The S-Word

by Chelsea Pitcher

  But I’ve got one more question to ask. “Did you write SUICIDE SLUT on the senior lockers?”

  Shelby freezes. For one, brief moment, I think I’ve ruffled her feathers. But when she turns, she doesn’t look affronted. She looks perplexed. “I saw it in the auditorium.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “And no,” she adds before I can launch into a tirade about the lacking moral integrity of Kids Today. “I did not write SUICIDE SLUT on the lockers. Hell, I didn’t even write regular-ass SLUT.” She laughs. “Nice world we live in where SLUT acquires categories of its own.”

  “It is a category of its own.”

  “It’s a tool,” she says simply. “To dehumanize people—like the N-word or any other derogatory name. If a girl is a slut, you don’t have to treat her like a human being. But you already know this.”

  I nod, though I’m not sure if she’s implying I’ve been a victim of the S-word myself, or if I should understand because of what happened to Lizzie. Shelby’s a smart cookie. Too smart for the high school crowd. Couple of decades ago, she’d have become a playwright whose views on race and sex would’ve changed the world. This day and age, she’ll probably rise to fame as a social media starlet and end up on some second-rate cable network.

  Then again, what do I know? I’m not exactly living the dream. Once upon a time, I had plans to become a world-renowned psychologist, to help dictators work through their anger issues. You know, save the world? Then Lizzie left and I realized I couldn’t save anybody.

  I catch Shelby’s eye. “You swear you didn’t call Lizzie any names? Not even during the play? I know you were angry . . .”

  “Cross my heart and hope to—” She stops, inhaling sharply. “Listen to me. I’ve been called names since the moment I was born. Mostly by people who don’t even know me. I would not use that word.”

  Suddenly I can’t look her in the eye. Shelby’s pretty well respected at Verity, but it hasn’t always been this way. When she launched the Sisterhood her freshman year, the backlash was pretty bad. People said she was being exclusionary for only inviting girls of color to join. But our school is, like, ninety percent white, and the kids who didn’t call her nasty names pretty much ignored her. They were the ones being exclusionary, while Shelby was trying to find somewhere to belong.

  I meet her gaze. “Okay,” I say, nodding slowly. “I believe you.”

  And maybe I do. She’s very convincing. Of course, as an actor, she’s supposed to be. Plus, there are too many things left unsaid. I have a hard time believing Shelby replaced the dress out of the goodness of her heart. Guilty conscience or not, she must have at least suspected she’d get to wear it.

  And she was right. Shelby got her costume, and her coveted role of the Fairy Queen, just in time for opening night. Drake and I sat in the front row, waiting for Lizzie to sing her lines. But she never did, did she?

  She dropped out and never told us why.

  I called her that night, but she didn’t answer her phone. I asked her why a dozen times at school, but she wouldn’t give me a real answer. She kept saying unsatisfying things, like “It was getting in the way of my schoolwork” or “I wanted to spend more time with my friends.” At the time, I thought she was embarrassed about getting cold feet.

  Now I wonder . . .

  According to the diary, Lizzie pinned all of her romantic hopes on that performance. Drake was going to hear her sing. Drake was going to fall in love with her. They were going to ride off into the sunset.

  Why give all that up for one seedy romp in a hotel room?

  No, someone pushed her out of the play. It’s the only thing that makes sense. And with that single, selfish act everything was set in motion: Lizzie’s desperate, last-ditch attempt to gain Drake’s affections; the vicious bullying that followed; and my beautiful best friend’s tragic leap to her death.

  Would any of it have happened if that role hadn’t been stolen?

  five

  I’M HALFWAY DOWN the hall when I notice the crowd. Four guys are huddled near the stairwell, passing something back and forth like a basketball. But it isn’t an object. It’s a person.

  Jesse.

  I hurry toward them.

  The guys are laughing, shoving Jesse around. To his credit, he’s spewing all kinds of shit I wouldn’t repeat to a truck driver. He’s feisty. He pushes back. And honestly, he’s not much smaller than these guys (they aren’t the mammoth jocks you see in movies), but there are four of them, so it’s not like it’s going to be easy to break free.

  “Hey, boys,” I call, pushing my way into the circle. I recognize two of the guys immediately: Zeke Bentley and Troy McGibbins. Pretty-boy Zeke went out with Kennedy for an entire month last summer, breaking her all-time dating record. Red-haired Troy went out with Cara sophomore year. Sometimes, it seems like we only recognize people based on who they’re doing.

  The other two guys could be anyone.

  “What’s going on?” My voice is light, but it darkens when I realize Jesse’s clutching something. Pages. “What are those?”

  “Nothing.” Maneuvering like a master magician, he slides the pages into his waistband, where they’re protected by black taffeta and raspberry lace. His skirt is Parisian froufrou, like something out of a movie about diamond dancers. Lizzie would’ve gone gaga for it.

  Guess who isn’t impressed?

  That’s right: Zeke and Company. They take turns reaching for the pages, bumping Jesse in the process. On TV, gay guys are always scheming to get into the pants of their straight guy friends, but in real life it’s almost the opposite of that. These guys take liberties, backing Jesse into a corner, reaching down his skirt while he shrinks into himself.

  “Give it a rest,” I say casually, like I’m asking which celebrity they’re most itching to bang. Deep down I’m seething, utterly shaken by the sight of such blatant violence so close to Lizzie’s death. Do they honestly think what they’re doing is different?

  Zeke makes a grab for Jesse’s waist. “Relax, Angie,” he says, like I’m going to join in on the merriment. He looks clownish, with that bleached-blond hair and overtanned skin. “We’re keeping this pervert in line.”

  “It’s a tough job,” Troy adds, tugging at his own waistband. His jeans keep trying to slip down below his boxers. A glance around the circle shows more of the same: low jeans, name-brand T-shirts in primary colors. It’s like they’re in uniform.

  Except for Jesse.

  “You really should get to class,” I say, channeling the innocence that came naturally to Lizzie. In interactions like these, it’s best to play the ingénue. “That’ll be a nice change of pace for you, won’t it, Troy? Being late?”

  He narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, Cara said you were always early,” I explain. “So I never understood why you still got shitty grades. Unless . . .” I knot up my brow, like I’m utterly bewildered. “Do you think she wasn’t talking about class?”

  “Oh, shit!” Zeke howls, slapping Troy on the back. A slow blush is creeping up Troy’s neck. He’s got that milk-pale skin that shows every emotion. The other guys are laughing, nudging each other in the ribs.

  But I’m not finished yet. “You forget, girls tell each other everything.” I shift my attention to Zeke. “Every. Little”—I bring my forefinger close to my thumb—“Thing.”

  “You’re a stupid bitch,” Zeke snarls, slamming his fist into a locker. The message is clear: another word, and it’ll be me. I keep my mouth shut, smart enough to know when I’ve already won, and after a minute of angry staring the guys amble away.

  They can’t look each other in the eye.

  I turn to Jesse. “You okay?”

  The question seems to catch him off guard. He’s staring at the locker Zeke attacked. “Yeah.” He nods, glancing at me. “You?”

  “I’m fine. I . . .” The words die on my lips. I realize I’ve never looked at him. I mean, really looked. He has this way of avoid
ing detection, moving behind the scenes like some sort of spirit. But face-to-face he’s not what I expected. His fathomless black eyes are framed in eyebrows worth killing for. I could tan for months and never get that brown-sugar skin.

  Up close, he’s downright pretty, and it’s not just the eyeliner.

  “Listen, Jesse . . .” My gaze trails to his waistband. It’s awkward, looking at him this way, but what choice do I have? “Were those pages in your locker?”

  He shakes his head. Taking one step to the left, he reveals the words SUICIDE SLUT on the locker behind his back. Locker 105.

  “Marvin’s,” I murmur. My head is down, so I don’t think Jesse can see my lips.

  But he catches the movement. “Marvin? Like Marvin Higgins?” He steps closer, eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

  “I . . .” I stumble backward, trying to think of an explanation. He can’t know I stole the locker list. “He and Lizzie were friends. Or neighbors. I don’t know, exactly.” I shrug, like it’s no big deal. “But I’ve seen them talking here.”

  That’s true, I think, exhaling slowly. The best lies are born out of truths. And even though I never knew the exact location of Marvin’s locker before today, it’s a logical enough explanation that Jesse seems to believe it.

  Still, he’s got questions. “Why would those show up in Marvin’s locker?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. His dark hair catches the light, and I find my gaze traveling to where it curls over his ears. Avoiding his eyes.

  “Maybe she wrote something about him,” I suggest. “If you let me look—”

  “Are you kidding? What kind of sick fuck invades the thoughts of the dead?”

  Me. Everyone. Right?

  “You asked me a question,” I stammer. “I gave you one possible explanation. God, Jesse, get off your high fucking horse. You act like it’s so terrible to want to understand.”

  “It isn’t.” His voice is softening. “But there are lines you don’t cross. She didn’t write this for you to read.”

  “You’re right,” I say, but already I’m devising ways to get my hands on those pages. If I just reach out quickly . . .

  “If you’re thinking of reaching down my skirt, I’d advise against it.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I just want the pages, Jesse. It’s not like I’m Zeke Bentley!”

  “What’s the difference?”

  I freeze. “I’m not like those guys. I’m nothing like them.” I shake my head, trying to convince him. Trying to convince myself.

  But here I am, backing him into a corner.

  Maybe I’m exactly like them.

  I take a step back. “Look.” I hold up my hands, like I’m surrendering. “Lizzie was my best friend, so unless you’re putting those in people’s lockers, I don’t understand—”

  Now he’s angry. Pretty mouth contorted, he leans in. “First of all, you can’t prove shit. Second of all, Elizabeth Hart had no friends after prom night, least of all you.”

  My face flushes. “How would you know that?”

  “Everyone knew it. Lizzie became Frankenstein’s monster and you were the one leading the pitch-forked mob against her.”

  “I didn’t lead anyone!”

  “You didn’t stop anyone.”

  “I was . . .”

  What were you, Angie? Furious? Heartbroken? Or were you afraid they’d turn on you too?

  “I loved Lizzie,” I say as the end-of-class bell rings. Students sweep into the hallway, moving around us effortlessly. “That’s why I couldn’t believe what she did.”

  “But you did believe it. You believed it without batting an eye.”

  My heart seizes. I’m leaning into the locker for support. “What are you saying?”

  He shrugs, taking a step back.

  He can’t just say something like that . . .

  “What did she tell you?” I ask, trying to define Lizzie’s relationship with Jesse based on the smattering of memories I have. Sure, they hung out a lot during the play, but I didn’t think they were close.

  “What would she tell me?” Jesse asks casually as people brush past him. Someone almost knocks him over completely. It’s like they don’t even see him. “What would anyone tell me?”

  “I’m right here. I’m talking to you.”

  “Only because you want something.” He doesn’t look angry anymore. Just disappointed.

  “I want your help,” I say softly. Tears are filling my eyes with no warning. I cover my face, furious at myself for behaving this way in public. I’m in the middle of the hallway. Anyone can see me, judge me, hate me.

  And all of them will.

  The tears recede. My eyes trail to the writing on Marvin’s locker. To the scribbling of SUICIDE SLUT, taunting everybody. “You see this?” I struggle to keep the sadness from my voice. “This is the reason I need the diary. I have to figure out who’s doing this.”

  Jesse looks at me suspiciously. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Lizzie’s doing it.”

  “Get bent.”

  He leans against the locker, running his fingers over the writing. “You don’t think so?”

  “Why would she?”

  “To remind them of what they did.”

  I shake my head, but my pulse is racing. “You don’t honestly believe that.”

  He shrugs. “Why would someone living do it? They don’t get the thrill of hurting her anymore.”

  “They’re just words,” I say, though I don’t believe it. But I want his reaction to my dismissal. I need it.

  “Right. Totally,” he says.

  “So you agree?”

  “Of course I do.” He flashes a grin, but his eyes remain distant. “I’m Mexican and I’m wearing a skirt. The kids that don’t want to beat the queer out of me want me deported.”

  “That sucks, Jesse. But I don’t—”

  “Let me break it down for you.” He speaks slowly, his voice laced with false enthusiasm. “You should hear the fun names they come up with for me. Or hey, you can ask Gordy.”

  “Jesse.”

  “Oh, right, he killed himself too. Only nobody gives a shit about him.”

  “I do. I give a shit.”

  “You do a good job of hiding it.”

  I pause. “Were you two . . . ?”

  “Fucking?”

  “Close?”

  “He was a friend.”

  I nod slowly. “So how do you feel about the people who made his life hell?”

  “You know how I feel.”

  “Yeah.” I hold out my hand. “Exactly.”

  He frowns, teeth tugging at his lip. “I still wouldn’t read his personal thoughts.”

  “Well, I guess that makes you better than me.” There’s no bitterness in my voice. Just defeat.

  “Please, Jesse? I really need your help with this.”

  Those must be the magic words. Jesse pulls Lizzie’s pages out of his waistband. I take them before he can change his mind.

  “You show these to anybody, I will make your life miserable,” he says.

  I want to thank him but his threat pisses me off. “What could you possibly take from me that I haven’t already lost?”

  He shrugs, walking backward into the crowd. “I’ll find something. There’s always something.”

  I shake my head. The boy is clearly delusional, but I don’t have time to worry about it. Drake Alexander is weaving through the crowd, making a beeline for yours truly. Tall, pouting, break-your-heart-gorgeous Drake. His eyes are a lighter shade of blue, but our hair was identical before I dyed mine. We used to sit face-to-face, my fingers in his hair, his fingers in mine.

  Then his fingers went all over Lizzie and I didn’t feel like cradling his head in my hands anymore.

  He calls my name: “Angie,” lilting sweet.

  His voice, more than anything, is what gets to me.

  But my legs take me away from
Drake, away from the heartache I feel when he’s near, and my body has no choice but to follow.

  I’ll come back for him later.

  I MET DRAKE around the time I met Lizzie, but in elementary school he was just another boy carrying cooties and destroying rosebushes with a stick. I didn’t really think of him in that way until the summer after seventh grade. He returned from vacation looking like a different person. He was taller, his olive skin was tanner, and his mother had allowed him to grow out his hair. It curved on the ends, falling into his pale blue eyes and calling to me.

  Touch me, Angie, that hair said. Run your hands through my luscious locks and find heaven there.

  (Warning: Trips Down Memory Lane May Lead to Over-dramatizations.)

  But still, the guy was hot. I was hot for him, and I wanted to talk to Lizzie about it. Too bad I didn’t know what to say. Sure, I could wax philosophical for hours, but love? Lust? Where would I even begin?

  Thus began my relationship with Tennessee Whiskey.

  I know what you’re thinking. Kids? Liquor? No way! Relax. I’m not saying I was an adolescent boozehound. I didn’t start sleeping around or driving drunk. The alcohol didn’t even lead to harsher drugs. In a curious twist of irony, it did exactly what I wanted it to do. It helped me talk about my feelings.

  (Results may vary.)

  So there I was, thirteen and on the way to Drunk Town, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my bedroom and chatting Lizzie’s ear off. And, okay, I hadn’t gotten around to mentioning my undying passions for Drake, but I was rambling about my parents’ divorce for the first time.

  “It’s just so sucky. Like, ridiculously sucky. I have to live here at Dad’s and, like, see my mom twice a month? That’s some high bullshit.” Okay, I’ll admit it: the alcohol was affecting my vocabulary skills. At least Lizzie didn’t seem to mind. She just sat there, rocking a little, and pouring another shot when I got too embarrassed to speak.

  “Okay, on three,” she said, holding up her glass. “One. Two.”

  “Three!” I swallowed the liquor too quickly. It burned all the way to my stomach. “God, that’s foul.”