I peer over his shoulder. On his screen is a campaign photo I took a couple of years ago for a product launch. I’m wearing a lilac corset laced up with lavender ribbons. And, yes, my bum is out. But who cares? It’s social media, for God’s sake. The whole internet is like, pictures of food and bums.
“Do you have that saved in your phone?” I ask, disgusted. “God. You’re so rank. And I’m not a glamour model, I’m a fashion designer, you utter cretin.” I reach for the phone. “Put that away.”
Donny lifts it out of my reach. “Hey, why are you getting fussy now? If you didn’t want people to look at them, you wouldn’t put them up on the internet for everyone to see.” He leers at my chest. “You sure as Hell wouldn’t be wearing a shirt like that.”
As his eyes bore into the front of my top, something odd happens inside of me. A switch flips. Suddenly, all the anger coursing through me freezes, turning to cold, raw fear.
I swallow hard. I don’t know what’s happening. I’m good at being catcalled. I’m great at it, in fact. It’s happened so many times in my life, I have a whole Rolodex of snippy, sarcastic comebacks stored in the back of my mind.
But right now, I’m reaching desperately for something to say, and nothing is coming to mind. I stare at Donny, my throat tightening as he smirks back down at me. Memories from my time at high school flash in front of my eyes like a movie.
Girls whispering behind their hands about me as I walk down the hallway to class.
Boys grabbing me and trying to yank me onto their laps on the bus.
Teachers sharing knowing looks as I traipse into the headmistress’s office for the fifth time in a week.
I shudder, trying to take in a breath. I feel sick. I feel so, so sick. My hands are shaking. My heart is pounding.
Donny leans closer, eyes fixed on my chest. “Jesus Christ, you can see your nips through this. You know that, right?” He swipes at the front of my shirt. I bat his hand away, and he grins like a shark. “God, you’ve filled out since we were together, haven’t you? Did you get your boobs done?”
“We were never together,” I say.
“Yeah?” He rubs his chin. “‘Cuz I’m pretty sure I remember you dragging me into the changing rooms to whack me off—”
All of the blood drains out of my face. There’s a ringing in my ears. My body is paralysed, caught between the urge to run, and the urge to lash out and gouge his stupid eyeballs out with my fingernails. Donny’s grin widens as he leans in again, and I just close my eyes, freezing in place.
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder. “What is going on here?” A low voice comes from above me.
I look up at Luke standing behind me. His face is white with anger as he studies my expression. “Are you okay?” He asks quietly, and I nod.
Donny looks up, and the laughter drains from his face. “M-Mr Martins.” He stutters.
Luke turns his steely gaze on him. His lips press together. “Donald. How nice to see you again.”
“Uh. Yeah. You too, Mr M.” Donny rubs the back of his neck, frowning at Luke’s hand on me. “Uh. Why are you hanging out with Tuggy?” His eyes widen. “Holy shit. Are you two on a date?”
Luke drops his hand like I’ve burned him. “Tuggy?” He repeats. “What the Hell does that mean?”
Hearing that word from his lips snaps something inside me. I stand up, sliding off my stool like a zombie, and head to the exit, pushing through the crowds of rowdy patrons. Shoving the bar’s back door open, I step out into the black night air, sinking onto the pavement and wrapping my arms around my knees.
Cars rush past on the road. Cold evening drizzle mists over me. Tears blur my eyes.
This was a bad idea. Trying to date means putting yourself out there. Which means making yourself vulnerable. I put my face in my hands, trying to breathe.
A few minutes later, the door behind me opens. Noise from the bar washes out into the street. I don’t move as Luke steps outside and shuts the door behind him, setting a can of cola on the stone step next to me.
“Drink it,” he says quietly. “The sugar will help.”
“I don’t need help,” I mutter.
“No?” He asks mildly, looking down at me as I shiver. “Well. It can’t hurt.” He toes the can closer to me.
All of the embarrassment burning inside me suddenly twists to white-hot anger. I don’t know why Luke is so obsessed with seeing me when I’m weakest, but it’s really starting to piss me off.
“For God’s sake,” I snap. “Can you please just leave me alone?”
My hard voice echoes around the empty street. There’s a pause, and then Luke sits down next to me. “No,” he says softly. “No, Layla. I’m not leaving you alone out here when you’re upset.”
I close my eyes, dragging in a shuddering breath.
Fine.
I take another deep breath and pull myself together.
THIRTY-ONE
LUKE
Layla completely shuts off.
It’s like she freezes over. One second, she has hurt and frustration and fear all over her face; the next, she’s sitting calmly on the stone steps, examining her nail beds, her expression cold and detached. “Seriously,” she says again, her voice almost bored. “It’s not a big deal. You don’t post pictures of yourself half-naked online if you can’t handle a little catcalling.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” I say slowly, trying to nudge the soda closer to her. “Sweetheart, you’ll feel better if—”
“I’m fine,” she snaps, and I look down. She sighs and leans her head back against the brick wall, squinting up at the dark sky. “Sorry,” she says softly. “Sorry, sorry. I turn to a bitch when I’m embarrassed.”
I shake my head. We’re silent for a moment. A car trundles down the road. A few streets away, I hear drunk voices singing a Mariah Carey song. Slowly, Layla reaches down and cracks the tab of the can, bringing it to her lips and taking a few deep swallows.
“What does Tuggy mean?” I ask when she sets it back on the pavement.
She makes a lewd jerking motion with her hand.
I grimace, my stomach turning. “What? Why the Hell did he call you that?”
She looks at me sideways. “You really don’t remember me at all, do you?” She says, her voice soft.
“I told you. I barely remember anyone from your class.”
“You remember Donny,” she points out, and I huff.
“Yeah. Because Donald refused to study, and then his parents threatened to sue me for bad teaching practice every time I gave him a failing grade. I ended up tutoring him on Friday lunch breaks, just to get them to back off.” I don’t like to think badly of my students, but occasionally, you meet a kid that’s just bad, through and through. Donny was one of them.
I try to put the pieces together. “Did he give you a hard time?” I guess.
“Among others,” she says stiffly.
“Was it… bad?” I ask, my voice hesitant. I already know the answer. She wouldn’t be crouched here, shivering in the cold, if it wasn’t bad.
Her face twists. “Well,” she spits, “I got death threats every day for about three years straight, so yeah. I’d say it was pretty bad.”
My stomach lurches. “What?” I ask. “Death threats? At Emery High?”
She fiddles with her bracelets. “I know, I know. The loveliest children you’ve ever worked with. Lowest rate of student suspension in the country. I guess I must have just imagined it.”
I sit forward. “I don’t understand. Were you bullied by the other students?”
She tilts her head and looks at me, her pale eyes inscrutable. “Well,” she says slowly. “It wasn’t the janitor threatening to beat me to death behind the bike shed.”
“Layla—” My horror must show on my face, because she immediately backtracks.
“I shouldn’t have said that.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I ignore her. “Donny threatened to kill you?”
She snorts. “Oh, no. He was just the ringleader, making up stories about what a slag I was. It was mostly the girls who wanted to kill me.” Her lip curls in disgust. “Trust me, Tuggy was the best of my nicknames. I had a bunch. Handy Queen. Two-pound Thompson.”
“Two-pound…” I repeat weakly, my head whirring.