breathing. There’s no movie theater in Mossyrock. There’s no bowling alley, or miniature golf, or anything. We’ll have to go to Morton or Chehalis or something. “Like a date?”
“Yeah,” he says, squeezing my hand. This all feels surreal, like I’m watching it play out in my head while lying in bed late at night, dreaming it all up.
“Sounds good.”
We’re at the door to our English class and drop hands as we enter. Which is probably good, because if it had lasted much longer, I’m sure my palm would sweat profusely.
I plunk down in my chair beside Nick and wonder how I can handle sitting so close to him, when everything is changing and all I want to do is be alone with him.
Nick and I share the first two classes of the day—English first, and then math right across the hall—but after that, we go separate ways. Once we’re apart, I can’t stop noticing the stares during class, the whispers in the halls—or worse, the weird silence. Panic creeps in, because I still haven’t figured out exactly what everyone is talking about … and I’m worried that in the last few hours, Nick has figured it out, and it could be bad. Really bad.
I round the corner and jerk to a stop, seeing Carter up ahead with two of his friends. His buddies are leaning back against the lockers, and Carter is standing with his back to the students streaming past him.
I take a backward step, then another, unable to take my eyes off of him. Part of me wants to march up and ask him what he told everyone, but I know I don’t have the guts to. If bravery was my strong suit, I wouldn’t be in this position to begin with.
Someone in a ball cap rams into Carter, nearly knocking him off his feet. Carter regains his balance and whirls around. “What the hell is your problem, man?”
The guy flips him off over his shoulder and just keeps walking. That’s weird. I thought everyone liked Carter.
Carter turns back to his friends and I spin around, hoping he didn’t catch a glimpse of me, and scurry off in the other direction. I’ll take the roundabout way to the cafeteria. I’ll grab something to eat and bail, go eat on the front lawn or something.
Mossyrock only has two lunch periods: one for the junior high, one for the high school. The two schools share faculty, the office, the cafeteria. It’s a joint campus, basically.
Which means Carter has this lunch break too, and so does Nick.
People part as I pass by, and by the time I make it to the lunchroom, I’m almost running. I beat the majority of the crowd and snag a spot in line behind a half-dozen other students.
Why did I have to drink so much? Why, why, why? Sometimes Dad’s rules are stupid, but it’s true that nothing like this has ever happened to me when I followed them.
I just want to go home, but I have a Spanish test. It’s stupid, too. About traveling—airplanes and luggage. Like I’m heading off to Spain any time soon. Please. Dad would never, in a million years, let me go abroad. I could win an all-expenses-paid trip and he’d still forbid it.
No, I’ll be spending the summer right here in Mossyrock, waiting for August to arrive so I can run off to UW and finally escape my dad’s hawk eyes.
I’m fidgeting, tapping my feet on the floor as the line creeps forward, when Tracey walks up to me, all golden-blond perfection.
Tracey, ex-girlfriend of one Carter Wellesley.
Shit. She must have heard about … whatever people think happened. If everyone thinks I slept with him and they only broke up two weeks ago, she’s gotta be ticked. She’s probably going to deck me. Tear me from limb to limb. She’s on the volleyball team and tough as hell, despite being the perfect girly sort of girl.
She
ignores everyone around us and leans in close. “Did he really do that?”
Did he do what? Laugh at me? Sleep with me and brag about it?
Her perfect, almond-colored eyes are narrowed, but they look more concerned than angry. I don’t get it.
I swallow, pretend she must be talking to someone else, and just keep staring at the back of the head of the person in front of me in line.
She lowers her voice. “I mean, he was always kind of an asshole … ”
Wait, what?
So he must have walked out of his room and, like, told everyone at the party I threw myself at him or something. But wouldn’t Nick have heard that? I pick up lunch tray from the stack and then stare down at the stainless steel counter as I slide my ugly, plastic green tray along. Please, just leave me alone.
“Sam.”
I jerk my head up.
“Is it true?”
What do I do now? Tell her I don’t know the answer because I don’t even understand the question? She needs to go away. All of this just needs to go away
I don’t look at her as I nod my head slowly, happy that at least there’s not a lump in my throat right now. I don’t even know why she’s talking to me. They broke up.
She lets out a string of curses I hadn’t even thought she was capable of. “Damn it! He is such an asshole!”
People are staring again. God, I hope Carter doesn’t walk in right now. I glance around, surveying the growing crowd for his letterman jacket or for Nick’s head of dark wavy hair, the trapped feeling intensifying in my stomach.
“Come here,” she says, yanking me by the elbow out of line. My plastic tray, completely devoid of food, is left behind on the counter. I guess this day really can get worse.
She pulls me into the corner. I see her nod at someone else, and before I know it, Macy, her petite, dark-haired best friend, is joining us. Can’t they see I don’t want any of this?
They edge closer, like they’re about to share their secret handshake for being popular. But they don’t. Instead, Tracey says, “He dumped me because I slept with him.”
Her revelation is so unexpected that I jerk back, nearly smacking my head on the puke-green cinderblock behind me. Huh? Why is she telling me this? This is like, top-secret A-lister stuff, not things she should tell the peons like me.
Macy’s eyes widen but it’s like she’s trying to look sympathetic, not surprised. “And he dumped me because I wouldn’t. Total dickhead, completely pushy. Had to shove him off me before he got the point, and then he called me frigid.”
What? I can’t fathom why these girls are talking to me, let alone sharing this information. Are we supposed to be bonding over our mutual hatred of Carter? Join some I-Hate-Carter club?
“I know this is weird,” Tracey says. You think? “But we just wanted you to know we’re here for you, okay? Anything you need.”
Macy nods. “Totally. You are so brave for coming to school today.”
“So brave,” Tracey adds.
How come all I can think is, huh? I just nod and shrug and do whatever noncommittal thing I can.
Tracey and Macy, which rhymes, now that I think about it, saunter off and leave me alone to the wolves, who stare and drool, salivating over whatever gossip they can discern.
I can’t take this anymore. I don’t want to explain this to Nick, I don’t want to see Carter, and I don’t want to feel like a spectacle any longer. I don’t even understand what is happening, let alone what I should do about it.
I rush off to the bathroom, shoving my way through a crowd of people who can’t stop staring.
Six
I’ve been sitting in the handicapped stall of the bathroom for at least an hour. My legs are tingly and numb, but I can’t seem to care enough to move. I assume that my fourth-period class has continued on without me.
It won’t matter, though. I’m never absent, and it’s History, my second-best class of the day after English. Mr. Hawk won’t mark me absent even if I’m not there. He’ll convince himself I’m in the library working on an extra-credit piece I don’t need.
Besides, Carter’s in that class. I need to know what he’s been telling everyone before I can figure out what I want to say to him.
Study hall is starting soon, and I really should leave this bathroom, yet I can’t get myself to move. I keep picturing myself pushing the bathroom door open and seeing an entire cafeteria full of classmates sitting there, staring right at the door, waiting for me to emerge. Then they all stand up and start shouting things at me all at once, like some kind of press conference that features only questions I can’t answer.
I should just go find Veronica. Tell her I don’t know what everyone is talking about, why they are all so interested in me when all that really happened was Carter laughing at me. She can fill in the details, tell me what the rumors are. But I’m afraid to walk out because I don’t want to be in the halls by myself. I don’t even know where she is right now.
So I just keep sitting on the toilet, pants up and fully buttoned, my temple resting on the divider wall. It’s probably crawling with germs, but I don’t care.
The bathroom door swings open and footsteps shuffle in, echoing in that way only bathrooms do. I close my eyes and take in a long, quiet breath. I wish they hadn’t disturbed my sanctuary.
“I don’t know, I wasn’t there. That’s just what I heard,” a girl’s voice says. She sounds really young. Fourteen or so. And she has a hint of a lisp. “He only invites upperclassmen to his parties,” she adds. She sounds envious. Like she spends all of her time dreaming of said parties.
“That’s so crazy, though,” a higher-pitched voice responds. “Carter Wellesley? Are you sure?”
My mouth goes dry. Can I not get some peace? Even the freshmen know about me? For a second I want to bolt. Storm out in a huff. But then I realize … maybe I can figure out what everyone thinks happened. Every part of me freezes and my breathing turns shallow. They can’t know I’m here.
It’s silent for a second as they stop in front of the mirror. I’m surprised they haven’t figured out someone is in here, because the stall door is shut. My heart beats so hard I imagine it tick-tocks like the telltale heart.
I can just see their feet and the frayed cuffs of their jeans. One of them is wearing black Converse with white stars, and the other has on brown leather ballet flats.
I imagine Converse girl nodding, eyes wide, enjoying the juicy gossip.
“Who was the victim?” asks ballet flats girl.
Victim? Why would they call me that? My mind flies to the pink mark on my cheek, which I spent ten minutes covering. But what if I didn’t do a good job?
Oh God. What if everyone thinks Carter hit me? Is that what this is about?
“Some girl named Samantha,” I hear the first girl say. “I looked her up in the yearbook. Total geek, chess club or something. She even has glasses.”
Had glasses. I got contacts over the summer. And I’m not a geek. I’m not in the chess club, either. I’m not in any club. All I really like to do is write, and no one even knows I do that.
One of them flips the water on for a second and then switches it off again. I hear the sounds of a compact opening and closing. Are they actually powdering their noses? Who does that?
“Still,” ballet flats girl argues, “Carter is so freakin’ hot, he could sleep with anyone he wants. If he wanted to sleep with someone like her, she’d fall at his feet. There’s no way he’d have to rape her.”
Rape me?
The nausea that has been rising all day chokes me
all at once. I concentrate on breathing through my nose, my fingernails digging into my jeans, as the whole bathroom spins and tilts on its side. Every moment of the morning rushes in front of me, like an entire movie played on fast-forward …
The stares. The questions. The “Is it true?” The things Tracey and Macy told me. “He got really pushy with me,” she’d said, giving me a sympathetic pat. Like I was supposed to get it
or something. Someone egged Carter’s car yesterday. Someone else shoulder-checked him this morning in the hall. Was it because of this?
No. No. They can’t think that. They just can’t. It’s not what happened. Carter rejected me. Laughed at me. He didn’t do that.
The two girls’ conversation dies out as the door swings shut behind them, and then I’m kneeling, retching up nothingness since my stomach is already empty.
The entire school thinks I was raped.
By Carter.
I grip the edges of the hard plastic toilet seat, resting my forehead on my knees as I continue to squat like that in the dingy bathroom stall.
How can I go back out there? They think Carter raped me—Carter Wellesley, the guy they all love, all flirt with, all admire. The guy they want to either be or be with.
There’s just no way they’d believe it.
My face flames hotter. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now, I want to burrow into a giant hole and never come out.
Oh God, and Carter … if it’s this bad for me, what is everyone saying to him? What kind of looks are they giving him? He’s the god of the senior class. Everyone worships the ground he walks on. And he didn’t do it. But everyone thinks he did, and I unknowingly went along with it, and it’s all a lie. People must be looking at him. Questioning him … judging him for something he never did.
I stand up so fast everything spins again and I have to put a hand up against the stall.
I have to get out of here. I can’t handle seeing him right now, him thinking I made this up and am spreading the lie myself, like I’m spiteful or something about his rejection. I want to punch him in the nose, not accuse him of rape.
I slam my way out of the stall, the door bouncing so hard it ricochets twice, and I bound right out the bathroom door, scurrying down the halls with my heart in my throat, praying no one sees me. I don’t know what happens if you skip school, but I don’t want to find out either.
I glance over as I pass my locker, and then trip on my own feet.
Whore.
It’s etched in angry, jagged writing, a stark black against the gray paint. I stumble over to it, try to rub it off with my fingers, but it’s permanent marker. My chest tightens as I turn away, desperate to leave this place, leave the imprint of that word behind.
