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“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I’m not done.” I cut her off and notice that her friend’s eyes are as wide as saucers. “You’re not sleeping here tonight. I don’t want you to ever make eye contact with me on campus, and I swear to God if I catch wind of you even whispering my name, I’ll personally make sure it’s the last word you ever say.”
She blinks and then she bursts into uncontrollable laughter. “Trace...” She looks at her friend. “Can you believe this slut? Is she seriously threatening me? Me?” She laughs harder and purses her lips. “First you’re a whore and now you’re what? Some type of mob person? Are you going to make me disappear if I don’t move out?”
“Try me.”
She stops laughing and raises her eyebrow.
I’m not flinching. I’m not bluffing. And if she does anything but walk out of our room, I’ll give her the black and bloody eye she rightfully deserves.
“I’ll um...” She’s wavering. “I’ll um...I’ll be back at seven.”
I cross my arms and wait for her to leave the room, and as soon as the door shuts I hit “post” on my Facebook wall. By this afternoon, the first fifteen seconds of that video—the part that shows her pulling some man’s pants down, will be seen by everyone.
I have to make sure she knows I’m not playing games. I’ll release the whole thing if she even breathes in my direction.
Although it feels good to put her in her place, I know my bliss is only temporary. The second that this alcohol stops coursing through my veins, I’ll have to let myself feel the gravity of this situation all over again.
I don’t even try to fall asleep. There’s no point.
I leave the room and head for the only place that brings me peace: the library. After finding a deserted couch in the back. I bring my knees up to my chest and shut my eyes—wishing that this semester would magically come to an end so I won’t have to deal with the aftermath.
I have no idea how I’m going to put that tape behind me, how I’m going to recover.
And I don’t.
I never do.
For the rest of the semester, I don’t do anything but go to art class. I keep my mini fridge stocked with things I buy from the campus grocery store afterhours—Ramen noodles, yogurt, and canned ravioli, so I won’t have to eat in any of the dining halls.
I stay confined to my room and write for hours at a time. And whenever it becomes too hurtful to read what I’ve written, I paint abstracts.
On the rare occasion that I do show my face on campus—to go to my one and only class, the stares, whispers, and smirks follow close behind. Sometimes people aren’t even polite enough to whisper. They just call out loudly.
“You want to fuck somebody who knows what he’s doing, Emerald?” “You interested in making a sex tape with me?” “Parker was way too good for you anyway!”
Sometimes I see Amy hanging with her group of minions, but she never makes eye contact and she always walks away before I can get close.
I slowly slip into a state of nothingness—where all my days blur together, where no matter how hard I try to look past that sex tape, it’s always there. Still, I try to heal myself with the things that have worked in the past—vodka, cigarettes, hot showers, and weed.
With each new semester that passes by, I ignore the numerous “academic probation” and “academic counseling suggestion” letters that are stuffed into my mailbox. I enroll in new classes that I never attend—except for the art ones. I always go to the art ones.
Each time my advisor emails me about setting up an “emergency meeting” I tell him I’m unavailable, if I bother to respond at all.
It’s not until the last day of finals week—during the fall semester of my sophomore year, that I receive a letter telling me that I’ve been expelled from the university, that I need to have all of my things moved out of the dormitory before the spring semester begins.
With a heavy heart, I call the only people I know and quickly find myself packing all of my belongings into my grandmother’s pickup truck.
As she drives me from the bustling city of New York and towards the dirt roads that await us in Blythe, she cries.
She says it’s her fault that she pushed me into going to college so soon, that she should’ve let me take a year off to simply live in the South and get over Leah’s passing. Then she blames herself for not checking on me more often.
I don’t intervene and tell her about the sex tape because it’s pointless. She wouldn’t understand.
“You’re going to be okay...” She squeezes my knee as she steers the truck onto a ramp. “Things will only get better from this point on. Just hold onto that belief. You’re beautiful and talented, and no matter what anyone else says you’re going to do something great with your life one day...”
