Blaze (18 page)

Josh growls a little as he takes the pen and notebook. He doesn’t have as close a relationship with dad as I do, and I think part of that is because he doesn’t appreciate the awesomeness of Dad’s comics. Josh tells Mom we should just sell the whole collection and buy a big boat or something with the money. I don’t know what the heck we’d do with a boat here in the middle of nowhere with the closest lake 70 miles away, but I think Josh likes the fact that it would drive our dad crazy, since Dad can’t even swim.

“I’m thinking of maybe driving these to New York.” I lob the grenade and wait for Josh’s reaction.

I can see his jaw working for a few minutes before he detonates. “Sure, Blaze, Dad seriously deserves you driving 400 miles to return his precious comics to him. I swear we should tell him the basement flooded, sell them, and go do something really crazy, like take ourselves to Disneyland or something.”

“You seriously want to go to Disneyland?”

“No. I just want to blow Dad’s stupid comic money on something we can enjoy. We. As in you and me. Remember us? The kids he dissed?”

“Sorry, Josh, I didn’t know you were still so…”

“So what?” He flings his hands in the air. “So pissed at him? Yeah, sis, I’m pissed at him, but not because of the reasons you think I’m pissed at him. I don’t care that he barely talks to me on the phone. But how could he be so selfish and leave when Mom needed so much help? You got stuck picking up all the slack.”

“Things have been better.”

“Yeah, I know.” He looks at his hands. “I heard the blowout between you and Mom that night after the party. When you confronted her about feeling like a soccer mom?”

“I didn’t know you were listening. Sorry.” I lean over and rub his arm. “You know I’ve loved being
your
soccer mom.”

He gives my hand a few pats. “I know, sis. But you deserve to have a life. Dad took that from you.”

“You’re starting to sound like Mom and Mema, bashing him all the time. You don’t remember him the way I do because you were younger when he left. He was awesome in a
lot
of ways. If he didn’t live so far away, you’d see. He’s not so bad.”

“Do you want to know the worst thing Dad did?” Josh locks his gaze into mine. “He corrupted any halfway-happy childhood memory we ever had with the shitty way everything turned out. I can’t even look at that stupid family portrait Mema has on top of her television.”

“You mean her one photo of
actual
family members?” I try to joke him out of this rant. Josh is not the ranting type, and I wonder if maybe we need to find him some sort of physical activity as an outlet off-season.

He rewards me with a half-smile. “Right, well, when I look at that picture I feel like the four of us are lying through our teeth with our smiles. Pretending to be some happy family for the sake of some asshole photographer.”

“But Josh, we
were
happy back then—”

“
That’s
what I’m talking about. It’s as if Dad took all that happiness we ever shared as a family and sucked the guts out of it. He turned it all into lies. Like he packed up all the good stuff and shipped it off to New York. Well, he doesn’t deserve to have you ship him his precious comics too, Blaze. And he sure as hell doesn’t deserve a special delivery from the Blazing Goddess.”

I look with amazement at the young man sitting across from me. I’ve seen how Dad’s leaving made me grow up much quicker than my friends, but I’m blown to bits by Josh’s maturity. I think of the stupid, slutty photo of me circulating at that moment. The realization that it might reach Josh and the guys sweeps through me and brings tears to my eyes.

“Oh, come on, Blaze, don’t get all sappy.”

I lunge across the space between us and he catches my hug tightly. We were the young girl and boy in foot pajamas, snuggled under comforters, eating microwave popcorn and watching videos. We used to take turns picking movies and would generally watch some variation of princess movie / Pixar movie / princess movie / Pixar movie. We trusted that our parents would always protect us from bad things.

“I hated my hair in that picture, anyway,” I say with a chuckle. My voice is rough when I add, “And the people in that photo? Their story is still unfolding. Still plenty of time for a happy ending.”

“Or a crappy one,” Josh counters, and we laugh.

I pull back and look at my brother on the cusp of manhood, ruffle his hair, and ask, “Country Kitchen time?”

“Now you’re talking!” He lets out a whoop and bounds toward the stairs. I stand and carefully pack up the issues I’ve been counting.

“Come on, Blaze, blow that shit off,” Josh calls from the steps.

“You know I can’t.”

“I know you won’t.”

“I’m almost done anyway.” I make my way up the stairs after my brother to go pretend everything’s okay. I hope he won’t resent me as much as he resents Dad if today’s memory gets corrupted by his coach sharing my stupid nipple shot with the whole world. But the best I can do is enjoy a nice, normal meal with my growing-up-too-fast little brother.

I suppose I should maybe attempt a bit of extra maturity myself. Before heading out to Superturd, I stop off in my room, delete my website, and send Mark a text.

I give up.

TerriAngel445
: Where the hell have you been???

Blazefire22
: Hey there—went to lunch with Josh

TerriAngel445
: On the moon??

Blazefire22
: Left phone at home—what’s up?

TerriAngel445
: I’ve been trying to call you all day!! That photo of you is everywhere!!

Blazefire22
: WTF? I just checked FriendsPlace—Mark took it down

TerriAngel445
: Too late! Got posted on some ‘hot or not’ website. Good news is you’re hot. Bad news is that pic is everywhere. People have it on their cellphones, Blaze!! Everyone is asking me where you are! Even Mark asked if you’re okay, something about some text he got saying you were going to kill yourself?

My heart is pounding in my forehead as I envision guys drooling over my photo. Then I picture clumps of my classmates scattered up and down the school hallway, passing around cell phones and ogling my nipples. I hold my hands over my chest at the thought.

Maybe I can convince Mom I need to be homeschooled.
Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen.
I might as well just face the masses before things get any worse.

TerriAngel445
: Blaze? What are you going to do?

TerriAngel445
: Blaze?

TerriAngel445
: You are seriously freaking me out!

TerriAngel445
: BLAZE!!

Blazefire22
: I’ll be in tomorrow. Hopefully things won’t be too weird.

TerriAngel445
: Pick me up on your way, I’ll walk in with you

Blazefire22
: I’ll be fine.

TerriAngel445
: Trust me, your gonna need the moral support

Blazefire22
: That bad, huh?

TerriAngel445
: That bad. You should probably stay offline.

Blazefire22
: K. See you in the morning. Thanx

TerriAngel445
: no thanx necesary. We’ll get through this

Blazefire22
: K

I can’t resist the urge to check out FriendsPlace. While there’s no actual copy of my photo posted there, there is much discussion of it, plus a few links to the site Terri was talking about. I try to do damage control, writing to folks and asking them to remove the links and threatening the Hot or Not people with a lawsuit if they don’t take my picture down. Being officially declared “hot” for my photo doesn’t make any of this okay.

The online buzz is going strong with comments like “It’s always the quiet ones who are the biggest freaks,” and “I never even noticed her before, but I’d sure hit that.”

One girl claims I constantly park in the cornfields to have sex in my minivan, and it was only a matter of time before everyone found out what a slut I am.

It’s like my photo gave everyone permission to make up lies about me, and since everything’s online and anonymous they can fabricate whatever they want.

For Mom and Josh’s sakes I pretend everything’s just fine as we eat yet another burned casserole, but every time I blink my eyes I can see the hateful stream of vile remarks. Like pixilated knives stabbing me in the heart.

“Do you need to stay home tomorrow?” When I open my eyes, Mom is watching me with concern.

I straighten up. Suck in a deep breath. “No. I’ll be fine.”

I
hope.

• • •

When I pull up to Terri’s house the next morning, I honk lightly and shift Superturd into reverse. When Amanda appears with Terri at the front doorway I debate peeling backward out of the driveway.

“No way!” I coast the minivan away from my traitor friends.

“Wait!” Terri lunges for the doorknob. “She feels awful and has some good ideas for damage control.”

“What’s going on?” Josh asks from the backseat.

I give Terri a meaningful glare. “Absolutely nothing, Bro. Nothing at all.”

“Is Amanda seeing Mark now?” he whispers to me.

I swing on him. “What makes you think that?”

He slumps down in his seat. “Nothing, I just figured…” He trails off, and I glare at Amanda through my window. Josh is right to suspect she’d go after Mark. Of course, she’s welcome to have him at this point.

Amanda offers, “My mom would execute me if she knew I rode in a car with a seventeen-year-old driver.” This fact actually holds some appeal.

I still don’t trust her, but I point my thumb at the sliding back door. “Hop in. But Terri gets shotgun and we’re not talking until we get to school.” I glance at Josh to imply,
No
nipple-shot talk in front of my baby brother
.

Terri and Amanda obediently climb into Superturd, and I blot out my thoughts with the blasting stereo. I’m not looking forward to what’s waiting for me at school, but it does feel good to have my friends with me. Even if they are evil mutant friends who’ve ruined my life and turned me into some slutty Internet porn star.

• • •

After dropping Josh off at the middle school, I drive across the street, pull into the parking lot, cut the engine, and swivel in my seat to face Amanda. “So, what’s this great idea you have for damage control?”

Amanda leans forward. “I am so sorry, Blaze,” she pleads. I roll my eyes, and she promises, “I’ll make it up to you, really. But for right now we just need to focus on getting you through this social tragedy.”

“We tried to tell people yesterday that photo wasn’t even you,” says Terri. “But nobody was buying it.”

“I tested out the lie that you were secretly doing some modeling and the picture is from a photoshoot,” says Amanda.

“Seriously?” I say. “Did anybody believe you?”

“Sorry, no. Too bad we don’t live in New York or California or someplace where models actually live.”

“So now you want to blame this mess on geography?” I shoot. “You would make a great spin doctor, Amanda.”

She adds hopefully, “Did you see how everyone voted ‘hot’ on that one site?”

“So you didn’t even bother trying out the truth on anyone?” I ask. “You didn’t admit to one single person that you took the photo and sent it to Mark with my phone?”

Amanda’s eyes are wide. “Well, I didn’t see how it would help to drag me into—”

“It’s getting late,” Terri cuts her off. “The biggest problem is, too many witnesses saw you stalking Mark a few weeks ago. Everyone knows you were into him. So now we just need to ride things out until everyone gets bored with sharing that photo.”

Amanda adds, “People will eventually realize there is a difference between a girl like you who made one mistake, and someone like Catherine Wiggan, who is a career-slut destined for eternal slut-hood.”

“Do people really think I’m like her?”

“Oh, yeah.” The girls nod in unison. “You need to be prepared.”

“We’ll stay close by you,” says Amanda. “Just act like everything is completely normal. If they smell guilt they’ll tear you apart in there.”

I chuckle, “I hardly think…”

“You weren’t here yesterday,” Terri says. “You don’t know! It’s like you’re a serial killer with folks saying stuff like, ‘I always knew there was something off about her.’”

“Oh my god!” I say. “The online shit was bad enough. I’m going home until this thing blows over.”

Amanda puts her hand on my arm. “Everyone will just believe the lies more,” she says. “You need to get in there and look innocent.” She pulls my collar closed, which makes me feel a bit Amish. Which is probably a good look for me right about now.

“We’ll be right here with you,” says Terri.

“Seeing everyone the first time will be the worst of it,” says Amanda. “But once people realize you’re acting totally normal, they’ll find other stuff to focus on.”

I look toward the school and see a trio of junior girls by the front door leaning into each other as they stare at Superturd. One of them points in our direction, and the three of them move into a tight whisper-huddle.

Terri takes me by the shoulders and forces me to look her in the eyes. “Just act normal,” she commands.

Act
normal
, got it.

Pushing away the urge to drive home and crawl back underneath the covers for the next month or so, I force myself to exit the minivan. Marching between Amanda and Terri, I head toward my accusers.

Just
act
normal. How bad can this possibly be?

• • •

It is worse.

Worse than I imagined. And I have a pretty damn good imagination.

When we walk into the school, a large cluster of students turn to stare as if I’m Nightcrawler, straight from the freak show. I instinctively turn to head back out the door, but Terri and Amanda are right there, grabbing my arms so I can’t escape. If only I had Nightcrawler’s ability to teleport.

“Act normal,” Amanda commands in my ear, and it becomes my mantra for the day.
Act
normal
.

When two girls in my first period class start laughing and pointing the moment I walk in the door, I act normal.

When I stop to get a drink at the water fountain after third period and a girl who has never spoken to me before hisses “
Slut!
” in my ear, I act normal.

When guys proposition me throughout the day with invitations to suck their dicks, sit on their faces, and ride their cocks, I act normal.

I’m so focused on acting normal I become an android, completely closed off from feeling anything the whole hellish day. Not everybody seems aware of my Internet infamy. And some folks just give me pitying looks, or even wordless hugs, but those are worse in some ways. Those tempt me to feel something.

It isn’t until later, when I’m home safe in my room that I allow myself to experience feelings. And there are a
lot
of them. Each clomping me over the head: Misery. Disgust. Anger. Sadness. Outrage. Shame.

The shame feels the worst.

I’m on my bed, balled up, with my arms and legs tucked in. It’s as if I’ve absorbed every sneer and insult and become every awful thing said about me.
I
am
now
Su-per Slut
. Maybe if I hadn’t skipped school yesterday the impact wouldn’t be so forceful, but as I lay on top of my bedspread, I feel like I just had the piss beat out of me.

Mark
is
such
an
ass.
I punch the bed in fury. The one time I spotted him between classes, he gave me a sorrowful look and mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.” I gave him the finger before storming away.

“Dinnertime!” Mom calls up the stairs. I draw a deep breath, pick myself up off the bed, and head down toward the kitchen. I command myself,
Just
keep
acting
normal.

• • •

It’s as if I’ve entered some parallel high school reality. Like I’m trapped inside one of the
What
if… ?
series of Marvel comics where imaginary storylines explore variations of mainstream reality. The various multiverses don’t affect the main Marvel Universe (aka Earth 616) so it’s okay to break characters’ status quo, and major heroes often end up getting killed. I’m stuck in a bizarre issue entitled
What
if… Everyone Decides Blaze Is a Whore?

The comic includes a panel showing Terri and Amanda standing on either side of me as we enter the lunchroom. The double-page spread of the entire cafeteria is shown from over my shoulder as everyone stops to point and stare. Including the lunch ladies. Next, there’s the classic scene of me eating my peanut butter sandwich while perched on the toilet looking pitiful.

A series of panels depict insulting words gaining mass as a crumpled wad of paper soars toward me in slow motion. The close-up drawing of the crumpled paper bouncing off my head leads to a close-up drawing of a laser pointer circling my breasts, which leads to a close-up drawing of a hand grabbing at my ass as I walk down the hallway.

A page divided into four vertical panels shows me day after day with my head dipping lower. I pile on layers of clothes so butt pinchers will only get a handful of loose cotton. Words penetrate where fingers can’t, and I’m filled with fear that the weird girl in my gym class will make good on her threat to “nail that bitch” between classes. My alternate reality
What
if… ?
comic shows a close-up of a bead of sweat on my temple as the class bell screams,
Brrrriiinng!

The images grow more scribbled and disturbed and my features more distraught as I’m followed by the whispered words: “Slutbag.” “Skank.” “Ho.” I start to wonder how this issue is going to play out. It definitely doesn’t have one of those choose-your-own endings because if it did, I’d choose to end it all now.

• • •

“Hey, slut! Why don’t you just do us all a favor and go kill yourself?”

It’s not the first time I’ve gotten this suggestion. In fact, it’s the reason I finally deleted my FriendsPlace account. But it is the first time someone’s saying it in person.

“Cut Blaze a break, would you?” A male voice rises to my defense. “Go give somebody else a hard time, she’s had enough.”