Lucky for him, the shadows obscured almost everything that could reveal his identity, except for a small tattoo on his lower back that nobody knew he had, except Carey and me. My identity, on the other hand, couldn’t have been clearer. Standing in my cheer skirt and a lacy bra, I’d wrapped myself around Blake’s naked torso. The amateur photographer had accidentally struck PG–13 gold when they’d captured that shot.
Most people remembered Carey had been at that game just before he shipped out. The fact that I would cheat while he was there at the game, days before he went to war for our country, only added to my reputation.
The comments on my Facebook profile, the crank calls, and the nasty e-mails had started up as soon as the picture hit the Internet. I’d thought they’d prepared me to go to school the next day, but then the call had come from the school office Sunday evening. My father and I had received a summons to see the principal first thing in the morning, but my father had already gone off on a fishing trip.
So I’d waited until the last possible minute to drive myself to school. I’d taken a deep breath and plunged through Sweethaven High’s double doors with my head held high, hoping the hall would be empty, even though I’d mentally prepared myself to be shunned. I might as well have a KICK ME sign taped to my back. Nobody would see the war paint I’d chosen—“Marine Green” nail polish for my toes—but Carey would’ve liked it. Too bad he’d already been in the desert for a few weeks.
You’ve done nothing wrong. The school doors swung closed behind me, and everyone stared at my cheerleading uniform with QUINN embroidered on the left breast of the scratchy wool sweater—my version of giving them all the bird while I quaked to Reese’s Pieces inside. Carey’s Quinn could weather the scorn. I’d promised.
My friends had crammed into the hall, along with those who wanted to witness my downfall. As Carey’s girlfriend, I’d become Somebody. I’d transformed from tomboy into cheerleader, shedding the strangled mop of hair and losing the braces. Looking more like my mother and less like a scrawny ragamuffin helped, too. But things changed that first day of school. My classmates’ whispers hushed, and they froze like cockroaches do when you flip on the bathroom light in the middle of the night. Surprised. Busted.
I spotted Nikki and Angel in the crowd. They’d kept our summer pact to go blond, and Nikki’s natural red color tinted her hair the brass of Elliot Morgan’s tuba. Angel could have been Marilyn Monroe’s younger sister. I’d forgotten how I’d obsessed over damaging my black hair by bleaching it blond. I hadn’t wanted to disappoint my friends by backing out. Now my long black hair seemed to say, One of these things is not like the others.
A small part of me believed they would stand by me. Cheer sisters. Beer sisters. Each of us a third of a best-friends charm. We’d helped one another through acne, first kisses, and cheer tryouts. Maybe that meant something. Months before, at Carey’s party, Angel had promised they would be there for me.
For an instant, Angel’s eyes flickered with worry, but it was too fast to be sure. The two of them flipped their pleated cheer skirts in disdain as they turned their twin letterman jackets on me. Carey’s Quinn faltered.
I’d known how it would be: Guilty until Carey proved me innocent. You didn’t cheat on the hometown hero and expect a welcoming parade. I couldn’t have guessed how my stomach would bottom out. The urge to tell crawled up the back of my throat.
Move your damned feet, Quinn.
Answering the summons to the principal’s office, I headed for the door at the opposite end of the long hallway, ignoring Josh Danvers when he stepped too close, his linebacker’s shoulders thrown back in a show of solidarity for Carey. They’d played football and been in ROTC together before Carey had graduated early.
My breath skipped.
Shoving past Josh, I focused on the dingy gray door of the main office, determined to make it to that temporary refuge before my courage split for Canada.
Someone shouted, “Slut!”
My face burned, and several people laughed. I would not cry, would not cry, would not cry. The desire to hide pushed me forward. One step. And then another.
I used to be like them, but then Jamie sending that picture changed everything. I don’t know if she was the one to take the photo, but she’d been quick to capitalize on it. Last night I’d e-mailed Carey before his parents could. Before Jamie could gleefully tell him what I’d done in her bitchy efforts to break us up.
For once, he wrote back within hours. Everything will be okay—rememberyourpromise—we’ll figure something out.
Then the phone calls started, with whispered accusations of WhoresluttrampTRAITOR. After the tenth venomous e-mail, I’d shut my laptop and hoped this would go away. Lying awake in my bed, I told myself to be ready for the smear campaign. For the first time since reading The Scarlet Letter, I sympathized with the adulterous Hester.
And as I stood in the hallway that day, I guessed I would hear the whispers for some time to come.
WhoresluttrampTRAITOR.
The office door blurred as my eyes strained with the effort of holding back tears. Not one of my friends had asked for my side of the story. My friends had abandoned me. I wanted to shove a scarlet letter down each of their throats.
“Call me Hester Prynne,” I muttered, twisting the familiar chain of my necklace around my fingers like a talisman.
There was no looking back. I entered the office.
* * *
Most people remembered Carey had been at that game just before he shipped out. The fact that I would cheat while he was there at the game, days before he went to war for our country, only added to my reputation.
The comments on my Facebook profile, the crank calls, and the nasty e-mails had started up as soon as the picture hit the Internet. I’d thought they’d prepared me to go to school the next day, but then the call had come from the school office Sunday evening. My father and I had received a summons to see the principal first thing in the morning, but my father had already gone off on a fishing trip.
So I’d waited until the last possible minute to drive myself to school. I’d taken a deep breath and plunged through Sweethaven High’s double doors with my head held high, hoping the hall would be empty, even though I’d mentally prepared myself to be shunned. I might as well have a KICK ME sign taped to my back. Nobody would see the war paint I’d chosen—“Marine Green” nail polish for my toes—but Carey would’ve liked it. Too bad he’d already been in the desert for a few weeks.
You’ve done nothing wrong. The school doors swung closed behind me, and everyone stared at my cheerleading uniform with QUINN embroidered on the left breast of the scratchy wool sweater—my version of giving them all the bird while I quaked to Reese’s Pieces inside. Carey’s Quinn could weather the scorn. I’d promised.
My friends had crammed into the hall, along with those who wanted to witness my downfall. As Carey’s girlfriend, I’d become Somebody. I’d transformed from tomboy into cheerleader, shedding the strangled mop of hair and losing the braces. Looking more like my mother and less like a scrawny ragamuffin helped, too. But things changed that first day of school. My classmates’ whispers hushed, and they froze like cockroaches do when you flip on the bathroom light in the middle of the night. Surprised. Busted.
I spotted Nikki and Angel in the crowd. They’d kept our summer pact to go blond, and Nikki’s natural red color tinted her hair the brass of Elliot Morgan’s tuba. Angel could have been Marilyn Monroe’s younger sister. I’d forgotten how I’d obsessed over damaging my black hair by bleaching it blond. I hadn’t wanted to disappoint my friends by backing out. Now my long black hair seemed to say, One of these things is not like the others.
A small part of me believed they would stand by me. Cheer sisters. Beer sisters. Each of us a third of a best-friends charm. We’d helped one another through acne, first kisses, and cheer tryouts. Maybe that meant something. Months before, at Carey’s party, Angel had promised they would be there for me.
For an instant, Angel’s eyes flickered with worry, but it was too fast to be sure. The two of them flipped their pleated cheer skirts in disdain as they turned their twin letterman jackets on me. Carey’s Quinn faltered.
I’d known how it would be: Guilty until Carey proved me innocent. You didn’t cheat on the hometown hero and expect a welcoming parade. I couldn’t have guessed how my stomach would bottom out. The urge to tell crawled up the back of my throat.
Move your damned feet, Quinn.
Answering the summons to the principal’s office, I headed for the door at the opposite end of the long hallway, ignoring Josh Danvers when he stepped too close, his linebacker’s shoulders thrown back in a show of solidarity for Carey. They’d played football and been in ROTC together before Carey had graduated early.
My breath skipped.
Shoving past Josh, I focused on the dingy gray door of the main office, determined to make it to that temporary refuge before my courage split for Canada.
Someone shouted, “Slut!”
My face burned, and several people laughed. I would not cry, would not cry, would not cry. The desire to hide pushed me forward. One step. And then another.
I used to be like them, but then Jamie sending that picture changed everything. I don’t know if she was the one to take the photo, but she’d been quick to capitalize on it. Last night I’d e-mailed Carey before his parents could. Before Jamie could gleefully tell him what I’d done in her bitchy efforts to break us up.
For once, he wrote back within hours. Everything will be okay—rememberyourpromise—we’ll figure something out.
Then the phone calls started, with whispered accusations of WhoresluttrampTRAITOR. After the tenth venomous e-mail, I’d shut my laptop and hoped this would go away. Lying awake in my bed, I told myself to be ready for the smear campaign. For the first time since reading The Scarlet Letter, I sympathized with the adulterous Hester.
And as I stood in the hallway that day, I guessed I would hear the whispers for some time to come.
WhoresluttrampTRAITOR.
The office door blurred as my eyes strained with the effort of holding back tears. Not one of my friends had asked for my side of the story. My friends had abandoned me. I wanted to shove a scarlet letter down each of their throats.
“Call me Hester Prynne,” I muttered, twisting the familiar chain of my necklace around my fingers like a talisman.
There was no looking back. I entered the office.
* * *
