Populazzi

Chapter Thirty-Five



In one of the Elizabeth George mysteries I'd been reading, a vicar dies by hemlock poisoning. The vicar knew he was dying but was powerless to do anything about it as he suffered forceful seizure after seizure. His tongue swelled to several times its size, filling his mouth and cutting off his air. It succeeded in doing this despite the fact that the vicar had nearly managed to chew it off. He had clawed his face in agony, one of his eyeballs had burst from the pressure of his asphyxiation, and he was tortured to the point where it must have been sheer, blissful pleasure to surrender to death.

My next several hours were a lot like that.

Not surprisingly, Dad had called because he had come back early from the shore to find Hiroshima in his house. Even across our living room, I could hear the Bar Wench screeching, "My underwear drawer!" in the background.

From the second-hand description I got through my mom, it sounded like the remaining party guests were in no hurry to leave, so the Bar Wench had Dad call the police. That got rid of everyone, though there was still a mess of epic proportions. I of course volunteered to clean it up, but Mom said they were getting a professional cleaning crew. I was no longer welcome anywhere near Dad's house. If I showed up there, the Bar Wench swore she'd get a restraining order. Dad himself wasn't talking about legal action, but he did have Mom tell me that right now, he had no desire to see me ever again.

This was bad enough, but of course the phone call led Mom and Karl to ask a rash of obvious questions. What the hell was I doing at my dad's house when I was supposed to be at a party at Trista's, for example. And since when the hell was I even talking to my dad at all?

Much as I begged the ground to open up and swallow me whole, it somehow failed to do so, which meant I actually had to stand there and explain everything to them. Every lie, every deception, every intricate, layered ruse.

Mom sobbed. Karl seethed.

And when it was over, they kept sobbing and seething. They didn't scream. They didn't shout. Karl didn't calmly hand down one of his baroque punishments. They just sat there. For ages. Finally Karl turned to Mom and quietly asked, "How come Lenny's the lucky one who doesn't have to see her again?"

"I wish I knew," Mom said.

I stood there, waiting for my punishment, my lecture, something—but nothing ever came.

I went up to my room, but I didn't know what to do with myself. There was no one I could call. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't concentrate on anything. I felt too much. I felt guilty and heartbroken. I felt furious at Trista, at Ree-Ree, at Eddie... but mostly at myself. I hated myself. I loathed myself. I desperately wanted to get away from myself, to disconnect, to shut myself off and escape my own brain.

I grabbed the car keys.

I knew Mom and Karl wouldn't stop me. It seemed I was as dead to them as I wanted to be to myself. Remembering Trista's advice, I eschewed Dunkin' Donuts and went straight for the McDonald's drive-through. I didn't get a burger. I got four thirty-two-ounce Chocolate Triple Thick Shakes and five large orders of french fries. I popped the top on one of the shakes immediately and started dipping and munching as I drove home. It felt good. I didn't have to think. I could concentrate on my favorite mix of flavors: the crispy saltiness of the fries and the sweet, smooth richness of the shake.

When I got home, I noticed Karl's car wasn't there. He and mom must have gone out. Good. Better.

I put the top back on the shake, grabbed my tray of drinks and bag of fries, ran up to my room, and shut the door. I tried to eat slowly so I could savor the taste, but that left too much time to think. It was better, far better, if I just stuffed—dipped and ate, dipped and ate, dipped and ate, breaking it up every now and then with a huge swig of shake.

By the time I was halfway through the feast my stomach felt painfully distended, and I didn't even like the taste of fries and shake anymore, but if I stopped, I'd have to go back to feeling, and that wasn't an option. So I kept going. I wanted the dipping, eating, and swigging to go on forever.

Too soon it was over. I'd finished everything, and I was left with nothing but the feeling of all that food—a thick poison sloshing in my belly. I thought I might throw up without even trying.

I crawled into the bathroom and shut the door. I had never asked Trista how she made herself throw up. I just assumed she stuck her finger down her throat. I lifted the lid of the toilet. The faint scent of disinfectant filled my nose and made me even more nauseous.

Good. Maybe that would help.

I leaned forward, resting my forearm on the edge of the toilet seat and reaching a finger down my throat as far as it could go.

I gagged. I coughed.

I didn't throw up.

I tried it again and again. My fingernails rasped the back of my throat.

Nothing. Coughing and gagging, that was it.

I began to panic. What if I couldn't do it? What if I was stuck with everything I'd eaten? I could feel the mass of it in my stomach, large and bulbous and festering. I couldn't keep it inside me. I'd lose my mind if I had to.

I leaned further over the bowl, thrusting my finger deeper and deeper, swirling and scratching and searching for the trigger that would finally end the—

Bliss! A waterfall of half-digested shake and French fries poured out of me. Immediately, I dove back in, ignoring my watering eyes and running nose. My body knew what I wanted now, and soon another lava flow erupted. I was purging; purging my sins, triumphantly scraping them out of my body over and over until there was nothing left.

I was empty.

I was also dizzy.

My heart raced and pounded like I was being chased, but I had no energy to run.

I curled up on the oval bath rug and went to sleep.

***

When I woke up, I couldn't swallow. For just a second, I didn't know why.

Then the rancid sweet smell hit me and I remembered.

I reached up and flushed it away without even looking,

My teeth felt mossy. My jaw ached and the glands beneath were swollen like golf balls. I could smell the sick on my hand. I had to wash it away. I tried to stand, but I was too woozy. I rested on the rug a bit then used the sink to pull myself up. I saw myself in the mirror: Red, watery, and blotchy. I ran the tap and splashed cold water on my face.

I had no idea how this worked for Trista two or three times a week. If she thought she wasn't a "real" bulimic, she was crazy. I felt completely wrecked ... but the worst part was I could already sense every hideous feeling I thought I'd flushed away still lurking, just waiting to pounce on me again.

I tried to put myself back together. I brushed my teeth, sipped a big glass of water, and popped a throat lozenge. I went back to my room, opened my window, and took another nap to try to clear my head.

When I woke up, I still felt completely lost. I went to my computer and checked my mail.

Trista Camello had invited me to join a new group on Facebook: Cara Leonard Is a Great Big Whore.

So it begins.

I clicked on the link and joined so I could read all the posts. Trista had been busy. She'd already put together a pretty large group. So far seventy-five people believed I was a Great Big Whore.

All the Populazzi were members of the group. Even Eddie, who I thought needed me to be his beard. I guess he now agreed with Trista that my word would be easily discredited. Nate Wetherill was a member. That was quite a coup, since I thought he never used his computer for anything but psychedelic screen savers. He was kind enough to post an MP3 of his "Succubus" song for the group. There were lots of other members, many of whom I didn't know by name, but their profile pictures looked familiar: I'd seen them at my party less than twelve hours ago.

Sorry—I meant Trista's party.

The posts themselves were pretty fascinating. Some were even laughable, like the one from the Jock who said I'd managed to "cheer on" the entire basketball team during a five-minute time-out. Some were practically investigative reporting, like the Scenester who posted, "TheMany Faces of Cara Leonard," along with a frumpy picture of me from the start of the year, a picture of me as emo-girl, and a picture of me looking fabulous at the start of last night's party. Some posts took a grain of truth and ran with it, like one that started with my penchant for odd foods and extrapolated to me being part vampire. That, she explained, was why I did emo so well. Every post ended with "Cara Leonard is a great big whore. "

The most recent post was from Trista. It reached out to anyone who might know people at Pennsbrook, so everyone could find out what I'd really been like before I came to Chrysella.

Time to leave my bedroom. Mom and Karl were back home, I realized. Their door was closed, but I could hear their TV. I went downstairs and heated some chicken noodle soup, which I ate in front of the TV until I was ready for bed. I figured I'd check the Facebook page again in the morning. No sense killing the suspense before then.





Sure enough, by the time I got up on Monday, the legions of people who thought I was a Great Big Whore had grown to one hundred fifty. Some of these were from different states. One was from Germany. Weird. Several new members were from Pennsbrook. None of them were people I knew well, but I recognized the names and faces. Not surprisingly, they dished all they knew about me, which was basically that I was a misfit who had only one friend and peed herself in class. Even that story got twisted over the course of several posts, until it seemed like Claudia and I were actually lesbian lovers who had made some kind of weird cultish pact to pee only in our pants and continued doing so right up until the day I left for Chrysella.

I probably should have been upset, maybe screaming for justice. I wasn't. I was numb.

When I walked into school, once again I felt every pair of eyes on me, but it was very different now. I didn't meet anyone's stare. I walked right to my locker. Hanging from its handle was a large diaper, heavy with something yellow I hoped was apple juice.

It didn't smell like apple juice.

The halls were not my friends. It seemed like everyone on every tier of the Tower had nothing more interesting to do than stare at me and laugh or make jokes. Gabe Friedman started singing Nate's "Succubus" song as I walked by, but he added his own touch: a beatbox. Robert was right next to Gabe and didn't join in. He looked at me sadly, then pointedly turned his back. A couple of Genius guys squatted and made ssssss sounds as I walked past. A Cubby Crew of lesbians handed me a petition they'd signed begging me to renounce my own lesbianism, since I was giving the group a bad name.

I was thrilled when the bell rang, but class wasn't much better. The second I sat, everyone in a five-seat radius shifted away, leaving me a lonely island. I purposely hadn't sat near Archer, so he wasn't one of the people who moved, but I was sure he would have. He'd established long ago that he wasn't a fan of mine. Compared to him, the rest of the school was late to the party.

As for Mr. Woodward, it seemed like for once in his career, he wasn't sure how to handle the situation. I got the sense he didn't want to make things worse for me but didn't know how to make them better. He chose to basically ignore me, but I caught him tossing sympathetic glances my way. It was unbearable.

I didn't even dream of trying the cafeteria for lunch. I hit the vending machine for a Zone bar and Diet Coke and locked myself into my car. I tried calling Claudia, but of course she didn't answer. I'd been calling her since the party—calling, texting, e-mailing, Facebooking ... she wasn't responding.

I wished everyone else was as disinterested in me as Claudia, but by Monday night Cara Leonard Is a Great Big Whore was up to two hundred members. By Tuesday morning it had climbed to 225, and among the newest members were all the Theater Geeks—including Archer Jain.

Every day held another surprise, and every day I'd find more strange things stuck to my locker. Every day people would feel a little braver and jeer a little louder in the halls. And every day I'd at some point catch Trista's eye, and she'd give me a smug smile that left no doubt as to who was in control.

I spent two weeks like this. It helped that the school year was almost over, and I could throw myself into studying. We had SATs, and I also had AP tests in English Language, English Literature, French, Physics, and U.S. History. My great scores on these were originally supposed to help me get into Northwestern. I understood that wasn't an option anymore, but other colleges were, so I wanted to do the best I could.

I tried contacting Claudia every day. Nothing.

I tried talking to Mom and Karl, but Karl wouldn't meet my eyes. Mom just sniffed and said she wasn't ready.

I saw Eddie walking through the halls with a new girlfriend. I hadn't even known we'd officially broken up. The girl was in a Cubby Crew called the Chasti-Tease. They took abstinence vows. Perfect.

Trista had said she'd destroy me, and she had. I suppose it served me right. Fly too close to the sun and you're asking to get burned.

One Monday I saw a small group of people bunched around a sign in the hall. I was curious, so I waited for them to clear away, then checked it out. It was another poster from the junior prom committee. A bunch of signs had been going up lately: information about tickets, corsage sales, tuxedo rentals ... It seemed like there was a new set of flyers every day. Today's was asking for video footage. The committee wanted to edit together a junior year retrospective.

I had some video footage. I remembered stumbling through the party, shooting it with my iPhone. I thought I'd been capturing the greatest night of my life. Had you asked me then, I'd have imagined myself watching the footage constantly, editing it down to maybe five perfect minutes that I'd post on Facebook so everyone could revel in its fabulousness and comment again and again about how amazing the party had been and how amazing I was for throwing it.

As it turned out, I hadn't even looked at what I'd shot. I hadn't exactly been interested in reliving the night.

Yet the more I thought about the footage, the more I wanted to see it. I needed to see it. I'd been a walking callus for so long that I craved feeling, even if it meant slicing myself open and bleeding.

I waited until after school. The minute I got home, I hooked my phone into the computer. Better to watch it on the bigger screen. More potent. I plugged in my noise-canceling headphones to really immerse myself in the experience.

It was even harder to watch than I'd expected but not because of the content. I'd been so drunk when I'd shot it that the picture kept moving and swaying. I thought I might get seasick. The actual stuff I'd shot was pretty innocuous: people hanging out and having a great time at a party. Knowing what happened after made my stomach ache, but the footage itself was honestly pretty boring. At least it would be to anyone not featured in the shot.

I made myself watch anyway and take every bit of it in. It hurt and I deserved to hurt.

The image now was the deck. I'd taken the camera out there and filmed each little cluster of people. I remembered I'd wanted to capture the feel of the night as it was, so I hadn't tried to get people's attention or let them know I was shooting them. It was dark enough that it had worked easily—no one looked at the camera or acknowledged it in any way.

I saw group after group of people I couldn't name if I tried. Then I saw Eddie. He was standing with a Genius. Their heads were bent close, and they spoke in low voices.

"Have you come out to anyone at school?" the Genius asked.

"No, dude, no,"Eddie said. "You?"

"Nah. So ... um ... you want to—"

That's when my camera swung over to a very drunk Cosmopolitan girl trying to use a fUnnel to pee off the deck like a guy.

I rewound to the Eddie conversation and watched it again.

Wow.

He was on tape admitting he was gay. He didn't flat-out say it, but anyone who saw this would know. Eddie would freak if this got out.

I wondered if I'd caught more.

I kept watching, but I wasn't dragging myself through the mud now. I was fascinated.

I didn't see anything else between Eddie and the Genius, but a while later I'd caught part of a conversation between Kristie and her new boyfriend, Tyler.

"Why can't we leave?"Tyler asked.

"Trista wouldn't like it," Kristie said.

"So what? She's your friend She'll get over it. "

"She's not my friend! She's the social police—I hate it!"

Oh my God—this was amazing! I was dying to hear more, but the camera lurched to four guys stuffing peanuts up their noses, then seeing how far they could snort them across the room.

What had I been thinking? The Kristie conversation was gold!

I turned the sound all the way up to see if I could hear more in the background, but I couldn't.

The tape continued to roll. Soon I saw myself in a super-unflattering mega-close-up whispering, "Mystery footage!" A little bit later, the screen went dark and I heard weird noises that I knew now were Trista and Seth Minkoff.

The footage was going to end too soon, and it killed me. If I'd had any clue about what would happen later that night, I never would have listened to Trista and turned off my phone. Footage of Trista Camello with Seth Minkoff would be priceless.

"Boo! Say cheese!" I said on the computer. I had flicked on the lights, but the camera was unfocused.

Now it zoomed in on Trista's angry face. I hadn't gotten Seth in the shot. I could've kicked myself.

"OFF! TURN THATCAMERA OFF!" Trista raged.

The image went wild as I lowered the phone. Was it showing the carpet? My leg? I couldn't tell. It kept moving around.

Wait a minute—why was it still moving around? It should have been off. When Trista had told me to turn it off, I had turned it off.

Hadn't I?

"Oh my God!" I screamed on the screen.

"Shhhhh! Turn out the lights!"

The image went dark, but the sound didn't stop.

It didn't stop!

I hadn't turned off the phone at all. I thought I had, but I was still taping! My heart raced as I kept listening.

"Trista, were you having sex with Seth Minkoff?"

"Um, I can answer that. Yes. Yes, she was. "

"Shut up!"

"What? I'm proud."

"Trista! Brett's right in the next room!"

"And I'd like him to stay there, so get the hell out and shut the hell up!"

A minute later, the screen wasn't dark anymore. I couldn't make out what I was seeing, but I heard clapping. Then the image went dark and still. I heard my own voice say, "Hook me up, barkeep," then Ree-Ree saying, "Ladies and gentlemen..." and I hit stop. I remembered finding my phone on the bar the next day and realized I must have put it down then and it had kept recording until the charge ran out.

I knew what came next, and I didn't want to hear it—especially not when I was on a giddy high from what I'd discovered.

I had proof that Trista was cheating on Brett. With Seth Minkoff.

I could ruin her. Just like she ruined me.

And why stop there? I could bring down Eddie, too. And there would definitely be drama in Populazzi-land if everyone saw Kristie's conversation about Trista.

This was awesome. I had everything I needed to get the ultimate revenge—but what was the best way to use it? I could post it on Facebook, maybe under a new group named Real Stories of the Populazzi. Or even under Cara Leonard Is a Great Big Whore, since the group was already so big.

The only problem with posting the clips was that they'd have to stand alone, and there was so much more I wanted to share. If I could somehow show the video myself at school, I'd have an audience. I could spill everything: Trista's rules, the fake IDs, Eddie's sexuality, Trista's eating disorder, everything.

It didn't matter how many people heard me. Even if there were just a few, word would spread. Within a day, everyone would know.

What would happen then? The junior class Populazzi would implode. As a group, they would cease to exist. And then what? What happened when the entire top of the Tower ceased to exist? Would another tier move up, or would the mantel of ultimate popularity pass to someone else? Someone who had done something bold and dramatic enough to change the social fabric of the entire school?

Someone like me.

It wasn't impossible. And if it happened, I would be Supreme Populazzi. A very different Supreme Populazzi than I'd imagined before the party, but Supreme Populazzi nonetheless. And for the final nail in Trista's coffin, I could ask Brett Seward to take me to the prom. It would be a dark, twisted version of what Claudia had dreamed for me when she'd first told me about the Ladder.

I liked it.

I surfed to Facebook, to the page for Cara Leonard Is a Great Big Whore. I posted, "Trista, let's talk face-to-face. Friday at The Heap, 8 a.m. Everyone is invited." In the spirit of the group, I ended with "Cara Leonard is a great big whore. "

Now everything would change.