From beside me, Campbell lets out this long sigh. “Are you, like… okay, or whatever?”
I turn to her, blinking in surprise. “Yeah.”
“Heston didn’t do anything to you, did he?” Her gaze slides over to me. “Something you didn’t want? You’re not drunk or stoned?”
“I’m not drunk,” I assure her. I had a beer, but it was gross and I ended up ditching it halfway through. “And Heston didn’t…” I swallow, feeling a moment of panic that maybe she knows. Maybe she’s looking at me like that because she’s perfectly aware that I’m some kind of sexual freak. Meekly, I finish, “Everything’s fine.”
Everything’s fine.
* * *
“Damn,” Emory Hall says, leaning over Ansel’s shoulder. They’re sitting at their little lunch table, looking at Ansel’s phone. I walk by, wedged between trying to catch Heston’s eye and pretending like I don’t care if he looks at me at all. It’s been a month since the party, and although he hasn’t outright rejected me, he also doesn’t seem like he wants to come back for more.
In any case, I certainly never got an invitation to sit at the table or any of the perks the Playthings get. I’d nearly talked myself into believing it’d been his ‘test’, but if it had been, then I must have passed.
I must have.
“God, he’s just drilling her,” Carlton says, holding up his own phone. Hamilton glances over and then away with a bored look. Xavier sits with his arm around Skylar Adams—that’s new—who wrinkles her nose in distaste.
“Are those even real?” Ansel asks. “They’re huge.”
My eyes skim the room and see that almost everyone has their phone out. The reactions vary—wide-eyed, amused, impressed. I make my way over to a table with the other freshman girls that I know from soccer. Every one of them has their phones out, eyes glued to the screen.
“What’s everyone looking at?” I ask, sliding into my seat and placing my tray on the table.
“You’ve got to see this,” Amanda says.
Betsy frowns and puts her phone face down on the table. “This video that just went viral. It’s… gross.”
“Oh god, is it another video of some guy squirting milk from his nose?” I dig in my bag for my phone and see that I have a dozen notifications—maybe more. People are sharing the video like wildfire. I open up my phone, going to my ChattySnap account. The video is in the top ten spots. I click on one, and although it takes my brain a second to adjust to what I’m seeing, my body reacts differently, going fiery hot and ice cold, all at once. I know instantly, a ball of nausea building when I process what’s happening on the screen.
It’s a girl face down on the bed, a strong naked guy pounding into her while he holds her down. Neither of their faces are visible. Her hair covers her features, and he manages to stay just off screen. Bile runs up the back of my throat and I swallow it back.
The girl is me.
“Who—who is that?” I ask, pretending to narrow my eyes.
“No clue. Not even sure if it’s from Preston. It just started popping up all over today.” Amanda peers over at my phone. “Can you see anything identifiable? Like something that would tell whose room that is?”
I’ve spent all month trying to forget about hooking up with Heston. How off it was. How bad it felt afterward, when I was sore and spent, and wishing pathetically for one soft touch. How it was too hard, and too fast, and how despite all that, I’ve been alternately relieved and confusingly disappointed that he’s not like those other guys who wanted to come back for more.
Looking at the video, small pieces click into place. The way he preened toward the laptop. How he kept me down and my face covered. How we didn’t speak, how I couldn’t speak with his fingers around my throat. How, when it was over, he wouldn’t make eye contact. No, that’s not right. His eyes were dark and emotionless. Cold.
Speculation flows around me, while all I can do is stare at the video, looking for anything that would identify it as me. Thank god my hair looks more brown than red. How long will it be before everyone finds out that it’s me? That I let him do that to me? That I liked it? I finally shut it off, eyes stinging and every inch of my skin feeling the warm heat of humiliation. The rest of the table is still obsessed, eyes glued to their phones. I glance over at the table of Devils, and Heston’s all grins, looking smug and proud.
For the first time in weeks, he meets my eyes.
And winks.
1
Georgia
* * *
From the sweat on Mrs. Gilbert’s upper lip, you’d never think the guidance counseling office feels like an icebox, an arctic vortex of cold air rattling through the vents. It must be menopause, I think, crossing and uncrossing my long legs.
“Your schedule looks good,” she says, ticking off boxes on a sheet of paper. “Even with the time off, you got all your required classes completed, except,” she looks at me over her bifocals, “Physical Education.”
“What?” I shift restlessly, my skin feeling stretched a bit too tight. “I thought P.E. was exempt since I played a sport.”
“P.E. is exempt if you play a varsity sport. For two seasons. You only have half of a JV season from freshman year.” Her eyes dart up to me and I wait for her to say it. They always have to say it. “Which you missed when—”
“I missed a semester. I know.” I sigh, reaching down to pluck at the rubber band on my wrist. I barely flinch at the snap and pinch anymore. “Are you seriously going to make me take P.E. with a bunch of underclassmen?”
“Georgia,” she says, in that ever-so-patient voice reserved for students whose parents pay seventy thousand dollars a year in tuition to this place. “We discussed all of this last spring. I sent you emails over the summer. I even texted you. There’s no getting out of P.E. Every student needs their Physical Ed credits, no exceptions.”
“Fine,” I say, straightening. “I’ll take yoga.”
“Yoga is no longer available.”
I deflate. “Your text said yoga, volleyball, or swim.” Even the thought of the last one makes me cringe. “Why can’t I do yoga?”
“Because I sent that text in June. Now it’s full.” She glances at the computer. “So is volleyball.”
“So my only choice is swim?” I give my runner band another hard pull. Just my rotten luck. “Problem is, I’m not a great swimmer.”
She smiles placidly. “It’s an intro class.”
Nervously, I elaborate, “I don’t think you understand, Mrs. Gilbert. It’s not that I’m bad at swimming. It’s that I can’t. Like, at all.”
“You’ll be fine,” she insists, waving this off. “Coach James is a great instructor. And just think, you’ll finally learn how to swim!” She says this like it’s some amazing prize.
“Whatever,” I mutter. Taking that semester off has been nothing but a pain in my ass ever since. It follows me around like a nasty rash. It was freshman year, for fuck’s sake.