Sure enough, Mom’s stern expression melts in confusion when she sees me hunkered down next to the toilet. “Erica, what’s going on? Why are you on the floor?” She kneels, eyes raking over me.
I can’t meet her gaze, though I could cry with relief that there’s no Sharpie on my face. Still, I pull the robe collar higher. I know I have to answer her questions, but what can I say? And if I open my mouth, she’ll smell the alcohol.
“You smell like vomit,” Valerie announces, ever blunt like Amber, hands on her wide hips. “And you’re lucky your mom didn’t call the cops and send out a search party.” I try not to look up into her knowing, golden-brown face. She’s got two boys who are older than me, so she understands what a hangover looks like. But if she does know what’s going on, Valerie doesn’t say anything to incriminate me, for which I’m eternally grateful.
Mom eyes me. “You sick, Bug?”
The concern in her voice is too much, coupled with her use of the childhood nickname I earned after becoming obsessed with ladybugs. I feel my face crumple as I nod and start to cry. There’s no way I can tell her the truth about what happened. It would be bad enough if she found out I lied to her about spending the night at Caylee’s, and her finding out about my drinking would kill her. She’d be so disappointed, which is worse than mad. And to tell her what I woke up to—the writing; gray walls that were supposed to be purple and the varsity jacket that didn’t belong to Thomas; Caylee’s photo in the mirror; the guys in the kitchen judging my breasts; Thomas still at Zac’s; puking in the street in full view of that creepy Lexus driver. What would my mother think of her sweet little Erica if she knew all that? The thought makes me cry harder.
I’m saved from further tortured thoughts when she scoops me into her arms and holds me like I’m a kid, as if I don’t have fifteen pounds on her. I try to cinch the robe tighter without drawing attention, then settle against her.
“Give the girl some space, Lydi,” Valerie says. “In fact, I’m going to take my own advice and get out of your hair. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. As for you”—she turns on me—“next time you call your mom and let her know you’re okay, understood?”
I nod once into my robe.
As Valerie clears the doorway, Mom slaps a hand to my forehead. “Is it food poisoning? The flu? You do seem warm. Let’s get some fluids in you, okay?” She pulls away, eyes searching mine. “Why didn’t you call me to come get you? You know I would have.” This close up, the lines of fatigue etched across her face stand out. I think of my sketchpad, the few swipes of black pen I’d use to capture years of stress. She’s been running herself ragged these past few months, trying to prove herself at her new job by working crazy overtime.
I avoid opening my mouth too wide, knowing my putrid alcohol breath will instantly give me away. “I know, but you had your big fundraiser thing. I didn’t want you to worry.” My throat tightens around the lie.
“And you thought not texting me and letting me know where you were was a better option?”
From the direction of the kitchen, the coffee grinder whirrs. Mom sighs at my silence. “Erica, promise me you’ll let me know the next time something like this happens.” I’m already nodding as she finishes, “At least text me that you’re alive, okay? You know how I worry when I don’t hear from you.”
I feel like a dizzy bobblehead. “Okay,” I say, though there will never be a next time.
Mom sighs again. “All right. You going to throw up on me?”
I shake my head.
“Come.” She rises, holding out her hands for me to grab. “Let’s get you into bed.”
“I’ve got it, Mom,” I say, knowing she’ll see my legs, my feet. “And I want to shower first.” It means I’ll have to look at the writing, but I can’t avoid it any longer.
“But don’t you think…” She leans down to pull me up.
“Mom, seriously!” It comes out harsher than I mean, and I cringe.
“All right, all right! But I’m taking your temperature before you shower.”
I breathe a sigh of relief as she disappears, then lunge for the bottle of mouthwash and swig a blast of minty syrup. It makes me gag. Dragging myself onto the toilet, robe and all, I tuck my feet under me. Though my nausea’s lessened, my head still throbs, insides weighted like freshly poured cement.
Mom returns with a sweating jug of purple Pedialyte and a cup of water, flitting around me, doing her Nurse Lydia thing: aspirin, water, temperature.
“Think it’s the flu?” Mom asks, even though I have the thermometer in my mouth.
Gray walls, red cups. I shrug so I don’t have to lie.
“What are your symptoms?” she asks.
Humiliation. Panic. Dread. “Nausea and headache,” I mumble.
“When did the vomiting start?”
Middle of the street. Next to my car. “Um, super early this morning.”
“Last time you vomited?”
Tried to call Caylee. No answer. “Depends on what time it is.” I need to get ahold of Caylee.
She extracts the thermometer. “Nearly noon. Hmm, no temperature.”
“Were there any messages for me on the machine?” I ask.
Mom shakes the thermometer. “None that I saw. Why, where’s your phone?”
Dang. “At Caylee’s.” I hope. “I left it there.” Each small lie tightens the vices on my conscience by another click.
“All right, well, let’s hope it’s only a stomach bug and that it’ll run its course in the next day or two if it hasn’t already.” Snatching up the bottle of aspirin and the thermometer, she points to the jug of purple Pedialyte. Grape—the worst replicated flavor. “You need to drink that, at least half, before I leave for my shift in thirty minutes.”
Right. The pancake breakfast was only the volunteer portion of her day.
“How was the fundraiser?” I blurt out.
Hovering in the doorframe, she gives me a weak smile. “Oh, you know, same as before. Mr. Peters tried to overdo his pancake limit and I nearly had to do the Heimlich on him, but we did raise a good amount of money. And Mrs. Pensacola asked about you. She’s really taken a fancy to you and your art.” Mom’s fists find her hips. “Well, I don’t have to go to work, you know. Valerie could handle my shift. She already said she wouldn’t mind.”
Mom never misses her shift, or the opportunity to pick up her coworkers’ shifts. “I’ll be fine, Mom,” I lie. I’m yesterday’s party away from fine.
“Are you sure? I could…”
“Mom. Seriously, it’s fine.” I need to find Caylee. I need to shower. To see, to know.
She exhales through her nose. “Okay. Only promise me you’ll hydrate and get some rest.”
“I will.”
“You promise?”
I roll my eyes. Mom’s big on promises. “I promise!”
“Good.” She turns to leave.
Guilt creeps in. “Sorry I wasn’t there. To help out and visit with everyone.”
“It’s okay. We managed. And besides, you can’t help being sick, Bug. So, take your shower, then go straight to bed. And get some rest.” The door clicks shut behind her, trapping the guilt inside the tiny bathroom with me.
I listen to Mom’s fading footsteps and the TV clicking on, then reach for the cup of water she left, running my thumb over the cartoon onion decal on it. Every time Dad would see this cup he’d say: “Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon.” He was always quoting Shakespeare. I remember running to my room as a kid and scribbling down any quote he’d say in my journal. Then I’d recite it back to him later, usually getting it wrong, which would always make him laugh. But that was before Dad decided it was a problem that Mom preferred modern works by feminist women over dead white dudes like Shakespeare. Not that he’d minded back when she was his student, though it definitely seemed like a reason he’d left in the end.
Draining the water in a few rapid gulps, I eye the Pedialyte with suspicion. I attempt a sip but fake grape tast
es even worse than I remember, like cough syrup mixed with bathroom cleaner.
Then the black marks on my foot pull my attention, and I’m jolted by the electric shock of remembering. For the space of a fleeting memory about my dad, a passing thought of Pedialyte, I’d forgotten last night.
It all descends on me again in a horrible, heavy panic. There’s still no word from Caylee. Did she get my voicemail? Does she know what happened? What don’t I know?
Sneaking to the door, I crack it open. Snippets reach me of Valerie’s and Mom’s murmured voices, interwoven with a TV ad. I tiptoe across the hallway to Mom’s room, close the door behind me, then dive for the phone and redial Caylee’s number. As the phone rings, I lick my thumb and rub at the “re” from “here” that sticks out of my sleeve, but all it does is bleed the ink and make it look worse.
The phone rings four times, then goes to voicemail. Fear stirs in my stomach. Where is she? Why isn’t she answering? I hang up without leaving a message and make a decision. Tonight, once Mom leaves for her shift, I’ll drive over to Caylee’s house and explain everything to her.
Only, how do I explain what I don’t know? “Don’t worry, Caylee. I only slept in Zac’s room with half my clothes gone. Apparently two of Thomas’s buddies drew on me, and several saw me naked, including your boyfriend. And I don’t remember any of it. But everything’s hunky-dory!”
Jesus.
I close my eyes against the mental images flooding in.
Shower, Erica. Before Mom sees.
From the living room, I hear Valerie tell my mother good-bye as I slip back into the bathroom, lock the door, and turn on the shower. Water gushes into the tub. In my periphery, my reflection hovers in the bathroom mirror. I rip my shirt over my head. Beside me, my mirror ghost does the same.
I need to get this Sharpie off me before anyone can see it. But, more important, I need to know if there are other names on me. Because Thomas’s won’t be one of them. It can’t be.
Kicking off my skirt and underwear, I brace myself to turn, to look at my naked body in the mirror, but I can’t make myself do it. My heart feels like a trapped bird—all frantic wings and sharp claws. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tell myself to get it over with. To know the truth. So, I turn and face the mirror.
A strangled cry escapes me.
The body reflected in the glass doesn’t belong to me; the marks covering her skin are a stranger’s curse, someone else’s shame.
For years, Mom has refused to let me get the Jack Skellington tattoo I’ve wanted, saying I’d look dirty with one, but here I am, dirty and marked anyway.
Filling every space between the words are random scribbles, intermixed with more hasty drawings of exploding penises and hanging breasts. Some marks look patchy and faded, like the Sharpie started to dry out.
But the words show up clearly.
Though the mirror reflects them backward, scrawled across both breasts are the words fat TITTIES! My vision blurs as I stare at my partially blacked-out nipples. Across my stomach, EAT ME and FINGER FUCK THIS SHIT are attached to arrows that point at my scribbled-on crotch, the ink smeary and smudged. The front of my thighs still read Erica Walker is a sluuut and whore, and the top of my foot, Forest Stevens. I turn my arm and stare again at the name scratched across it: Ricky was here.
But not Thomas.
Forest’s and Ricky’s names I knew about. But there’s more writing. Like giant stitches, sharp points of half-concealed words stick out from between my legs. After several ragged breaths, I’m no closer to being ready. But I need to look, to know if it’s there. Planting my feet together, I bend my knees and inch them apart.
Up the inside of one thigh is Stallion! He did this too.
Stallion’s face flashes through my mind, followed by his girlfriend’s. I see the two of them together at lunch, him fawning all over her. Why the hell would he do this to Jasmine? To me?
But it doesn’t stop there. I have to blink several times to read what’s printed on the crease where my thigh joins my pelvis: Zac B. BITCHES!
Dear god.
Zac Boyd. Caylee’s Zac.
Tears leak from my eyes and run down my face. This is bad. So bad. Caylee’s boyfriend! No wonder she hasn’t called. If she knows…
Oh, Caylee. I’m so sorry.
I can’t even remember how the names got there. I can’t….
I think back to Zac, saying all those horrible things about my body in the kitchen because he’d seen. He’d seen me like this. He’d written his name on my inner thigh. Stallion, too. Had I been wearing underwear then, or had they seen everything of mine, between my legs?
They did this to me. Stripped me naked and wrote on me. Every single one of them. Four names on my body. Four names. But Thomas’s name isn’t anywhere.
I hate myself for the tiny glimmer of hope it feeds my heart as I search again for his name, letters tumbled over themselves like how he writes on his Spanish homework. But it’s nowhere.
Get it through your head, Erica. Four guys drew on you. Four guys—from the varsity lacrosse team—wrote their freaking names on your naked body. Four. Guys. And who knows what happened with your underwear!
Did they do this because it was me, or would any girl have done, token scholarship girl or not?
Throwing open the toilet, I gag. The water I drank streams out, tinted purple from the sip of Pedialyte. I heave again and again until there’s nothing left, the pounding shower tap muffling the sound. More tears sting my eyes as I stay bent over, panting.
My skin crawls. The blurred words and images take on strange, moving shapes, like shiny cockroaches scuttling all over me.
Willing myself to stay calm, I rip aside the goldfish curtain and scramble into the tub, redirecting the flow from the faucet to the showerhead. Freezing water blasts me while I fill my loofa with body gel, but it warms quickly as I scrub at the words in frantic circles. First my arms—Ricky. Then my feet—Forest. My breasts—Titties. Ribs—Eat. Stomach—Fuck. Legs—Slut. And crotch—Whore. Last, I scrub up the inside of one thigh—Stallion—then the other—Zac.
Ricky. Stallion. Forest. Zac.
But not Thomas.
Does he know what happened? Maybe I could talk to him, if I had my phone…
Eat. Fuck. Titties. Slut. Whore.
The heat overwhelms me, and I dry heave into the drain, but then I’m back up and scrubbing over and over each mark until it begins to lift, little by little.
How the hell am I going to tell Caylee?
The soapy water falls away—a murky, bubbly trail of terrible words slithering down the drain. Numbness settles over me like a net as I scrub until my skin stings and I can’t take any more. Then I shut off the water and step onto the rug. After clearing away the steam, I stand naked and exposed in front of the mirror, my entire front half glowing red and raw from the scrubbing, the ink partially faded like a splotchy painting.
But now that I’ve showered, I realize that some of the desperate hope I’ve harbored has splintered and fallen away. I thought I would feel better. I thought that removing the words would make it go away, at least a little, but now it’s somehow worse. Instead of tattoos across my skin, traces of each picture—each name—remain like scars. Stallion’s name. Zac’s. Ricky’s and Forest’s. This is worse than I thought. If Caylee knew…
Beyond the bathroom door, our doorbell rings. My gaze snaps toward the sound because I know exactly who it is.
Caylee.
THOMAS
HOT LIGHTS BLAZE DOWN ON me as I take my seat, center stage. The silver autographed names flash as I lift Eleanor from her case and pray silently that the faculty—three men and two women—will like me. From where they sit in the front row, they have to see me shaking, but I can’t steady myself. Behind them, in the rear of the auditorium, I spot Uncle Kurt sitting in shadows.
I wonder what he’s thinking. Since I was so late, I’d had to park at the top of the parking structure and sprint down multiple flights of stairs. Whi
zzing by a refreshment table, I’d skipped the donuts but chugged a cup of coffee, trying to wake myself up. Instead, it made me jittery and threatened to burn a hole through my gut. I’d barely had time to check in, tune Eleanor in a side practice room, and run through a few rushed chords of “Johnny B. Goode” before being ushered in here just as my uncle found me. He’d looked me up and down, asking where I’d been.
Now I try to study the faculty—or my future professors, if all goes well—as I adjust the mic and pop filter. One of the five is the guitar professor, though I’m hoping it’s not the scary-intense woman in yellow. She sits in the middle, studying her notes with a sharp expression, while a bald guy and tiny woman talk on her left. On her right, a guy in a black turtleneck leans in his chair while his neighbor sips coffee, yawning.
As I plug Eleanor into the amp, double-checking it’s turned on, the intense woman speaks: “Good morning, Thomas. I’m Professor Kovich. I teach studio guitar here.” My stomach drops as she continues, “Would you please open by telling us which program you’re applying for and why you chose this school?”
I cough. “Um, sure. Yeah. I’m applying for your guys’s”—your guys’s?—“uh, Popular Music Program, and I’ll be playing three songs. Singing and guitar. And, uh, what was the other question?” What the hell did I just say? Where were the lines I’d practiced till I was blue in the face?
They all stare at me, Professor Kovich cocking her head. “Why you want to attend Thornton,” she repeats.
Endless reasons. Besides being one of the nation’s top music schools, plus what Rolling Stone magazine called “cutting-edge” and one of the “most productive new music scenes,” it’s in the heart of L.A. next to places like Capitol Records and the Walt Disney Concert Hall. I’d give anything to play at Troubadour for the senior showcase in front of a huge audience; for every class to be a potential invite to accompany famous musical artists on live TV or play for Emmy-nominated shows; to work with unbelievably talented professors who care about you. To be someone.
After the Ink Dries Page 4
