I moved across the room to Mick’s desk, known only to me in life as Short One. An open math book lay on the wooden workspace. A paper airplane. A clean pair of socks. Everything left there like he was planning on coming back. A laptop was hooked into the wall by a cord. In the hutch above, I found what I was looking for. The lens of the handheld camcorder stared out at me like an unblinking eye. I reached for it on the shelf and turned the equipment over in my palms. They’d been smart enough not to take the video on their phones where access to the cloud and other Internet mysteries would be a constant threat. But still, what sick psychopaths wanted to videotape their conquests?
Posters of famous comedians plastered Mick’s side of the room. Late Show with David Letterman. Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show. Conan O’Brien. Always a spectacle, I guessed.
With a spare glance toward the door, I pulled Mick’s chair underneath me and sat down at his laptop. I opened the screen to find that the computer was password protected. So I logged in as a guest, removed the memory stick in the video recorder, and drummed my fingers impatiently while thumbnails of videos loaded on-screen.
Three rows of images popped up in neat lines. I chose the first. The picture consumed the frame and began to play. “Say hi, asshole,” Mick’s voice came from behind the camera. There was a shot of the back of a head that I recognized as Circus Master’s. Without looking back, Circus Master saluted the air with his middle finger. I felt my mouth curl into a snarl. The camera shook. Mick’s breathing was labored.
Off to the side I could hear someone else’s voice carrying on a singsongy rap, “All the bitches love me, all the—all the bitches love me.”
Mick gave a gleeful giggle and panned left where California was walking with a swagger. He formed his fingers into a peace sign and flashed a brilliant white smile. The screen went black and the reel automatically switched to the next thumbnail down the line.
The five boys were at the same club I’d first seen them in—Ten Gallon Cowboy. Their images were grainy in the dim, neon-cast lighting. The camera zoomed in on the face of a boy in a baseball cap. He pinched a shot glass between his fingers. “Get it out of my face.” He wrapped his palm over the lens. “Coach finds out I’m drinking the night before a game, he’ll suspend my scholarship.”
There was rustling and then Mick must have managed to wrestle the camera free. The focus had changed to a group of girls standing at a high-top table. The shot homed in on one of the girls’ butts. “There’s your home run, Brody.”
Brody. Baseball. I made another note in my phone. Got it.
I watched the playback from the next thumbnail with a sickening sense of dread as the girl whose ass had been video recorded laughed with the boys and then showed up in a room that looked much like the one I was currently in minus a few details. At some point, she was passed out, arm draped over the side of a bed, and the boys took turns taking pictures with her, lifting up her skirt and spanking the bare flesh. I couldn’t watch the rest and quickly clicked on the next frame.
More of the same. More girls. More taunting. And all the while, they grew more brazen. The girls less drunk. In one clip, I heard the word no muttered just before I hit fast-forward.
And then her face filled the screen.
I hovered the mouse over the “stop” button, but the images were already moving before my eyes. Instead, I moved my hand into my lap and I let it play.
*
“HER.” FROM A distance, the shot zoomed in on a girl who looked like me. Who I knew, deep down, was me. Except this me was red-cheeked and glowing. This me was happy.
“Small boobs,” came one of the voices offscreen. On-screen, I laughed like something was really funny. Like things could still be really funny.
“Shut up, they’re fine,” said another voice.
“She’s totally hot,” replied the first.
I kept stealing glances in the direction of the camera. It was clear that I could see them watching me and that I was performing.
“Scale from one to ten?” said a third voice.
“Nine-point-five,” responded the first, and there was the clink of a glass being slammed down on a table for punctuation.
“Well, what the hell are you waiting on then?” asked a fourth. “Christ, Brody, get her over here, buddy.”
“Why does it always have to be me?” said the voice that was presumably Brody’s.
The lens zoomed out. There I was with three other girls, but I still took up the center of the shot. Jock Strap came into view. It was clear why it always had to be him.
He turned his baseball cap backward and shoved his hands into his pockets. He had a handsome, square jaw. The face of an underwear model. The pleasure that came with his attention danced in my eyes. Eyes that said, he noticed me? His devastating good looks translated onto film. Honestly, it should be criminal for anyone to be that naturally attractive.