And then I scroll through the chat. Disgusting comments about my body, boys declaring what they’d do to a girl like me, girls slandering my small boobs. The more I scroll, the more I feel heat burn my face.
Everybody has seen this intimate moment of mine.
This thing has been downloaded fifty-seven times. I feel my breath start to accelerate. Fifty-seven boys are going to jerk off to my picture and distribute it amongst my friends.
I want to cry.
“Ophelia, I am so sorry,” Lily says. And she sounds sincere, she really does. But she also just spent an hour in Calculus with me and didn’t say shit.
“Please leave me alone,” I hear myself say. I realize, vaguely, that my voice is weak, breathless.
She looks like she wants to stay, but she nods and leaves. When she does, I hear her whisper, “oh, no”.
I take a look in the mirror, but all I see is that fucking seductive, cringey as fuck photo of me. So that’s why they took my phone. I close my eyes, rest my hands on the sink. I consider going home. My body sags with the weight of too much shit.
What kind of monsters are these people?
I’ve done nothing to them!
Hot tears prick my eyes, threatening to expose my weakness. I tilt my head up, willing them to go back in, willing myself to not give a shit.
I will not be broken.
I am strong enough to face this. The sun will rise in the east and set in the west, and I will be okay. I will be okay. I will be okay.
When I open my eyes, they’re red with unshed tears. But it’s better than nothing. I straighten my shoulders and smooth out my polo shirt and skirt.
I will fucking end The Elites.
The door swings open and a girl says, “Oh. . .”
I look at her. She’s young, probably a freshman, but my eyes are drawn to the things littering the hallway behind her. She looks downcast and she starts to back away.
“Move, please,” I say, maneuvering beside her.
It can’t possibly be. . .
I look up and down the hallway. Thousands upon thousands of my nudes have been printed out and scattered upon the floor. Curiously, I realize that on these photos my face has been blacked o
ut. Why? At the very end of the west wing, I can see a janitor start to sweep them up. My cheeks burn – he probably has a family.
Just then, the bell rings. I want to scream at it – make them go back inside! Time slows. My classmates stream out of their classes. Some boys whoop, grabbing pictures left and right. Most of them get trampled. I watch as my dignity and my respect crumble before my very eyes.
Emmett and Vivian appear in the throng. Her red hair is in curls this time, and when he wraps an arm around her tiny shoulders, he twirls one with his finger. His eyes catch mine, and the smile he sends me is positively vile.
I school my face into a mask, but inside I can feel my composure shattering. I race back into the bathroom and lock myself in the farthest stall. It takes every reserve of strength to not break down. The commotion of the hallway settles down, and when the tardy bell rings, I inch back out after the last girl leaves the bathroom. I want to make a break for my car. Screw school today. I just want to go home and have a good cry under my blankets and never see anyone ever again. But when I peek out, there are several lingering groups.
I shut it, sweeping the manual lock into place.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
There’s a jiggle on the handle. A polite knock.
“You can’t have the door locked, dearie,” says the female on the other side. “It’s a fire hazard.”
I don’t respond. I can hear the woman waiting for my response. But I can’t trust my voice or I might start crying.
I open it, and it’s a nice little lady. Probably from the front desk.