After the Ink Dries

by Cassie Gustafson

  Untag.

  But you definitely can see details in the next one.

  Thomas is giving me a piggyback ride through the sliding glass door. My skirt is hiked up so far, the top of my thong is clearly visible, wedged between bare butt cheeks.

  Total humiliation.

  Untag.

  I try to scroll to the next photo, but it returns to the first. That’s all of them. That’s more than enough. I don’t even check to see if anyone has commented yet. Anyone who would comment on something like this… no part of me wants to know what they’d say.

  I refresh my profile till the photos disappear, then scroll through the rest of my page, looking for further posts. The only other new photos are the ones Caylee tagged of us in the bleachers at yesterday’s lacrosse match.

  I search for Amber’s profile before I remember she doesn’t do social media. That’s a small blessing, at least. Then I look for Tina’s. Tina tagged both Thomas and me in the photos so they’re on his page too, though his profile doesn’t even use his real name or link to his family. His last post dates back two days prior. It was about Saturday’s game so there’s a chance he hasn’t been online and seen the photos yet. With any luck, he never will.

  Caylee’s page has the same photos of us in the stands, then a few photos at the party with her and Zac, his smile looking like a leer. He’s wearing his letterman jacket, the arm without the cast draped around Caylee’s thin shoulders while the casted one pulls at the varsity lacrosse patch on his jacket, holding it out for the camera like a badge of honor.

  And Caylee, beautiful Caylee. Gorgeous smile, smooth skin. Her naturally sun-bleached hair falls around her face in perfect beachy waves. Suddenly, I hurt so badly, wishing everything could go back to normal, to yesterday.

  I allow myself several deep breaths, then a sliver of relief. Devastating as the Tina photos are, I know it could’ve been so much worse. Thank god Mom’s too busy (and internet illiterate) to maintain her account. I can only pray I got to them fast enough, not to mention hope the privacy settings I put on family members and family friends hold up, especially Dad’s fiancée, who seems dangerously stalker-ish. Because she’d show it to my dad for sure. He’d be horrified, so disappointed in me. I feel the crushing weight of it on my chest. Not to mention what my nana and papa, Aunt Loren, distant cousins and relations, and friends of the family would think. Or maybe they will still see it. Does the tag get removed immediately? I have to make it go away. Now.

  Through Tina’s profile, I click on the first photo of me stealing Thomas’s hat and try to find a delete button, but of course you can’t delete something someone else posted. I search to find meaning or answers in the words, but they distort into a pixilated blur.

  Forcing myself to focus, I flag each photo for removal one by one, hoping like hell all links to me will get severed before anyone in my family sees. Setting down my phone and leaning my head against my desk, I wonder what to do next. But there’s nothing else I can do. Nothing.

  I should’ve known Tina hated me this much. She’d laughed the hardest that day at Pizzaz when Zac and his shitty crew put a slice of pizza on my seat while I was in the back room flirting with Thomas.

  All I’d done was go to use the bathroom, then I decided to stop at the vending machines to buy a temporary tattoo. But Thomas had startled me, coming over just as I was pulling the tattoo free. Together, we’d watched it sail straight under the PAC-MAN arcade game. But right then and there, on that gross-ass floor, Thomas’d gotten on his hands and knees and reached under, trying to retrieve it, even though all he’d gained for his efforts was a handful of grimy garbage. He’d wiped his hands on the back of his jeans, telling me the Gremlins must’ve eaten it, and I’d laughed. Then we’d stood there staring at each other, smiling stupidly, and it had all felt like an ellipsis—a To be continued I couldn’t wait for.

  When we’d gotten back to our seats, I’d been so focused on Thomas that I hadn’t seen the pizza slice and had slid right into it. Of course it was the day I wore white pants. Of course Thomas had seen me do it and been embarrassed for me. Of course I hadn’t said anything, just melted in humiliation as Amber told them all off in true Erica Strange fashion. But what his friends had done… it’d felt personal.

  Head on my desk, I search my bulletin board for the note Thomas had left on my car alongside a rose:

  Beautiful stranger dressed in rainbows, Tell me where and I will follow. The beach? The movies? What is your vote?

  (TBD in class over football-shaped notes)

  —Thomas the Rhymer

  He’d written it the day after Pizzaz to make me feel better, and it had, even if he hadn’t said anything to his stupid friends about what they’d done.

  I’ve let my eyelids drift closed when my phone pings with a notification. Lifting my head, I see a new message.

  From Zac Boyd.

  I scramble for my phone, ripping the charger free in the process.

  Zac’s message reads: hey mouth been seeing ALOT of your ass on here.

  I read his message again and again. “Mouth”? It’s the same thing Ricky called me this morning as I came down the stairs. But why is Zac messaging me? He never has before.

  Another message appears: get it? literally your ass?

  The muscles around my heart constrict, but I force myself to stay calm. I need to find out what happened, and maybe Zac is my best bet.

  Hilarious, I type back, though it’s anything but. Just thinking about him on the other end, messaging me, makes me want to chuck my phone through the window. I can picture him in his room, sprawled against the pillows in the bed I passed out in only last night. Did he even bother changing the sheets? Surrounding him are those gray walls, piles of clothes, red cups, playing cards.

  I swallow hard and type another sentence. But seriously, what all happened last night? In your room?

  His response is agonizingly slow. So very Zac to draw it out: its a shame you don’t remember. we had alot of fun.

  My insides writhe as I read. I force myself to type words that can be calm for me. I know you took my clothes off. Wrote your name on me. Why?

  I NEED TO KNOW.

  It’s a funny thing, the rift between needing and wanting, something my dad always tried to drill into my head growing up. Anytime I’d clutch some sparkly toy or bag of candy to my chest and tell him how much I needed it, he’d always respond, “No, hon, you want that. You don’t need it. There’s a difference.” I think I’ve finally learned the difference because there’s hardly a molecule in me that wants to know what happened. But at the same time, every thrumming vein and sparking nerve of my body needs to know. And everything that’s standing between me and knowing is Zac, a fact he seems to be enjoying to no end.

  His response pings through. why not?

  I grit my teeth and type, Who all was there? thinking of all the people Caylee’d named.

  It takes Zac ages to respond: you and me and some of the guys. ricky and Forest and stallion. tina. your boyfriend thomas. he enjoyed it the most.

  So, Tina really was in the room. Thomas, too. I’d suspected it but seeing his name on the screen hurts so badly. Or is Zac just toying with me?

  My hands curl into fists. Thumbs jab at letters. ANDDD?!?

  and nothing, he replies. A beat and then he adds:

  you liked being the center of attention.

  especially after you passed out.

  its how you got your new nickname you know.

  I type the question I need to know. The one that’s been haunting me. What else did you guys do to me? Besides the writing.

  wow don’t get your hopes up mouth. i’m not a fucking rapist. none of us are.

  My fist comes down hard on the phone screen, and for a second I think I’ve broken it, but no. And yet, if they didn’t rape me, then why do I feel so violated?

  I suck in a deep breath and force it out through gritted teeth, typing: Are there any photos?

  No. Please say no. />
  of… He’s playing dumb, of course. Zac knows exactly what I’m talking about. He’s drawing this out to humiliate me, only this time it’s so much worse than a pizza stain on my ass.

  A flurry of keys. Photos. Of me. Your room.

  ahh… let me think… he replies.

  I can’t believe he’s pulling this shit. But I can.

  Are there any or not? I demand.

  no need to go bezerka bitch, let a man think.

  I hate you so much.

  oh photos. you mean like this?

  And there it is, up close, on my screen. A photo that proves my life really is over.

  In it, I’m propped against a dresser, hair stuck to my sweaty face. I’m clearly passed out, though slivers of my eyes peek through mostly closed lids. But it’s not my eyes I’m worried about. In the center of the photo are my breasts—pre-marker—large with pink nipples, laid bare for all to see. They fill the shot, so much so that I barely notice my lacy thong, which is still right-side out. At least, for now.

  Delete it! I type. Delete it right now!

  His reply is swift: can’t.

  What the hell do you mean you can’t?

  not my photo sweet tits.

  Why not? Who took it??

  ricky.

  Who all has seen it?

  knowing ricky… every body.

  I stare at the word Zac has misspelled. It should be only one word. Though it’s obviously another grammar error, his ripping the word in two is so much worse for what it highlights.

  Every. Body.

  Those two words bring up images of our school, crowds of rushing bodies. I imagine the mass of students that fill the bleachers at school assemblies. I picture everybody and every single body having seen my body, my breasts.

  I sway in my chair, light-headed, nauseous.

  Even though I want nothing more than to lie down and never get up again, I force myself back to the screen and its too-bright light. Who ever knew such a tiny device could cause so much pain?

  A new message from Zac waits: you should be proud of those tits. their ace.

  This time my thumbs move slowly, deliberately: Are there more pictures?

  His reply is the swift slice of the guillotine: you’ll have to ask ricky.

  and i’m kidding mouth, he hasn’t sent them to anyone outside our intimate little group. i made sure of it. itll be our little secret.

  Despite his “reassurance,” I go numb. There’s no way to know if he’s telling the truth or not. Hesitating for only a second, I do the only thing I can control. I click out of our chat, go to my account settings, and delete my account with the total and utter certainty that it’s not enough. Maybe Tina will repost those pictures of me. Maybe they won’t even get taken down to begin with. But I can’t take the risk of Mom or any other family member finding those photos, and at least now they aren’t linked to me. No one can tag me in anything.

  For good measure, I close down every single social media account I’ve ever had. I only feel a momentary twinge of regret at losing every picture and comment I’ve ever posted, or even some of my earliest sketches and paintings that I don’t have saved elsewhere, because what could it possibly matter now? My life is truly over. There’s no coming back from this. No way to stop it.

  Dread surges through me. Whoever said anxiety was a dark cloud hovering above someone like Eeyore and his rainclouds didn’t know what they were talking about. Because fear is far more sinister, a black mold that lives deep inside you, waiting for the perfect opportunity to engulf your body. One minute, fine. The next, infected, and you’re suffocating in it, watching your organs, brain, heart all rot from the inside out. Making you wish you’d never existed, that you don’t exist now. That it would all just end already.

  I can’t do this. It’s too much.

  My old therapist used to say taking action was “the anecdote to panic,” like it was a choice. But right now, there is no choice. I have to talk to Caylee. I have to tell her now.

  My hands shake as I open my phone messages to her.

  Changed my mind, I type, knowing Caylee will be at Juiced. Be there in twenty.

  THOMAS

  “THOMAS, MY MAN!”

  As soon as practice let out, I tried to bail quickly, but I guess I wasn’t fast enough. I sling my gear bag into my truck’s backseat and turn. A blast of wind throws leaves in my face. Blinking hard, I spot Forest jogging my way, beanie pulled low over his eyes.

  “How’d the audition go?” he huffs.

  “Not so great,” I tell him. “I fucked up the interview and the guitar.”

  “Shit, man. That sucks,” Forest says, swiping a hand over his beanie, then glancing back toward the locker room. “Well, wanna catch a movie tonight or something? Get your mind off things?”

  I get the feeling he means more than the audition, but before I can respond, Forest blurts out, “Wait, is that the great Eleanor?” His gaze is on Eleanor’s case, resting against the wheel hub. I’d set her there for only a sec to make room for my gear.

  “Can I see it?” Forest asks as another gust of wind hits.

  I slump, completely zapped of energy.

  After today’s practice, even standing upright is taking all my effort. Coach Mac had worked us extra hard till the end, knowing our hearts weren’t in it. He and the other coaches had all seemed resigned when they’d left.

  Then, to top it all off, in the locker rooms Zac had stood next to Ricky, holding his phone out, wearing a weird smirk. When I’d asked what they were doing, Ricky’s “Talking to your mom” response had put me over the edge. I’d left my own phone in my truck, but even though I still needed to check it to see if Uncle Kurt had called, suddenly I’d wanted nothing to do with my phone, or the guys for that matter, or whatever stupid shit they were looking at that would drum up that brand of smirk from Zac. I’d changed quickly and left without showering.

  Now Forest looks at me for a response about Eleanor. I hide my sigh. As a bassist, he’s the only one who gets what a big deal she is to me, even if he’s been too stoned to practice much lately.

  “Yeah, sure, man,” I manage. Pushing sweaty hair from my face, I summon the last of my energy and lift Eleanor’s case onto the open tailgate. Some of the guys filter into the parking lot, but I’m too tired to even glance their way as I flip open the latches. With both hands, I ease Eleanor out and pass her to Forest, feeling nervous about the wind buffeting the guitar too much. He’s careful as he takes her, but still, I try not to look at where his fingers smudge her gloss.

  It’s because I have my back to them that I don’t see them coming.

  “Sweet ride, my man” is all Forest has time to say before Eleanor is snatched from his hands. “Duuude!” he exclaims, but too late.

  I wheel around to face Zac, who’s appeared out of nowhere. Not only him—Ricky, Steve, Stallion, and Mario stand watching too, all within a ten-car span. But my eyes stay glued to Zac standing a few feet away, gripping Eleanor by the neck with his good hand.

  “Boyd. Be careful, man.” I feel the empty guitar case beside me and everyone’s attention on my face. I try to straighten up from where I’ve pitched forward, ready to spring. Because Zac wouldn’t actually drop her, would he?

  “Well, what do we have here?” Zac asks, eyeing her up and down.

  Beside me, Forest’s hair blows in the wind, his mouth slack. Two cars down, Ricky burrows into his red hoodie, grinning like an idiot. Stallion’s paused next to his Mustang, keys suspended in midair, face unreadable behind dark glasses. Steve and Mario stand at his side.

  Zac’s in the middle of them all in his orange Syracuse lacrosse tee, Eleanor in his fist and me at his mercy. His thick fingers curl around her neck, squeezing her fretboard, base resting inches from the pavement. Zac runs his fingers over the silver autographs, leaving more smudges. “Nice toy, Music Man.”

  He wouldn’t mess her up. He couldn’t.

  So, why’s my heart pounding?

  I try
to stuff down the rising panic. “Thanks. But, uh, be careful with her.”

  “Her?” A smirk spreads across his face.

  “Sounds like VanBrackel’s got himself a new girlfriend,” Ricky calls from his car, and everyone laughs.

  I huff, uneasy, and reach out my hand. “Just give her back to me, okay? So I can put her away.”

  “If you want it so bad”—Zac laughs, swinging her by the neck like a gym bag—“then come get it.”

  “Boyd, come on.” I clear my throat, trying to make my voice light. “She’s… one of a kind.” She’s more than that. A reminder of the world beyond Bay City. A promise for the future. And it would take only one hit to do her in.

  “Ah, man,” Mario calls out, face caught between a smile and frown. “Give the kid back his guitar.”

  “No need to get your panties in a twist, Lorenzo,” Zac fires back. With each swing, Eleanor’s base barely misses the asphalt. “I’m just getting a feel for it.”

  “Give her back, man. Seriously.” My voice pitches, and Zac laughs out loud.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll give her back. After this cool trick. You ready?” Zac raises Eleanor high into the air again, fist gripping the base of her neck. “Watch this.”

  He drops her.

  “No!” I lurch forward, throwing out my hands.

  A startled huff—Forest.

  “Oh shit!”—Ricky.

  But Zac catches her by the top of her neck, centimeters before she slams pavement.

  Hot adrenaline blasts through me. My heart slams against my ribcage.

  “Whoa, man! Thought it was a goner for sure!” Forest says, delayed and too loud.

  Zac’s smirk falls at the look of what must be horror on my face. “Aw, come on, Music Man. You didn’t really think I’d drop it, did you?” He swings Eleanor at me, her base hitting me in the gut and sending a hollow clang through the parking lot.

  I fumble to catch her, deflating once I’ve got a solid hold.

  Zac throws his good arm around my shoulders, squeezing hard. “Lighten up, VanB. So serious today! What’s with you?” He slaps me hard on the back, then shoves me away.