After the Ink Dries

by Cassie Gustafson

  I know she’s talking about my posts, the desperation I’d expressed over wanting to belong.

  “I…” I attempt to argue, find a flaw in her logic, but all I see is myself trying so hard to get them both to like me, to think I’m someone special so that I could think so too. Wouldn’t Erica Strange be proud.

  I’m too ashamed to say this aloud, but Amber seems to read my mind just the same. “You’re already her, you know. That Erica Strange you drew on your webpage in all her glorious badassery. You just gotta find her again.”

  I replay two nights ago when, drunk and drugged up and hopeless, I’d tossed my sketchbook in the trash, dousing her pages with Red Bull and vodka. Ruining her. Abandoning her.

  “Which brings me to this.” From her purse, Amber pulls a plastic grocery bag and sets it in my lap. Inside is a packet of markers and a pad of paper. The markers are the thick Crayola ones that bleed right through pages, while the pad has that recycled brown paper with the guidelines on it that kids use when learning to write.

  I blink through my tears. They’re perfect.

  “They didn’t have real sketchpads, but hey.” Amber shrugs. “I figured you could draw some more weird stuff, maybe give Erica Strange an origin story?”

  I stare down at the yellow-and-green box, the row of rainbow markers, shiny like Skittles through the smile-shaped hole. And I realize I’ve misunderstood Amber all along. She wasn’t judging me. She was watching, observing, accepting me in a way maybe Thomas and Caylee never really had. “Thank you, Amber. For coming, and for this.” I gesture. “It means so much to me, I can’t even tell you.”

  She shrugs, then stands and rights the Scrabble board. “I expect great things. But on a less sappy note? I’m a beast when it comes to Scrabble so prepare thyself.”

  THOMAS

  BEFORE MICHAEL LEFT FOR COLLEGE, we took a family vacation to Cabo. Michael and I had somehow convinced our parents to let us go quad riding with a local guide, despite the fact I’d never done much in the way of driving quads. Soon enough, Michael and I were going Mach 1 through winding dirt roads in a desert gorge, guide leading the way. I tried really hard to keep up and did okay for a while. Then I could only catch glimpses of brake lights, choking on their dust clouds until even those disappeared.

  I wasn’t paying good enough attention, trying to catch up, which is why I slammed into that rock in the middle of the road, flew over my handlebars. Rolled midair. Landed on my side. Slid several yards in the dirt, helmet bouncing, quad missing my legs by inches. On impact I felt my ribs go, like steak knives in my side. I lay there trying to breathe, but the air had gushed from me.

  After what’d seemed like hours, Michael and the guide returned, tires spewing rocks. By that time, I’d sat up, still trying to breathe but barely able to because of the pain. Tears rolled down my face, but I didn’t care that Michael saw me crying because he was crying too.

  Feeling my ribs go, the steak knives… that’s what it feels like to sit on this hard plastic slide and take in the pages from Erica’s comics, posts confirming she liked me as much as I liked her, all the while reliving my own memories of the same events. It’s rough hearing her describe everything she went through from the moment she stepped foot on Bay City grounds and reading the list of insecurities I never knew she had about fitting in, or questioning herself on the way she dressed, or being the scholarship girl in “Richy McRichville.” I’d never thought about it before, not from her point of view, anyway, but it must’ve been tough for her, even before shit got so crazy.

  And then there’s the post about the party, told through her letter to Caylee. My brain fills in the gaps while Erica narrates waking up. It’s brutal, both reliving it and seeing it fresh through her eyes—how humiliated she felt, how hopeless.

  And if I close my eyes, I can picture that night perfectly, like I’m still right there in Zac’s bed, Erica beneath me.

  * * *

  I’m lying on top of Erica, kissing her with everything I have. The night’s so full of firsts. I’ve dreamed about this for weeks. And now, finally, this: my hat falling off her head, her hair spilling in all directions, kissing me back with the same enthusiasm.

  The door slams open. “What have we here?” Zac’s voice, booming through the room.

  I roll off Erica as Zac moves in. Forest, Stallion, Ricky. Tina in a yellow dress, closing the door behind her. “Told you they were up here.”

  Erica blinking, trying to sit up, running her hand across her mouth. Nose and chin bright red from our kiss, underwear on full display between spread legs. I’m about to pull her to her feet when three bodies lunge toward us, leaping onto the bed.

  “Cannonball!” Forest, a blur of gray-and-white shark.

  The mattress bucks as Zac and Ricky join, bouncing us at their mercy. From the door, Stallion and Tina look on, laughing. Zac, rocketing himself into the air, hat flying. Ricky’s face blazing red as his sweatshirt. The tail of Forest’s costume flapping with each hop.

  “Hope we’re not interrupting,” says Ricky, breathless.

  But the bouncing is too much for Erica. Panic flips my stomach. She slips from the bed, taking down paper and Sharpies from Zac’s nightstand. What he’d used to make “21 and over” signs so cops wouldn’t have probable cause to enter. Erica barely misses hitting her head on the nightstand. She lands hard on her butt. I scramble down, ready to help her up. But Zac beats me to it. He reaches down, yanking her to her feet, all grin as she falls into him. I stare as his hands wrap around her waist, hold her to him. Slide over her jean skirt.

  “Hello, peach,” he says.

  Something touches my arm. I jerk. Tina, resting her hand on my forearm.

  I glance back at Erica. Shake my head. What am I seeing? Everything, a blur of color. A windshield in the rain. Then my eyes focus, and I see.

  The bottom drops out.

  Erica, pressed to Zac. Him, kissing her.

  Her, kissing him.

  His tongue meeting hers. Hands cupping her ass.

  In my head, everything goes quiet.

  Erica?

  In my mouth: the taste of metal. In my head, roaring: But she’s my girlfriend. We’re together now.

  Panic.

  In my head: lunging, knocking Zac over. Tearing Erica away.

  Not with Zac. Not him.

  My Erica Strange.

  In reality: me, watching. Erica’s lips, tongue, moving against Zac’s. Where mine had just been.

  He lets her go. She stumbles, plops heavily on top of spilled paper, Sharpie.

  This time, I don’t move to help her up.

  I stare at her, anger rising. So drunk. Leaning against the nightstand, head too heavy.

  With Zac?

  He’s in the closet. Returns. A handle of tequila, red cups. “Who needs a drink?” Glugging alcohol into each cup—enough to drown a rat. Handing them out. Zac holds a cup. My hands won’t unfist. Slides it onto the dresser. Holds Erica’s cup. Spilling down her front.

  My Erica Strange. Mine.

  “Poker, ladies?” Zac to Tina, eyes on her dress, rummaging through a drawer. A deck of cards. “I gotta warn you”—fanning cards out—“stakes are high. Loser removes all clothes.” A smirk, dramatic shrug.

  A sound from Erica. An almost laugh, smile—How can she?—legs tucked under her. Trying to say something, voice slurred.

  How could she?

  Forest still bouncing, oblivious. Ricky sliding to the floor beside Erica. Stallion laughing behind me. “I’m in.”

  “Stallion, no one wants to see…” Zac shuffling the cards. “Enough of that shit in the locker room.”

  Tina, hand on my arm, stepping forward. “Got a better idea.”

  Cup from the dresser, rising to my lips. Tina crawling to Erica. Erica, skirt hiked high. “Erica, want a tattoo? Look so great….” Tina’s fist, closing around a Sharpie.

  Erica, eyes closed. Still smiling. Playing along. Them, laughing. At her. Wasted.

  Crackling.
Red cup in my hand. Crushed. Liquid sloshing. Cup rises, empty. Watching. Watching.

  Hating them all.

  Hating Erica most.

  Skirt hiked. Eyes half-closed. Wasted.

  Tina, a Sharpie, the cap off. Dragging the pen above Erica’s shirt. Erica not moving or caring. Me, tequila boiling through my chest. Should’ve known better. Should’ve known.

  Head thrumming.

  Zac staring. “Having fun yet?”

  Tina pulling Erica’s shirt. Covering her stomach, pink bra showing. Erica, eyes closed, head drooping.

  Zac yanking the pen away.

  Tina—“Hey!”

  Ricky scrambling. More pens. To Forest, Tina. Stallion.

  Zac holding out a pen. For me.

  “Write her a little message.” Pen hovering midair.

  “…is stupid,” I say.

  “Pussy.” That smirk. Leaning in. Cast pressing my spine. “Stupid bitch. Like all the rest.”

  Like all the rest. Like Angie. Freshman year. That other guy.

  Now Ricky on Erica’s arm. Forest, her foot.

  Everyone turned to me.

  My head spinning. Grabbing the pen. Leaning over Erica. Pen hovering.

  Scanning legs, stomach…

  “Aim high, VanB.”

  Chest, face. Eyes half-closed. Makeup smeared.

  Me, looking away.

  They’re watching. Waiting.

  Like all the rest.

  Me, flipping her over. Moving the pen over her back—Thomas.

  I was here. I saw.

  Hurling Sharpie. Hitting blinds. Disappearing.

  Tina. “Hold on… phone.”

  Me, flinging open the door. Stairs, too much. Plopping down. Seething.

  But I’d thought… Me: Thomas the Rhymer. Her…

  Them: Laugh. Pause. Laugh.

  Not my Erica Strange. Not anymore.

  Later—how much later?—everyone. Stumbling out, manic. Ricky, grin wild.

  Zac clapping my shoulder.

  Me, rising. Tilting toward stairs. Hand shooting out. Banister.

  Caylee appearing. Face glowing. “Seen Erica?”

  “Could say that.” Ricky. Like Zac. Tossing boots down stairs—tumbling Erica Strange.

  Caylee, not hearing, seeing, knowing. “She… have to find…”

  “Babe.” Zac, grasping shoulders. Tequila bottle dropping. “Took care of it. Snug as a bug in a…”

  Caylee’s face, soft. “…the sweetest.”

  Zac pulling her. Down the hall. Away from Erica. Closed door.

  Forest, slurpy kissy sounds. Following Stallion. Down the stairs. “Beeeeeeeeer pong!”

  “…out of beer.” Ricky, scrambling, scrambling to catch up.

  Me, gripping banister. Tequila. Dropping. Stumbling. Down the stairs. To drink. Calm. Sick. Anger. Darker, something darker.

  Darker….

  Guilt.

  Crushing. Choking.

  Guilt.

  For what I’d let him get away with. For blaming her. For what I’d done.

  ERICA

  MOM SHAKES ME AWAKE. “YOU have another visitor…. Feel up for it?”

  “Who is it?” I ask, voice clogged with sleep, dimly worried Psychiatrist Austin and his shark scrubs are back for more.

  “Caylee.”

  I sit up so fast, my guts and head protest loudly. She’s here. She came. What does she want? What will she say?

  “Um, yeah. Give me a second,” I say, casting around, trying to steady myself.

  “…course. What can I get you?”

  “Can you hand me that hairbrush? Do I have stuff all over my face?”

  “Yes, but honey… Wouldn’t worry about that right now.”

  I yank the brush she hands me through my hair, but it’s the wrong kind of brush and frizzes my hair everywhere. Dumping some of my water cup into my hand—onto my lap—I try to smooth it down. I blot at the blanket—there’s nothing I can do—then wipe the corners of my mouth, knowing my skin’s all sweaty and breath must be putrid. My armpits reek too.

  “Can I brush my teeth?”

  “Sweetie… sure you’re fine… Not here for your breath.”

  I eye my tray of empty cups and straws beside me, then lift it. “Can you please take this?”

  “Sure.”

  Smoothing down the bedsheets, I say, “Okay, I’m ready.”

  Mom says something to the nurse passing in the hallway, hands her the tray, then takes her seat at the edge of the room. I was kind of hoping Mom would give me a minute alone with Caylee but being without adult supervision is against the rules. I fluff my pillows and sit up as straight as I can.

  Caylee comes in a minute later, wrapped in a sweater, bare legs gleaming out of short shorts. Her smile looks nervous as she steps forward, lingering a few feet from the edge of the bed, taking in the machines, my IV, the giant vase of sunflowers my dad sent.

  “You can sit, if you want,” I tell her, gesturing to the chairs next to me.

  She hesitates for a moment then steps forward, saying something that I can’t hear.

  “Oh, um, you have to speak louder. I can’t really hear you.” I don’t know which of us is more embarrassed.

  She nods, over-enunciating her next words, still not looking at me. “Sorry, they warned me. I forgot already.”

  I nod. “It’s okay.”

  Silence.

  “So… how are you?” I ask, feeling like it’s something she should be asking me.

  “Good.” She nods to confirm. “Well, not… Can’t really compare.” She glances nervously over at Mom, who sits watching us, then fidgets with the sleeves of her sweater. Does Caylee feel guilty, blame herself at all?

  “Things have been… at school lately with the police and all that. Zac and I skipped today.” Her eyes fly to mine. “I mean, I skipped. I don’t… what he was doing.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I mean, like, have you… to the police yet?”

  “They, um, came this morning,” I say carefully, “but I haven’t really said much.”

  “Oh, well, that’s good.”

  In my head, a strange rumbling starts, deeper than any ringing in my ears.

  “Do you know, like, what you’re going to do?” she continues. “What you’re going to tell…?”

  The rumbling builds, forming a question: “Caylee, why are you here?”

  The question takes her aback. She mumbles something, pulling at her sleeves and glancing back at Mom.

  “Louder, Caylee,” I say. “I can’t hear you.”

  “To see you,” she says, barely louder this time. Her eyes still don’t meet mine as she tucks more hair behind her ear.

  “Caylee, you’ve been here for, like, three minutes, maybe, and you haven’t even asked how I am. But you’re sure as hell asking about what I’m going to say to the police. So, why are you here?”

  Mom rises.

  Caylee’s mouth moves.

  “Louder, Caylee. I can’t hear you.”

  “Why would you ask that?” she says.

  “What am I supposed to think? That you’re here for me? For my well-being?” Maybe Amber’s right. Maybe Caylee’s never really been my friend. I was just convenient to hang out with every time Zac blew her off, a shoulder to cry on. Because if it came down to choosing, him or me…

  Full realization hits like a dropped piano. “He sent you, didn’t he?” It’s a question so blunt, so brave. An Erica Strange question.

  Now Caylee’s eyes find mine: Panic. Truth.

  “To figure out what I was up to. See if I’d tell, right?” I add, and suddenly, I can see it all so clearly. Zac telling her she ruined his life when my post to her got out—even if he was the one responsible for its leak—and that she had to fix this. And still she chose to come. She chose him.

  What would Erica Strange do? I ask, thinking of my damaged hearing, my injured liver and kidneys, my gutted stomach. I think of my mother’s face when she first saw me awake, of the body I had bef
ore—before the pills, before drinking at Zac’s party, before they touched me. I ache for that body, the one that could hear and move and draw and dance in capes.

  I think of my mother, small and frail-looking since everything happened, since I stopped breathing and she had to save me. She rescues people for a living, and yet she almost lost me. I’ve hurt her. I’ve hurt me. I’m tired of hurting myself for what they did to me. Tired of pretty girls like Caylee who let guys like Zac tell them who they are and what to do. I’m tired of cowardly Thomases and foolish crushes and school hallways full of poison words. I’m tired. I’m so, so tired. But more than that, I’m furious. Erica Strange furious.

  Mom approaches, telling Caylee, “I think it’s time—”

  I cut her off. What would Erica Strange do? This. “Caylee, you need to leave. Now.”

  “But what am I supposed to tell him?” Caylee asks, fighting tears.

  The question stuns. I was right. He sent her. Zac sent her. But my answer is superhero swift. “Tell him that what he did to me is called assault, and he’s going to pay.”

  THOMAS

  ON THE PURPLE SLIDE, ERICA’S message to Caylee blurs in front of me—the pleading for Caylee to listen as she detailed everything that people had said or done. Even me running into her in the hallway, losing my shit. I hear her hope fade, grasping for anyone to care, but no one did. Instead, it got worse.

  Sorting through her final message hurts the most. To be able to point out exactly where the drugs started to take effect, where she started to slip. Who had found her? How had she been saved? Because the Erica in these pages looks beyond saving. How could I have ever thought this could blow over, that things would magically get better? But I guess I never actually believed that, not really.

  I flip back to the illustration of us at the beach—Thomas the Rhymer, Erica Strange, lying beneath the stars. It was a week before I’d gotten drunk and convinced myself that she didn’t matter, that she was “like all the rest.” Just because I didn’t know how to tell Zac to stop. So instead, I’d blamed everything on her when she’d been wasted, not even able to protect herself.

  This whole time I’ve managed to convince myself that what happened wasn’t really my fault, that I couldn’t have done anything to change how it all went down. But that’s a lie. Now, reading these pages, my head buzzes with the truth of it.