Speechless(108)

                It’s the most unflattering picture of all time, and one I don’t                     even remember being taken. How nice of Kristen to stick a camera in my face when                     I was drunk and puking into her toilet. I look so completely gross and trashed.                     When I scroll up to the top of the email, I realize with growing horror that                     Kristen has cc’ed it to everyone in her contacts list. All of my                     friends—ex-friends—will have this sitting in their in-boxes when they log in to                     check their email. Some of them have probably already seen it.

                At least I’m not totally unprepared when I walk into school                     Monday and find a printout of it taped to my locker. Some guy walking by sees it                     and laughs before I can rip it off and crumple the paper into a ball. I shove it                     into my book bag, my face hot with shame.

                There are more of them taped to the mirrors in the bathroom.                     And on the inside of every stall. I tear each one to tiny shreds before tossing                     them in the trash can.

                Unfortunately destroying the evidence doesn’t stop people from                     talking. And pointing. And making rude comments. When I go up to Mrs. Finch’s                     desk to turn in my Lit test, I come back to my seat to find another copy of the                     printout has materialized on top of my desk. Derek and Lowell snicker from                     behind as I carefully fold it and cram it into my notebook.

                Asha catches me at my locker after class, one of the printouts                     in hand and concern written all over her face. “Um, Chelsea, have you seen—” She                     takes one look at me and stops midsentence. “Oh, so you have. Are you okay?”

                I shrug one shoulder without looking her in the eye. Ordinarily                     I’d put on a brave face and act like none of it matters, but right now I’m too                     tired to pretend this humiliating ordeal isn’t getting to me at all.

                Kristen fights dirty. I know                     Kristen fights dirty. There was no way I could all but invite her to take a stab                     and not expect something like this. Who knows what other tricks she has up her                     sleeve. It’s like locking yourself in a cage with a tiger and poking it                     repeatedly with a stick. It’ll never end well.

                As if she has some kind of psychic link with me or something,                     Kristen chooses that precise moment to walk by, posse in tow. She looks me up                     and down as she does with just a hint of a smirk, and she doesn’t say anything;                     she doesn’t have to. She knows she’s won this round. That pisses me off more                     than anything, really.