“Good.” She finishes the last of the tape before looking up at me. Only then can I see the exhaustion lining her forehead—from working overtime to support us, to pay the portion of my school’s tuition not covered by my father or scholarships.
“Thanks, Mom. It feels better now.”
She gives me a tight squeeze. “I’m glad. And remember not to get that wet, okay? Wear a bag when you shower so that wound will close properly.”
“I know, Mom. Thanks.”
“Of course.” In one motion, she scoops all the supplies back into the bin.
“How was work?” I ask, trailing her to the bathroom. She pauses in the doorway but doesn’t say anything about the missing mirror before sliding the armada into a cupboard.
“Oh, you know, the usual aches and pains of the elderly. It’s hard for them to sleep much.” She turns to me. “I’d give you something for that, but given the condition of your belly earlier, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. Did you eat some dinner?”
“A little something,” I lie. After finding his name, I couldn’t stomach any food.
Mom makes for her room, slipping out of her scrubs and into a nightgown before heading to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
As I watch her wash her face, I know I should leave her to sleep, but instead I keep hovering behind her like a ghost.
She pads down the hall and climbs into bed, about to turn off her bedside lamp when she sees me lingering. “What is it, Bug? Your hand still bothering you?”
“Mom,” I begin in a voice from my childhood, “can I sleep with you?”
She sits up straight and stares at me, puzzling over my words. Then she pulls the comforter down next to her, patting the bed. “Of course you can.”
When I crawl in beside her, she adds, “You’ve had a rough last few days, haven’t you? Cutting your hand on top of being so sick.”
I nod, then add a wet “Yes.” The tears have returned full force, silent but shaking my core and tugging at my lingering headache.
Mom curls her body to fit mine, then wraps her arms around me. “But that’s not everything, is it, sweetheart? Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head no.
“Is it something serious?”
It takes everything I have not to nod yes. The shake of my head lies for me.
“Well, if it’s not serious, then I won’t push, but you know I’m here for you, right? For anything?”
I nod, wishing I could somehow tell her but knowing it’s impossible, hardly breathing for fear I’ll start shaking with silent sobs.
“Dream with the angels,” she murmurs. Minutes later her breathing deepens, and I know she’s found sleep. Only then do I let myself go, if silently, until the crying stops, until the hiccups and shaking smooth. Lying awake in the dark, I feel Mom’s warmth press against me, her puffs of breath blowing my hair.
Even before this weekend, nights have always been the hardest for me, right as my mind tries to settle into sleep. Especially at my most stressed, it’s always been the point when I’ve felt too tired to use the coping tools my old therapist gave me, like deep breathing or combatting “distorted thoughts” by writing down the truths and lies of them on paper. And at night, every mistake I’ve ever made, or every single stupid thing I’ve ever said or done has haunted me, stuck on a loop to pound against my brain again and again until I’ve felt truly worthless, insignificant, unlovable. And that was before my whole world turned to hell.
As if on cue, my thoughts drift to Thomas.
Stupid. You’re so stupid to have trusted him.
He’ll be waking up soon, getting ready for school. I wonder again how his audition went today, or what he’ll do if we run into each other tomorrow. Will he even care?
Why do you care about him? Clearly, he doesn’t care about you.
I want to die, my mind repeats.
I roll this last thought around my head like the marble in my hand until at last I fall into restless dreams of razor-sharp words and cloth soaked in blood. I shudder awake, but the heaviness of my eyelids wins.
Before sleep can come for me again, a strange thought takes hold—one involving expired pills, going to sleep, and never waking up. Then I wouldn’t have to face anybody about anything. My grandpa chose to leave, didn’t he?
I start, eyes wide in the darkness. No, no, no. I can’t think like that.
And yet, as I search for the marble that’s rolled away and press its smoothness against my palm, a part of me knows that yesterday was only the beginning. Today is going to be a living hell. Everyone will know. They’ll talk about me behind my back, about the pictures Tina posted and how drunk I got. Maybe they’ll know everything. They’ll judge.
Bitter tears burn my eyes as my mind churns. What can I do? What would Erica Strange do? But I already know the answer. She wouldn’t hide from the world, the truth. She’d face it head-on and every single guy whose name marred her skin. She would confront Caylee with the truth, and Thomas, too, once and for all.
Face them. You have to face them. Promise me.
“I promise,” I whisper into the dark while Mom snores softly beside me.
Only after I’ve made my oath to Erica Strange, to myself, does sleep come for me at last.
PART TWO Monday
ERICA
BEFORE I LEAVE FOR SCHOOL this morning, Mom asks why I’m so quiet.
“Just thinking,” I reply, which is like mentioning the monster’s shadow but not the monster. Truth is, I’m rehearsing what I’ll say. To Thomas when I return his sweatshirt. To Caylee when I finally tell her my side of what happened. To the Tinas and Zacs of Bay City, who everyone knows live for moments like this. Because they’re coming for me. They all are. I’d be stupid to think otherwise.
Concern twists Mom’s face as she leans toward me over the kitchen nook. “Bug, I know something’s up. Can’t you please tell me?” My cat hoodie and black leggings have already earned me a “You’re dressed a little dark today” when I first entered the kitchen, not to mention my overly caked-on makeup that clearly pinged her Mom Radar. For years, Mom’s been saying I “catastrophize,” always playing out the worst-case scenarios in my head. It’s probably what she thinks I’m doing right now—blowing up something small and obsessively worrying about it. Little does she know there’s a legit reason right now, a legit catastrophe.
Mom speaks again, confirming my suspicions. “Is it your anxiety, Bug? Maybe time you started up with a therapist again?”
Her words fill me with fury. Like “anxiety” covers it. Like we could even afford a therapist anyway. But I shove down my anger with everything I’ve got. I have to backtrack, put her mind at ease, or she’ll never let this go.
“Everything’s fine, Mom. Really. I’m just… stressed about school and don’t feel super great.”
“Are you sure it’s nothing more? You seemed so upset last night.”
“I was tired is all, and this new school’s really demanding. Been trying to keep my grades up.”
She hesitates, and I know she’s thinking about the GPA I have to maintain to keep my scholarship. “Well, can I at least help you rewrap your hand before you go?” she asks.
I breathe in relief. “I did already.” I’d replaced the bandages right before I texted Caylee for the eighth time. That’d happened somewhere between me sending her the first text right when I got up and the last one while picking dehydrated apples from my oatmeal. And yet, to all of the above, there’s been no response. Nothing. Cell silence. I need to find her alone and get her to hear me out.
Breaking her hard stare, Mom kisses my forehead. “Well, I’ve got one more night shift today, then it’s off for four days! I’ll need to catch up on sleep, but then maybe we can go see a movie tomorrow night? Caylee can come too, if she wants.”
Mom hates going to movie theaters—she says they’re overpriced and too loud for her “old lady ears”—so I know she’s only trying to be nice, which wrings my stomach. That, and
her saying Caylee’s name. I manage a grateful smile for Mom and a “That would be fun” before scooting out of my chair and reaching for my backpack.
Mom stands as well, gathering up the bowls of oatmeal. “Why don’t you stay home today, sweetheart? You could get some more rest, take care of that hand.”
I huff in a way that lets her know she’s being ridiculous. “Mom, I’m fine. I wouldn’t go to school if I wasn’t.”
Weren’t, Dad’s Grammar Police voice says in my head. It’s subjunctive.
“Now please drop it. I gotta go.” I try to load as much finality into my voice as possible, because the truth is I’d love nothing more than to stay home—bolt to my room, throw myself under eighty layers of blankets, and smother myself in my too-hot breath and sweat until they find me, a shrunken mummy, years after the Sharpie’s long since faded. My brain shrieks RUN! Go anywhere that’s away from school and everyone who must know by now.
Shutting down my social media was the only option I had yesterday, but it also means I have no idea what fresh-grown horrors the day could bring. And even though only a select few have my phone number—Thomas, Caylee, Amber—I still thought I’d somehow wake to dozens of cruel texts. Texts from unknown numbers saying things like Nice tits and Get sum!!!! and Everyone knows you’re a whore and Slut and I’d hit that. But there was nothing like that. Not a single text, which was almost worse. The quiet felt so unnerving. I tell myself that, aside from Caylee and Thomas never texting back, it’s maybe a good sign, that nobody cares. That this really was only a stupid prank, and it will all blow over soon.
From inside my hoodie pocket, my marble reminds me that this doesn’t feel like a stupid prank—any of it—and I’d be fooling myself to think this level of gossip isn’t on everyone’s lips. I roll the smooth glass between my fingers as I head for the front door. It helps for some reason, though it still takes everything I have to imagine Erica Strange’s cape rustling behind me, feel its hem graze the backs of my legging-clad thighs, imagine peering at the world through the eyeholes of a violet mask. I think to myself: Erica Strange would go and Just get through today. It’s only one day.
And the part I hate myself for the most: Thomas will be there. Maybe he’ll explain. Because what could he possibly say that could change anything? I was so stupid to text him last night, but I won’t be again. I’ll confront him and that will be that.
“Have a great day at school, Bug!” Mom calls after me. She has no way of knowing how impossible her words are. That today, “great day” and “school” go together like “poison” and “small children.” Not that I blame her for being clueless. She couldn’t possibly know what’s going on inside my head, which is a tiny gift from the universe.
As I walk to my car, the words keep playing over and over in my mind, pounding with each footstep: Erica Strange would go. Erica Strange would go. Even though Caylee hasn’t texted me back and Caylee always texts me back, Erica Strange would go. I need to get this over with.
THOMAS
EVERY TIME I CLOSED MY eyes last night, my brain flooded with the picture of shirtless, passed-out Erica, merging with flashes from the audition stage. When I’d finally fallen asleep, I’d jerked myself out of one shitty dream and into the next, feeling like I was gonna puke.
Though none of my actual dreams were about Erica, they were all disturbing. Heavy. Full of giant lizards with sharp teeth. Lacrosse balls that turned to dust mid-flight. Dark auditoriums with no lights or doors. Microphones that screamed like they were being murdered. And Eleanor. In nearly every single dream, there was my guitar—splintering, cracking, breaking. And I could never stop it from happening.
In one dream I was sprinting through the woods, trees whizzing by. Then suddenly there was a break in the trees, and I nearly fell off a cliff, catching myself just in time. A few feet away, Zac materialized, gripping Eleanor by her neck, holding her over the cliff’s edge.
“VanB,” he calls out. “Tell me not to.”
But I’m rooted to the spot, can’t move or speak.
A grin splits his face. I watch in horror as he removes one finger at a time from Eleanor’s neck like a sick countdown.
I jolted awake, and by the time I managed to fall asleep again, the sky outside had already started to lighten.
It’s a new day, the first time I’ll see Erica since the party. And midway through brushing my teeth, I’ve made my decision. I’m going to talk to her, try to catch her before class and say hi. I should’ve just texted her back last night instead of smashing my phone like an idiot. Those pictures Tina posted sucked, but they weren’t as awful as the ones Zac sent. But at least those didn’t get posted online so it could’ve been a lot worse. And Erica hadn’t seemed too upset in her text messages so maybe we can move past this. Everything will be fine, I tell myself as I open my truck’s backseat and slip her boots into my bag. It wasn’t that big of a deal. We can meet before the bell, talk in Spanish class like we always do. I’ll say I had nothing to do with those Tina pictures, and Erica probably doesn’t even know about the others. I’ll tell her I’m sorry I didn’t text her back, that my phone’s broken, tell her the good news about my audition. Maybe she’ll even be happy for me.
When I get to the school parking lot, her car’s not here yet, so I drop her boots in her spot. I know she’ll be worried about them.
But then I don’t make it thirty feet past the front doors before Steven, our lead defenseman, bumps fists with me in the hallway. “VanB, heard you like adult coloring books.”
I stare at him blankly.
“With Sharpies,” he adds.
I feel my panic rising. “Where’d you hear that?” I ask.
Steven’s smile falters. Clearly, this wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. “Just something Ricky shared with us.”
“Shared what with you?” But I already know.
“The pictures, man. The video.”
The video?
“You were there, right?” he continues. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen them. If so, you’re definitely the only one who hasn’t….”
I stare around me in horror. I knew there were pictures, but a video? From Zac’s room?
Why the fuck did I smash my phone? Why’d I try so hard to keep myself out of the goddamn loop? I just didn’t want to see… But ignoring everything didn’t make it go away either. Not by a long shot. Deep down, I knew it wouldn’t. Shit like this doesn’t just go away. Coward. You fucking coward. And now there’s a video? What the hell is on it? Am I on it?
“Weren’t you, like, into her, man?” Steven adds, a little hesitant. “Probably not anymore, am I right?”
Where the hell is Zac? I’ll kill him. Or more important, where’s Erica?
But if today’s anything like last week or the week before, I know exactly where to find her when she gets here. With any luck, I can still catch her before anyone else does.
ERICA
MOST OF THE SCHOOL IS already here by the time I pull in. I’d wanted to get here early, well before first bell, but I stalled too long. Seeing all these people—every body—makes me physically ill, but I can’t skip school. Not after pushing so hard to come. Plus, the office would notify my mother, which would be yet another red flag she could stick in her cloud of “What’s wrong, Bug?” suspicion.
But there’s something in my parking spot. A black cat, or a trash bag, or a pile of… boots. My boots. I stop, halfway pulled in, and hop out. The car behind me honks and whips into the spot across from me.
There they are. My boots. Did Zac put them here? I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed them until I scoop them up and, hopping on one foot, replace my ballet flats with them. Even without socks, the boots feel so comfortable, like a long-lost friend, which is exactly what I need today. I fight the memory of when I last saw these boots, that insists on asking if the white scrape on the left toe is new and how it got there. Hoisting my backpack over my shoulder, I try to summon Erica Strange—I need her more than ever t
oday—and head for our usual mermaid meeting spot.
Caylee’s car is here, but there’s no sign of Caylee even though it’s where we always meet. Still, I knew today would be different. She’s ignored me since Juiced.
Turning in a full circle, I still don’t see her anywhere. What I do see is a senior girl staring at me and laughing as she closes her car trunk. I recognize her from the day Mom and I came to enroll me here. The girl had been in the principal’s office cursing up a storm then, and I hadn’t talked to her. But now she’s gawking at me, sticking her tongue in her cheek and moving her hand in the universal sign of a blowjob.
My skin crawls. Clearly I’m missing more puzzle pieces, and here’s one of them.
Worse, Amber spots me two minutes later, hair as red as her lipstick. She’s sitting on a bench right outside the main doors, dressed in her usual dark lace, and for once she’s not on her phone. My chest tightens. I didn’t expect her to let me go all day without talking, but I also didn’t expect her to seek me out so intently.
I’d decided on the way to school that the best way to deal with today was to pretend like none of it mattered, to slap a plastic grin on my face, but that’s a hell of a lot harder in front of no-bullshit Amber. Still, all I want to do is find Caylee and force her to listen.
As I walk up to Amber, I hide my bandaged hand in my sweatshirt pocket and manage some warped version of a smile, plastered on top of my face full of makeup—my real-life version of Erica Strange’s mask, a shield of indifference against the world. Amber rises from the bench when I near.
“Hey,” I say, testing the waters.
I expect her to comment on how much makeup I’ve caked on, or my godawful fake smile, or a snarky something else. Instead, she launches straight into what I really don’t want to talk about. “Erica, what happened after I left the party? Really? Did someone hurt you?”
Moldy panic spreads through my chest as I stretch the plastic smile to breaking. “What do you mean? It was nothing like that.”
After the Ink Dries Page 12
