After the Ink Dries

by Cassie Gustafson

  I cough on a piece of licorice and thump at my chest. Winded, I say, “To be honest, I don’t really remember it.”

  He stares hard at me, looking as miserable as I feel. “If you don’t remember, then why haven’t you asked what happened?”

  I push away the licorice. “I just…” But that’s all that comes out.

  He watches me as he sips his soda. “You see the photos, man?”

  “Yeah, that Tina posted? She’s so stupid somet—”

  “Naw, man, those came down, like, an hour ago. I mean the ones from the group chat. From Zac’s room.”

  I freeze. There are photos? From inside? But when…?

  Forest continues, “I’d show you myself, but I deleted that shit, you know?”

  I’m still trying to wrap my head around it when Forest adds, “You talk to her since, man? Erica?”

  “No, uh, not yet,” I choke out.

  He shrugs. “Maybe you should, dude. Seems like it’s crushing you.”

  I blink hard, my throat going hot. I’ve never thought of Forest as observant, but today he’s picked up on a lot more than I would’ve given him credit for.

  The lights dim overhead, followed by a swell of music from the first preview.

  Forest is still staring at me so I say, “We should probably…,” and glance down into the bright yellow of my popcorn, oil pooling over the kernels. Gross. I set it in the empty seat next to me.

  Finally he nods and leans back in his chair. “That we should, my man.”

  I will my brain to turn off every thought of Erica. Thinking about her hurts too much.

  But as we settle into our seats, tiny green aliens invade the screen. My brain says, “I think the gremlins ate it”, and throws me back to Pizzaz Pizza Parlor, reaching under that dirty arcade game to find Erica’s stick-on tattoo. There’s no escaping her. Erica is everywhere, and I realize I’d give anything to return to that afternoon, to be in that back room that smelled like fresh baked dough and floor cleaner, talking to Erica without a care in the world. Before the party. Before everything got so fucked-up.

  I’m grateful for the dark theater as I wipe my eyes.

  ERICA

  JUST YESTERDAY, CAYLEE AND I had rushed onto the field after Thomas’s lacrosse game to say hi. While Caylee went to find Zac, I’d found Thomas by the benches, reenacting his final winning save for Forest. And, just yesterday, when he’d spotted me—red marks from his face mask running across his forehead, hair glistening with sweat—his eyes had locked on mine like I was the only person in the swirling chaos of that field.

  “Erica Strange, you came!” he’d said, unable to hide his excitement even though he knew I was there all along. I’d watched him scan the bleachers earlier till he found me.

  Thomas seemed completely oblivious to Forest watching us, but I felt a little shy, one cheek full of the Altoids I’d jammed in my mouth up in the bleachers. Still, I managed, “I’m hardly one to break a deal, Thomas the Rhymer. That was quite a save you made at the end.”

  Forest cleared his throat, and with a “Catch you in the locker room, my man,” Thomas and I were alone. Bodies pressed around us, but—just yesterday—we were in our own little bubble together.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi,” I said.

  Then Coach Mac appeared suddenly, slapping Thomas’s shoulder and startling us both. Thomas nearly dropped his lacrosse stick. “Hell of a save, Thomas! Hell of a save!”

  I watched Thomas swell with pride, betraying how much his coach’s words meant to him even as his coach disappeared back into the swirl.

  Thomas cleared his throat then, eyes on his cleats. “Can I… walk you to your car or something?”

  “Caylee drove,” I said, “but I can walk you to your truck to put your gear away?”

  His face lit up. “Deal!”

  Nervously, I took his free hand, but when Thomas looked down at it, I thought I’d made a mistake or that my hands were clammy or something. But instead he said, “Your hands are so cold,” then squeezed his helmet between his knees and held both my hands to his mouth, exhaling warm air onto them. I breathed in the moment, the smell of fresh sweat and spongy turf. The feeling of him so near me, consumed by his attention.

  He handed me his gear, saying, “Better yet, mind holding this for a sec? I’ll go grab you my sweatshirt.”

  “Sure thing,” I replied, biting my lip and swooning as I watched him retreat. And—just yesterday—I remember looking around, wondering who would see me holding Thomas’s stuff. I loved the weight of his gear in my hands, of being granted such close access to the small nicks covering his goalie stick, the scratch running through his helmet’s BCP decal. In my arms, it somehow felt like the weight of belonging, even more so when he returned, handing me his sweatshirt to wear, then leaning me against his truck in the parking lot. Pressed against his driver’s-side door, I noticed the splatter of freckles across his nose, the way he looked away shyly, scrubbing a hand through his hair when he said, “Erica, will you go out with me? Like, be my girlfriend?” And—just yesterday—all I could manage was a giddy “Yes!” as he tugged at my loose curls and our faces inched closer.

  “Erica Strange?” he said.

  “Thomas the Rhymer?” I said.

  Then he cupped my jaw in his hand, eyes on my lips as he leaned in. It’s happening! I thought, and it did. Our lips connected as he wrapped his arms around me and we fell into each other. He stopped only long enough to whisper, “You taste like candy canes.”

  Then Ricky yelled, “Yeah, get some!” and we reluctantly pulled apart, me telling Thomas I needed to go find Caylee. But Thomas squeezed my hand, stopping me. “I’ll see you tonight, then?” he asked, voice hopeful.

  I pulled myself back into him, nose close to his. “Definitely. To be continued?”

  “To be continued,” he echoed.

  As I walked away, I heard Ricky slap Thomas on the back and say, “You are so gonna get laid tonight, VanB,” and Thomas’s “Shut up, Ricky” in return. But—just yesterday—Ricky’s comment couldn’t touch my elation, or overshadow Thomas’s lips on mine, or the promise we’d made to each other: “To be continued.” Instead, I’d rushed home to capture our first kiss on paper with my colored pens—so oblivious, so naive.

  Because just yesterday, I was a girl head over heels, going to a party that night with my kind and captivating new boyfriend, whom I’d just kissed for the very first time.

  Him, my Thomas the Rhymer. Me, his Erica Strange.

  How wrong I’d been to place every hope in some guy I didn’t know. Thinking he cared. Thinking I mattered. Because there it is, reflected back in the mirror. The name that changes everything.

  Like the rest of the Sharpie on my body, the ink is partially faded, no longer the angry black scrawl it must’ve started out as. But because I didn’t know it was there, didn’t scrub it away like all the writing on my front, it wasn’t washed near invisible like the rest.

  As I stare at his name, the tiny spark that was hope—that I’d somehow kept alive since waking up at Zac’s—splutters and goes out. A short-circuit behind my heart.

  Thomas.

  No.

  But it is Thomas.

  I can only stare, transfixed, at his name, scribbled in the same toppled letters, like those in the right-hand corner of his Spanish worksheets.

  Not him, too.

  I’m scrambling, scooting myself up and onto the vanity. It wobbles as I press my back to the mirror. I twist around, trying in vain to compare the two images—one mirrored, one inscribed that I can’t quite see.

  Thomas

  No.

  A feral noise escapes my throat, a sound so inhuman it terrifies me.

  No.

  But he did this. He did.

  “How could you?” I don’t realize I’ve said it aloud until I see my lips move in the mirror, feel the weight of the words hanging over me.

  I slide off the vanity; it tips forward then crashes as it hits
the wall, vibrating fury through my bones.

  I turn and fling open drawers, grabbing fistfuls of stuff—a hairbrush, toothpaste, foundation—and hurl them at the mirror.

  New mirrors cost money. But the thought drowns in a violent rattle of glass that refuses to break. The sound fuels the rage burning all traces of hope from my heart. More handfuls. Cracks split the mirror into several jagged pieces, but it remains standing.

  More.

  I tear and rip and throw.

  Walking with him to class.

  Claw and shriek.

  Climbing into his truck.

  Pummel and kick.

  Cheering him on from the bleachers.

  Thrash and break.

  Feeling his gaze on me during Spanish.

  Feeling his name on my bra line where he scribbled it with his friends. After they stripped me. Drew on me. Left me to wake to the looping nightmare of what they did—what he did—to me.

  My palms hurt. My chest hurts. I’m panting hard.

  In flickering stops and starts, my outline comes into focus in what is left of the mirror, sections of me reflected between the cracks. The mirror still stands, but barely, looking ready to cave at any moment like an important piece has fractured, fallen away. Below that is a massacre: crushed makeup compact with clumps of loose powder; hairbrush covered in creamy foundation; jumble of sticky pink lip gloss, tube of mascara, bottle of face wash, bobby pins, cotton balls, hair bands. A can of hairspray rolls free from the mess and off the counter. It hits the floor with a clang before coming to rest by the rug.

  How could he?

  In a single motion, I sweep everything from the counter. Stuff bounces off the toilet, wall, shower curtain. Something explodes against an exposed shower tile—a mirror shard.

  And this time when I scream—“NOOOOOOOO!!!!”—I follow it up with slamming fists that unsettle the rest of the mirror.

  But it still won’t fall. I scream again. Fists pound. Again. Pound. Again. Pound. Until the mirror finally collapses in an ear-shattering deluge of glass shards.

  The sight of blood stops me. It’s splattered across the right side of the vanity and melting into the chalky face powder, turning sections a violent crimson.

  I lift my right hand. Blood seeps from a deep cut on the side of my palm. For a long time, I watch the scarlet pool around the wound and run down my arm. It soaks into the sleeve of my shirt and drips onto the floor.

  At first, I don’t feel a thing. Like the girl from the mirror, the one they covered in Sharpie, this skin and blood belong to someone else.

  Then the pain starts. First a throbbing, then something deeper, sharper.

  And out of nowhere, the strangest thought enters my mind: My pain smells like iron and salt. But it’s not this thought that scares the living shit out of me; it’s the feeling that settles over me like a dark veil as I watch the blood collect then release, collect then release on my sleeve—a feeling like grim pleasure, a hollowed-out happiness. Relief.

  I try to make myself puncture the feeling, to drive it away, but with each steady plink of blood hitting the bathroom floor, my breathing slows and steadies. My brain calms.

  I will myself not to think of Thomas or his name written across my spine, but “How could he?” slips from my lips anyway, in a voice that’s dead flat. Still, the crying girl trapped inside the glass shards doesn’t bother answering. Or maybe I broke her along with the mirror.

  THOMAS

  AFTER THE MOVIES, I HEAD up to my room to hide before my father gets home.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, I lift Eleanor from her stand and tilt her into the light to look her over. With the corner of my comforter, I wipe a smudge from her glossy base and stare at the shiny autographs. Eleanor means everything to me. She’d been the only silver lining about coming back from winter break.

  Till I met Erica.

  I balance Eleanor’s weight in my hands. My phone has slid next to me, vibrating with a text as my conversation with Forest crashes back:

  “I don’t really remember it.”

  “Then why haven’t you asked what happened?”

  Because Erica’s everywhere—everywhere—in my head. In Spanish class, passing me her notebook when Señora Roberts’s back is turned so we can write each other messages. At the museum, glancing over her shoulder at me, giddy with excitement over that weird Gorey exhibit. In the parking lot at school, resting against my truck as I lean in to kiss her. Suddenly, I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d never transferred into her class. Would everything be different now?

  “You see the photos?” Forest’s words replay as my phone buzzes again. “From inside Zac’s room.”

  The knot in my stomach grows as I set Eleanor down and grab for my phone. Ricky’s texted, but he’s hardly the only one. There are thirty-four unread messages in the group chat, which I know I’ve been avoiding all day.

  Jumping to my feet, I pace the room. Last night had started out so amazing. Where’d it all go wrong? Everything had been perfect at first….

  “Hop on, little croc.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Tina’s pictures crowd my mind, but I don’t need her photos to remember. As I flop onto my bed, I can’t hold back the memory any longer:

  * * *

  Erica stands next to the bonfire, staring up at me with her huge eyes. She holds my hat over the flames, pupils reflecting the light. Her smile alone is enough to raise my pulse.

  My head buzzes with the three beers I’d chugged while waiting for her to get here. I ask if she wants to go inside, find someplace private to hang out.

  She levels her gaze on me, but her focus slips. Whatever she’s been sipping on from her purse all night has started to make her wobbly. She bites her lip. “Trying to get me alone, Thomas the Rhymer?”

  “What if I am?” I ask, because I’m so ready, so full of adrenaline for whatever’s coming.

  Her smile tells me she’s game to play. “I’d tell you you’re not trying hard enough.” She surprises me, grabbing my hand and dragging me toward the door. Only then do I realize just how drunk she is, how unsteady I am when I try to catch her. She stumbles, hand slipping from mine as she lands on all fours. I dart forward and can’t help but see up her skirt. But she’s laughing. “I fell!” This makes her laugh even harder, putting both hands over her mouth. I try to help her up and nearly fall too.

  “Sorry, I’m not being very sexy right now,” she says, but I can’t agree. Erica knows exactly what she’s doing with those eyes.

  Inspiration strikes as I kneel beside her. “Piggyback?” I ask, already imagining her body pressed against my back, my hands on her thighs.

  “You crocodile!” she giggles from the grass.

  I’m only a foot away so I know I’ve heard her right. “Crocodile?”

  “Crocodile!” she exclaims—so happy, so lively, my Erica. “Very playful little guys. Give each other piggyback rides all the time. Blow bubbles. But they get a bad rap. Chomping down on people.”

  “Like this?” I use both arms to mimic jaws and snap my curved fingers together like teeth. People can probably see us, but I’m past caring. “So how about that crocodile ride?” I ask, extending my hands for her to grab.

  She blinks slowly up at me then takes my hands. I pull her to her feet. She wraps her arms around my waist and leans her head against my chest, and I feel so full of everything—the night, the possibility, her.

  She nods her approval. “Yes. That’ll do.”

  I pull away, keeping one arm out to steady her so she doesn’t fall over again. Then I lean forward and tap the back of my thigh. “Hop on, little croc.”

  She does, and my hands grab the backs of her legs. Heat floods me when I feel naked skin. Her arms encircle my neck, and she rests her head against my shoulder. I can only hope she can’t feel the pounding of my heart as I carry her inside.

  * * *

  Remembering everything feels like swallowing glass. All day long, I’ve tried so hard to push t
he memory away, but it hasn’t left me alone. Because I’d brought her up to that room.

  My hand’s pulsing, and when I look over, I see my fist squeezing Eleanor’s neck, practically crushing her fretboard. Horrified, I release her and jump away, picturing Zac’s smirk from earlier, Eleanor’s base stopping inches above the pavement.

  Why do I screw up everything I touch?

  A new text dings through, and I blink to clear my vision. Shaking my head, I look again, but it doesn’t go away, doesn’t change. Not Zac or Ricky. Not even Stallion or Forest.

  It’s from her. She texted me. Erica just texted me:

  Hey, it’s me.

  Two more texts follow in quick succession, their previews hovering at the top of my screen.

  Just wanted to say hi. Sorry I got so wasted last night.

  Anyway, I really need to talk to you when you’re available.

  Thoughts gladiator battle in my head: Sorry? is quickly taken down by She wants to talk to me.

  My thumb clicks into messages, touching two keys before I even realize it. I stare down at the single word I’ve typed: ok.

  But then She wants to talk to me is dragged off by What would I even say to her? And that opens a whole can of ugly. What can I say? I delete the text.

  The next thought that fights through is that she can tell I was typing and that I still haven’t replied. Shit. I have to say something. Anything. But what?

  For the second time today, the cursor blinks at me, awaiting input. Maybe there’s nothing left to say. Or maybe there’s everything, and a text could never cut it.

  I remember. I remember.

  And Erica’s texting me now, saying she’s sorry? She’s sorry?

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I click into the group chat. It takes only two seconds of scrolling to find a photo. The bottom drops out of my stomach.

  No. Fuck. No. This can’t be happening.

  My phone flies across the room, punching a large dent in the M of my Ramones poster. I hear glass crack before the phone crashes to the ground. But then the poster replaces itself in my head with the weird Gorey one I’d bought her at that museum. “I understand you,” we’d told each other that day.