by Rebel Hart
I’d done my makeup that morning. An extra application of mascara, a dash of highlighter and a fresh coat of cherry chapstick. There were deep bruises on my arm, starting to turn dark purple, as well as marks on my neck. A hardened part of my heart told me not to cover them up. To bear what they had done to my body loud and proud, to stick it to them that I wasn’t afraid of their bully tactics and assault.
So I rushed out the door that morning, my neck red and my throat swollen, to avoid Brendan’s offering of cereal and eggs.
I flip down the car mirror and gingerly touch the marks. The ghost of Emmett’s fingers are swollen and perfect indentations. The more I look at them, the more they distort and twist, and my mind flashes back to silent suffocation, the primal desire for air, the sinking feeling that I was at his mercy. I hadn’t been able to move or make a sound, my breath lodged in my throat, Emmett’s fingers stopping it.
Fuck them.
Fuck this place.
Fuck this weird sort of world I’ve entered.
I want nothing more than to scuttle back to Oklahoma. At least there I have friends, and I have Coach.
But for now, I need to show they haven’t gotten to me. Honestly, how hard could it be to get through a school day?
Lily looks up when I enter, but then she quickly looks down at her desk. She’s cleaned up, and she smells fine. I wonder how many showers it took to get rid of the smell.
I open my mouth to say something, but then close it. Lily got in trouble for talking to me. I look around at my classmates. They’re talking to each other, writing things in their notebooks, but they keep glancing back at me.
What little snitches. They probably tattled on Lily yesterday.
So throughout Calculus, I ignore Lily. She does the same. Not even a glance in my direction. It stings a bit – it’s not like I’m expecting a thank you, but it seems like we’re caught in the crosshairs of the Elites.
When the bell rings, Lily jumps up and nearly sprints away. All heads swivel back to me – even Mr. Brayburn stares. There’s a feeling building up inside me – What! I want to shout. But instead, I slowly gather my things and exit, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a backward glance.
I keep my head high throughout the morning. I get strange looks. Pitying looks. And I hear my name in whispers. I don’t see any of the three guys, nor do I see the two girls. I do pass by Jason, though, and he breaks up laughing. My senses are on high alert – something has happened, and I don’t know what.
During a bathroom break after third period, two girls fall silent when I enter. The sneers on their faces are mixed with contempt and pity. My cheeks redden– I know they’re talking about me.
When I enter the stall, I hear one of them whisper to her friend. “Do you think she knows?”
My pants are halfway down my ass. I pause, hoping they’ll say something else. But they titter out into the hallway, leaving me with my heart in my mouth.
Do I know what?
They have my phone. Maybe they unlocked it, maybe they discovered how to access my data without it. The sinking feeling grows. I try to think of the things I have stored on my phone, but I’m running a blank.
And then the door opens, and I hear the distinct sound of a click. Someone’s locked it. My heart races, and I look underneath the stall, but it’s just a pair of nice girl loafers.
“Ophelia?” comes Lily’s voice. “Ophelia, I know you’re in here.”
I open my stall door. Lily’s hazel-green eyes fall upon my neck, and she winces, giving a small sound of sympathy.
“Do you want makeup to cover it up?” she asks, nodding to my injuries.
I shake my head. Her sudden gesture of affection and sympathy unsettles me. “No. I won’t show them I’m afraid.”
Her eyes meet mine. “Good,” she says. “You’re much stronger than I was.”
“They did this to you too?” I ask, intrigued. I wonder how Lily got mixed up in all this mess.
She winces. “Not exactly. It’s hard to explain, really.”
“I’m all ears,” I say, walking to the mirrors. The bruises are becoming darker, and I feel a sick sort of satisfaction wearing them. I will not cover them up. Lily joins me, and our eyes find each other in the mirror. “I’ve literally got nothing else to lose.”
Lily winces again, and she bites her lip. “It’s complicated.”
“Do you want to tell me or not?” I try not to sound irritated, but it comes off harsher than I expected. I sigh. “Sorry, I’m just very... I’m in a weird spot right now.”
She nods like she understands, and again, I try and think of what she’s gone through.“The Elites don’t exactly like my family.”
“Okaaaay.”
She looks at me. “That’s it. The Elites don’t like my family.” She sighs at my raised eyebrows. “More specifically, my dad. When we first moved here, he rejected an offer to work with the Jameson Co. And the rest was history.”
“What do you mean?” I ask slowly. “Because he didn’t accept a job offer, they hate him now?”
Lily runs a hand through her hair, frustrated. “I know it sounds weird, but in this town, either you work for the Elites, suck dick for the Elites, or are valuable to them in some other way.”
“And if you’re not?”
“If you’re not and you’re poor, fine. If you’re successful...like my dad, then you’re basically Blacklisted.”
“Are you going to get another trash-can dumped on you for talking to me?”
Her eyes meet mine, and for the first time I see a flicker of worry. “Perhaps. But I’m hoping not.”
“What a fucked up town,” I mutter.
“It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better,” she says, comforting me with a hand on my shoulder. “But if you make it through, you’ll be okay.”
“How old were you?”
“It was just freshman year. The Elites train their children well.”
“Train?” I bark a laugh. “Like dogs?”
She looks serious, her hazel-green eyes unblinking and steady. “If they want to inherit the shitload of money their parents have, then yeah, they do whatever their parents want.”
Jesus. What sort of cult have I stumbled into? Where beautiful, frightening and dangerous teenagers walk around, doling out violence and at the mercy of the will of their parents. Where money is their only love in life, and they don’t care who gets crushed under their giant egos so long as they inherit the millions their parents possess.
“What did they do to you?” I ask suddenly.
Lily’s face transforms into a blank mask. It was so quick that I almost didn’t see it – one moment, she was wearing her emotions on her sleeve, the next she was an impenetrable wall.
“So, do you know?”
I face her. “Do I know what?”
She rummages in her bag and pulls out a gold-cased phone – it’s the latest Iphone, I notice. In fact – I scour Lily – she’s got the look of a rich kid. While not flashy, her uniform is ironed, her shoes are undoubtedly expensive, and the earrings in her ears... I lean closer... are diamonds.
Lily is rich.
But why is she not with those idiots?
She pulls up an app. “The school... We have an app. Basically, the Elites run it. It sort of serves as a blackmail list – if the Elites have dirt on you and you displease them, this app sends a text to everyone in school.” She bites her lip again, and she offers me a pleading expression. “Please, Ophelia, don’t get mad-”
“What did they send?” I ask, and the cold, hard truth blankets my body.
She closes her eyes and then hands over her phone. The color leaves my face. I stare at the picture. My hands begin to vibrate. I can’t feel, can’t think. All I feel is dead.
One of my nudes.
They sent one of my nudes.
I’m laying back across my bed, looking up seductively at the camera which my ex, Mark, is holding. My eyes are hooded and you can tell I’ve just
had sex. Mark’s hickey claims my neck, just above my collarbone. My breasts are pushed up in my hands and my bush peeks out from between my crossed legs. I remember this picture – it was the first, and only time, I’ve taken nude photos.
I want to die.
I want to disappear.
And then I scroll through the chat. Disgusting comments about my body, boys declaring what they’d do to a girl like me, girls slandering my small boobs. The more I scroll, the more I feel heat burn my face.
Everybody has seen this intimate moment of mine.
This thing has been downloaded fifty-seven times. I feel my breath start to accelerate. Fifty-seven boys are going to jerk off to my picture and distribute it amongst my friends.
I want to cry.
“Ophelia, I am so sorry,” Lily says. And she sounds sincere, she really does. But she also just spent an hour in Calculus with me and didn’t say shit.
“Please leave me alone,” I hear myself say. I realize, vaguely, that my voice is weak, breathless.
She looks like she wants to stay, but she nods and leaves. When she does, I hear her whisper, “oh, no”.
I take a look in the mirror, but all I see is that fucking seductive, cringey as fuck photo of me. So that’s why they took my phone. I close my eyes, rest my hands on the sink. I consider going home. My body sags with the weight of too much shit.
What kind of monsters are these people?
I’ve done nothing to them!
Hot tears prick my eyes, threatening to expose my weakness. I tilt my head up, willing them to go back in, willing myself to not give a shit.
I will not be broken.
I am strong enough to face this. The sun will rise in the east and set in the west, and I will be okay. I will be okay. I will be okay.
When I open my eyes, they’re red with unshed tears. But it’s better than nothing. I straighten my shoulders and smooth out my polo shirt and skirt.
I will fucking end The Elites.
The door swings open and a girl says, “Oh. . .”
I look at her. She’s young, probably a freshman, but my eyes are drawn to the things littering the hallway behind her. She looks downcast and she starts to back away.
“Move, please,” I say, maneuvering beside her.
It can’t possibly be. . .
I look up and down the hallway. Thousands upon thousands of my nudes have been printed out and scattered upon the floor. Curiously, I realize that on these photos my face has been blacked out. Why? At the very end of the west wing, I can see a janitor start to sweep them up. My cheeks burn – he probably has a family.
Just then, the bell rings. I want to scream at it – make them go back inside! Time slows. My classmates stream out of their classes. Some boys whoop, grabbing pictures left and right. Most of them get trampled. I watch as my dignity and my respect crumble before my very eyes.
Emmett and Vivian appear in the throng. Her red hair is in curls this time, and when he wraps an arm around her tiny shoulders, he twirls one with his finger. His eyes catch mine, and the smile he sends me is positively vile.
I school my face into a mask, but inside I can feel my composure shattering. I race back into the bathroom and lock myself in the farthest stall. It takes every reserve of strength to not break down. The commotion of the hallway settles down, and when the tardy bell rings, I inch back out after the last girl leaves the bathroom. I want to make a break for my car. Screw school today. I just want to go home and have a good cry under my blankets and never see anyone ever again. But when I peek out, there are several lingering groups.
I shut it, sweeping the manual lock into place.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
There’s a jiggle on the handle. A polite knock.
“You can’t have the door locked, dearie,” says the female on the other side. “It’s a fire hazard.”
I don’t respond. I can hear the woman waiting for my response. But I can’t trust my voice or I might start crying.
I open it, and it’s a nice little lady. Probably from the front desk.
“You got a hall pass, sweetie?”
My throat is mute. Before I can form a remark, my feet are sweeping past her and I’m speed-walking down the hallway. I keep my eyes to the ground. Walk. Walk. Walk.
“Oh my god, did you see her face?” comes a high-pitched squeal.
Nope nope nope.
I pivot on my heel and race back to the bathroom. I slide in, almost startling the sweet lady as she exits. Taking refuge in my stall, I pray that I mistook the voice.
“-but like seriously, it was like beet-red and totally fucking hilarious,” says Vivian.
My soul crashes to the tiled floor. Just my fucking luck.
I can’t hold my tears back any longer. Unbidden and vicious, they pour down my cheeks. My face’s screwed up, and I try to hold back my sobs.
“Good, she’s like, super ugly.” Bernadette has a distinctly higher voice, more nasally. “And such a slut. Like, seriously, what fucking blowjob lips.”
There’s some ruffling around, and then Vivian takes the stall next to me. They continue talking. My feet are pulled up onto the toilet seat, and I hug my knees. I feel small, contained. Trapped. Tears continue to well and fall, and I wish I could make them stop.
“And like, did you see her try and make her boobs bigger? Like pushing them up would make any guy fall for that trick?”
“Right? They’re like fucking tiny grapes.”
“And, like, also, her bush. Like, a bush is so gross. It smells, it’s nasty. No respectable guy would ever want to bury his face into that bear of a pussy.”
“I bet she smells horrible.”
“Ugh, totally, right. She runs all the time so it must reek.”
“Do you think she went home?”
“Probably.” There’s a smack of lips popping. I imagine them doing their makeup in the mirror, but I’m too terrified to move. “I hope she’s embarassed and ashamed as fuck.”
“She looked pretty mortified,” Vivian chuckles, flushing the toilet. She doesn’t wash her hands. “Like, completely horrified.”
“Good.” There’s some more ruffling, a spray of liquid, and the scent of coconut and vanilla fills the air. “Maybe now she’ll be a good little pet and stop fucking this up.”
Pet. There is that word again. It has such sinister connotations, and I shudder to think of what the word means to them.
“Emmett says she has no clue,” Vivian says. At the mention of Emmett’s name, my heart stutters a bit.
“Emmett’s got his dick in a twist,” Bernadette says. Almost flippantly, like she’s mentioning some sort of mild affliction. Oh, he’s just got a cold. “My brother can’t be trusted with her. She’s gotten under his skin already.”
“She’s such a fucking bitch!” Vivian’s tone becomes enraged, and I wince. Clearly, I’m some sort of threat to her. Well, she can fucking have Emmett – they’re made for each other. “I hate her.”
Right back at you, Vivian. Less than seventy-two hours and you really can learn to hate someone.
“Calm down, he’ll be right back in your lap when this whole thing is over,” Bernadette soothes. “He won’t lose sight just because she’s a talking pussy with legs.”
“But you just said-”
“Look, I know my brother. Once he fucks her, he’ll toss her aside.” She pauses, and then adds in a thoughtful tone: “Actually, it’d probably be good to just mess with her that way. Toy with her feelings, you know?”
“I don’t want that bitch near him,” Vivian snaps. “She’ll probably give him a disease.”
“Ooh, that’s good for the next rumor,” Bernadette says, almost like she’s excited. “What should she have, like herpes?”
“Genital herpes.” The snideness in Vivian’s tone makes me sick to my stomach. “Like, that’s a permanent one, right?”
“Yes, Viv.” Her tone is exasperated. “It’s fucking gross. Here, look at thi
s picture.”
A pause. “Oh fuck, gross!”
“Yeah.” Bernadette moves a couple things around on the counter, almost like she’s arranging her makeup. “Like, total fucking gross. Some of them even ooze I bet.”
“Ugh, fuck, that gives me such anxiety!”
“Yeah, so let’s go tell the boys we’ve got the next rumor down pat. I’m tired of Emmett just controlling all of this.”
My ears perk up. Emmett was the one in charge? I cast my thoughts back... Now that Bernadette mentions it, it did seem like he was the one who was directing Trey and Vincent. I bet he was the one who found my nudes and decided to leak them.
Resentment and anger coil in my chest. I want to burst out of the stall and drag them around by the hair, but something stops me. Whispers that maybe, instead of rushing into things, I should instead observe.
Clearly, this is their version of some fun game. Fuck with the new girl, destroy her reputation and self-esteem – it’s all fun and games and cocktails and something to do in their free time. Almost like a hobby – Let’s crush Ophelia, how can we ruin her today!?
I have never, in my entire life, been so mortified and humiliated before.
But I cannot let them get to me.
If they get to me, they win. They’ve shown who is better, who controls who. They’ve shown me my place, which is exactly what they want. Emmett’s soft words whisper in my ear: your total and complete subservience.
Suddenly, Bernadette’s phone rings. It’s some gawdy classical music song, and I cringe as she answers it with a chipper, “Hello, Daddy!”
My tears have dried. Listening to Bernadette and Vivian slash me apart is enough to show me that clearly these girls have no shred of empathy or kind emotion in their bones. They shit on compassion and tear apart kindness – all in a day’s work for two rich shitheads.
“Oh yes, Daddy, it’s all going very well,” Bernadette simpers, her voice like poisoned honey. “We’re all just having a blast.” A pause. “Oh, he isn’t? Well I’ll tell him then! Bye, Daddy!”
“Bye, Mr. Jameson,” Vivian chimes in.
Mr. Thomas Jameson, their father. I cringe to think of ever responding to Brendan like that. He would laugh his ass off at the fake, honey-dripped sweetness and demand I speak to him like a normal human. Not to mention calling him Daddy. I shudder – what gross perverted relationship they must have.
