friends, I wouldnât give a damn what those stuck-up bitches thought, but after a long month of loneliness, I just want a break. The silence, the cold shoulders: theyâve worn me down, and Iâm so freaking sick of feeling low, I could scream.
I donât. Instead, I stop at one of the fast-food carts and fill my mouth with greasy fries, smothered with chili and cheese and enough calories to make a girl faint.
Maybe my mom was right: all those times she said Iâd have to face the consequences of my actions. Maybe this is it, my karma, my payback for playing around and bringing shame on my family. God, I remember all those screaming matches we had after the video broke. She couldnât believe that sheâd brought me up so badly to turn out a cheap slut, a whore. Thatâs what she says, but whatever. I tried to defend myself at first. I mean, Iâm not pregnant or on drugs, and if the video hadnât got out, she wouldnât think any different of me. But I guess having everyone you know email you with shots of your half-naked daughter makes you lose all perspective, because anything I said only made her madder, until we couldnât even stay in the same room without screaming.
And now I get the silent treatment. Money goes into my account every two weeks, but aside from that, I havenât heard a single word from her since I left California. I donât miss her; I just miss what it was like between us, before.
Sighing, I use my late key on the back gate and wander across the quad. Itâs silent and still, and usually I find that the neat lawns and pretty stone archways calm me down, but tonight I wish it were humming with activity, anything I could be a part of. Cold staircase, empty hall. Emilyâs room is as depressing as ever, and I collapse in front of my computer and reach for another fry, now soggy and gross. I check email, but as usual thereâs nothing except junk and the handful of Tyler-related Google alerts, so I boot up my instant-messenger program and send out a silent prayer that somebodyâs on.
AJ369, magikman, rudeyrudeâonly boys I used to flirt with. And then I catch sight of the schedule still pinned above the desk and figure there might just be someone who feels as much of an outcast as me. Iâve got her email and screen-name details somewhere in the exchange paperwork, so I only have to spend ten minutes rooting through every freaking pamphlet they sent before I find it.
Send chat request to user EMLewis.
Emily
When I wake up the next morning, Sam has disappeared and thereâs nothing but wrinkled navy sheets tangled around me where his body used to be. My jeans are digging into my hip, and the underwire from my bra is squashed against my ribs, but nothing can stop the satisfied grin that spreads across my face when I remember last night. Just as he promised, Sam proved himself to be a complete gentleman, happy to keep things decent.
But oh, can that boy kiss.
Squinting, I catch sight of the digital clock display. Eleven? I never sleep that late! With a start, I sit up.
Ouch.
Falling back onto the bed, I wait for the thump in my head to subside. So this is what a hangover feels like. After a few more minutes, I sit upâfar more cautiously this timeâand try to ease the tension from my neck. Searching for my shoes, I wonder if I should leave a note for Sam. Heâs probably at the gym, and it seems rather rude to just go without a word, but post-kissing protocol is completely beyond me.
Eventually, I find a scrap of paper and a pen, and then spend another ten minutes deliberating over the contents.
Hiâlast night was fun. E.
After half a dozen tries, I finally strike the right carefree tone and let myself out. His room is on the third floor of the frat house, and as I make my way down the back stairs, I can see party debris spread throughout every room. Beer cans, empty convenience-food wrappers, and even a few boys,
I donât. Instead, I stop at one of the fast-food carts and fill my mouth with greasy fries, smothered with chili and cheese and enough calories to make a girl faint.
Maybe my mom was right: all those times she said Iâd have to face the consequences of my actions. Maybe this is it, my karma, my payback for playing around and bringing shame on my family. God, I remember all those screaming matches we had after the video broke. She couldnât believe that sheâd brought me up so badly to turn out a cheap slut, a whore. Thatâs what she says, but whatever. I tried to defend myself at first. I mean, Iâm not pregnant or on drugs, and if the video hadnât got out, she wouldnât think any different of me. But I guess having everyone you know email you with shots of your half-naked daughter makes you lose all perspective, because anything I said only made her madder, until we couldnât even stay in the same room without screaming.
And now I get the silent treatment. Money goes into my account every two weeks, but aside from that, I havenât heard a single word from her since I left California. I donât miss her; I just miss what it was like between us, before.
Sighing, I use my late key on the back gate and wander across the quad. Itâs silent and still, and usually I find that the neat lawns and pretty stone archways calm me down, but tonight I wish it were humming with activity, anything I could be a part of. Cold staircase, empty hall. Emilyâs room is as depressing as ever, and I collapse in front of my computer and reach for another fry, now soggy and gross. I check email, but as usual thereâs nothing except junk and the handful of Tyler-related Google alerts, so I boot up my instant-messenger program and send out a silent prayer that somebodyâs on.
AJ369, magikman, rudeyrudeâonly boys I used to flirt with. And then I catch sight of the schedule still pinned above the desk and figure there might just be someone who feels as much of an outcast as me. Iâve got her email and screen-name details somewhere in the exchange paperwork, so I only have to spend ten minutes rooting through every freaking pamphlet they sent before I find it.
Send chat request to user EMLewis.
Emily
When I wake up the next morning, Sam has disappeared and thereâs nothing but wrinkled navy sheets tangled around me where his body used to be. My jeans are digging into my hip, and the underwire from my bra is squashed against my ribs, but nothing can stop the satisfied grin that spreads across my face when I remember last night. Just as he promised, Sam proved himself to be a complete gentleman, happy to keep things decent.
But oh, can that boy kiss.
Squinting, I catch sight of the digital clock display. Eleven? I never sleep that late! With a start, I sit up.
Ouch.
Falling back onto the bed, I wait for the thump in my head to subside. So this is what a hangover feels like. After a few more minutes, I sit upâfar more cautiously this timeâand try to ease the tension from my neck. Searching for my shoes, I wonder if I should leave a note for Sam. Heâs probably at the gym, and it seems rather rude to just go without a word, but post-kissing protocol is completely beyond me.
Eventually, I find a scrap of paper and a pen, and then spend another ten minutes deliberating over the contents.
Hiâlast night was fun. E.
After half a dozen tries, I finally strike the right carefree tone and let myself out. His room is on the third floor of the frat house, and as I make my way down the back stairs, I can see party debris spread throughout every room. Beer cans, empty convenience-food wrappers, and even a few boys,
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