“Yes, Viv.” Her tone is exasperated. “It’s fucking gross. Here, look at this picture.”
A pause. “Oh fuck, gross!”
“Yeah.” Bernadette moves a couple things around on the counter, almost like she’s arranging her makeup. “Like, total fucking gross. Some of them even ooze I bet.”
“Ugh, fuck, that gives me such anxiety!”
“Yeah, so let’s go tell the boys we’ve got the next rumor down pat. I’m tired of Emmett just controlling all of this.”
My ears perk up. Emmett was the one in charge? I cast my thoughts back... Now that Bernadette mentions it, it did seem like he was the one who was directing Trey and Vincent. I bet he was the one who found my nudes and decided to leak them.
Resentment and anger coil in my chest. I want to burst out of the stall and drag them around by the hair, but something stops me. Whispers that maybe, instead of rushing into things, I should instead observe.
Clearly, this is their version of some fun game. Fuck with the new girl, destroy her reputation and self-esteem – it’s all fun and games and cocktails and something to do in their free time. Almost like a hobby – Let’s crush Ophelia, how can we ruin her today!?
I have never, in my entire life, been so mortified and humiliated before.
But I cannot let them get to me.
If they get to me, they win. They’ve shown who is better, who controls who. They’ve shown me my place, which is exactly what they want. Emmett’s soft words whisper in my ear: your total and complete subservience.
Suddenly, Bernadette’s phone rings. It’s some gawdy classical music song, and I cringe as she answers it with a chipper, “Hello, Daddy!”
My tears have dried. Listening to Bernadette and Vivian slash me apart is enough to show me that clearly these girls have no shred of empathy or kind emotion in their bones. They shit on compassion and tear apart kindness – all in a day’s work for two rich shitheads.
“Oh yes, Daddy, it’s all going very well,” Bernadette simpers, her voice like poisoned honey. “We’re all just having a blast.” A pause. “Oh, he isn’t? Well I’ll tell him then! Bye, Daddy!”
“Bye, Mr. Jameson,” Vivian chimes in.
Mr. Thomas Jameson, their father. I cringe to think of ever responding to Brendan like that. He would laugh his ass off at the fake, honey-dripped sweetness and demand I speak to him like a normal human. Not to mention calling him Daddy. I shudder – what gross perverted relationship they must have.
Either that, or Bernadette is actually the living embodiment and stereotype of a rich Daddy’s
Little Girl.
She probably is. Her shoes, which I can see from under the stall door, are that sort of causal rich. The ones you know cost thousands of dollars.
She probably gets an allowance larger than Mom and Brendan’s mortgage. She probably spends the kind of money someone earns in a year in a week. Her “Daddy” probably bought her that red Lamborghini for her sixteenth birthday. She’s probably never had macaroni and cheese with cut-up hotdogs in them.
The sound of Vivian and Bernadette fade away – the door opens and closes, and I’m left in silence. Alone. Finally. But I don’t feel like crying any more. I don’t feel like hiding.
Suddenly, I’m bitter. I feel the bitterness and anger eat away at my humiliation, hardening my skin. People like me are just ants for her to squish. For her to hold a magnifying glass and say “oh, how cute” as she burns us to death.
A cold, dead sort of anger hardens my heart. I will not be intimidated. I will not back down. And I certainly won’t let them show that they’ve cracked me. So what, the whole school has seen me naked? So what, they think I’m a slut?
I’m not going to bow down.
I grit my teeth and wipe the sticky tracks of mascara from under my eyes.
I’m going to fight back.
5
Chapter Five
“Hey, little whore,” a slimy voice whispers too close to my ear, and I feel the heavy presence of a boy beside me. My elbow connects with the soft tissue of his stomach, and he gasps.
I step aside, slamming my locker and watch the sophomore clutch his stomach. He groans. He’s on the larger side, with a gut spilling over his khakis. He wears glasses, and when he recovers, he squints his beady little eyes at me through dorky rims.