040. Her Final Sacrifice
At Aquino High, people's expectations always have a way of ruining my reality.
I don't sleep at all Sunday night.
Brianna's words keep throwing themselves around in my head, interrupting one another as they vy for my attention. It's a miracle that I manage to get about an hour of sleep, and even then my thoughts are plagued with nightmares of catastrophes. At three thirty, I wake up and decide to stay up since I'll never be able to fall back asleep.
The house is so silent it's eerie as I creep downstairs and into the kitchen. The only sound is the faint hum of the refrigerator, and even that seems like a gunshot. Carefully passing the door to Dad's bedroom, I reach into the fridge and grab an apple. Then I sit on a barstool in the dark and eat, watching the clock above the stove tick in predictable time. It's, surprisingly, the most at peace I've felt all week.
I hear footsteps in the hallway and the kitchen lights flick on. Dad is standing next to the counter in pajamas, his hair ruffled from, I assume, tossing and turning. "Couldn't sleep?" he asks.
I shake my head and he takes a seat at the barstool next to me. "I'm just really stressed right now."
"Oh." He knows not to ask questions. After years of him asking about my tears, worry, and anger, I've always told him it was either homework or stress about school, not the Aquino High social system crushing me. He eventually stopped asking.
We sit without saying anything, and all I hear is the clock continuing to tick and my apple crunching as I bite into it. After a few minutes he turns to me and says, "If you ever need to talk to me I'm here. I know you're probably really anxious about school and college, especially with this valedictorian thing."
I just nod.
"You should try to get some sleep, okay? You'll want to be refreshed for your speech tomorrow."
My stomach flips but I stand. I know Dad's trying to help me, but talking about it only makes it worse. "Thanks," I say, forcing a smile. "I think I'll head back to bed."
I toss my apple in the trash can as I leave the kitchen. Once I'm back in my room, though, I don't go back to bed. I sit on top of my sheets for a while, staring into the darkness and letting my nerves catch up with me.
I know, rationally, that my blinds are shut and nobody can see in. But Taylor's video was recorded from the inside, which means someone got in his house and set up the camera. Is it too far of a stretch to think that they'd do the same for me?
Now I can't even sit in the dark, much less sleep. I stand and flick on my light, then begin a thorough search for a hidden camera. I don't see anything at first glance but I force myself to look deeper, remembering horror stories I've read about people finding phones taped to walls in their rooms. With shaking hands, I pull every book on my bookshelf off and toss them on the bed, running my hands along the wood where I can't see it to feel for a camera.
"Erika?"
Allison looks half-asleep, and she's rubbing her unusually make-up free eyes as she studies me from the doorway. I realize I probably look weird, up at four in the morning with all of my books off the shelf, standing on my stepstool as if I'm looking for something. Which I am, but I realize the importance of Allison not knowing—at least for twenty-four more hours.
My stomach flips. I just mended my relationship with my sister. How will she treat me if I tell the whole school that Taylor's her brother, even if it is in some twisted, not-blood-related way?
"Sorry I woke you up," I say. I hadn't been thinking of staying quiet in my state of blind panic. "I'm just looking for my ring. I lost it yesterday and woke up paranoid."
"Oh." Allison accepts my bold-faced lie without hesitation. Then she adds quietly, "The one Dad gave us on our sixteenth birthday from Mom?"
Now I feel worse about my lie, but there's no going back now. I nod.
Allison steps further inside my room and shuts the door behind her—she looks more awake now. Then she starts poking around the textbooks on my nightstand, helping me search. When she's done there she progresses to my closet, which she rifles through for a second or two before she calls out, "Found it!"
I feign surprise as I hurry over to her and she says, "It was in your jewelry box, right where it normally is."
I take it from her. "Wow, thanks. I don't know how I overlooked it."
Grinning, Allison follows me as I set the ring on my nightstand and crawl back into bed. I still haven't finished my search for the camera and doubt I'll be able to now that Allison's on my case, and yet without knowing whether or not my room's safe I won't be able to go back to sleep. To my surprise, she plops down at the foot of my bed and crosses her legs, her fuzzy socks pressed into my bedspread.
"Honestly? I can't sleep, either. I've been tossing and turning all night."
"Why?"
She looks away from me, concentrating very hard on the shadows my lamp makes on my shutters. Then, in a rush, she turns back and says without stopping for breath, "I know it makes me a terrible person and friend but I think I like Liam."
"Liam Alvarado?" As if my situation could grow any worse.
"Of course, Liam Alvarado," she says. "What other Liam?" When I don't respond, she exhales loudly and adds, "I know Celia's my best friend. And I'd never dream of making a move while they're still together. But they don't seem really happy these days, you know? Do you think I have a chance with him?"
"Honestly, I don't know." I can't imagine what she'll think of him after I tell everyone the truth. "I think you should try not to like him, though. He's still really obsessed with Celia, even if she may not feel the same about him."
"I think he just wants the sex."
"Then do you think you'd be any different?"
She shrugs and scoots closer to me, resting her head on my shoulder so that her blonde curls intertwine with my hair. "I just feel like I would be. Maybe because I'd care about him as a person. I don't think Celia does."
To my surprise, we're both able to fall asleep like that, taking comfort in each other's presence and our abilities to fight the other's nightmares away.
*
"What time is it?" I demand exactly halfway through lunch period the next day.
Celia checks her phone with a roll of her eyes. "11:45. You literally asked us two minutes ago. What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I avoid Liam's pressing gaze as I swirl my soup around in its bowl. "Just nervous for my speech."
"You have nothing to worry about." Taylor's beside me—he's making a rare appearance at our lunch table to the displeasure of all of my friends, and it's nearly impossible for me to continue to hide the obvious chemistry between us. "You're a great public speaker."
I offer him a tight smile and shovel a bite of soup into my mouth. It's hot and burns my tongue, and I reach for Allison's cold water as fast as I can.
While the rest of the group talks about weekend plans, and while Taylor sits and stares sulkily out the window, I pick through my lunch. Just like my ability to sleep, my appetite is gone, and nothing on my tray tastes any good. Because I don't want to feel more lightheaded during my speech than I probably already will, I shove a few bits down my throat and then give the rest to the boys.
I still haven't decided what to do about my blackmailer's threat, and my stomach clenches when I think about it. The only thing I can reason if that I'll know what feels right when the time to make my speech arrives. Any other time I spend dwelling on my decision makes me feel even more sick.
I realize this could very well be my last lunch with my best friends. Where will I sit after that? With Taylor, probably—then we'll both be exiles, cast away to the outskirts of the social pyramid. Someone, I figure that's worse than being at the very bottom.
Cassidy elbows me and I start, realizing I've completely zoned out. She's holding my cell phone up to my face, with the time on clear display. "Time to go make your speech," she says, and I realize she's grinning. "You've got this. Just remember to smile."
Remember to smile. That completely irrelevant piece of advice sticks with me as I stand and walk away. There's not a single bone in my body that thinks I'll be able to even pretend to be having a good time on that stage.
As I walk, I pull my speech—the one Mr. Denham asked me to prepare—out of the pocket of my dress. Every step feels like one closer to my doom.
The auditorium is empty as I stride to the front and greet Mr. Denham. He's sitting in a chair at the very front, talking to someone from the tech crew about lighting.
"Hi," I say, coming to a stop in front of him. I never respected him very much, but I can feel myself apologizing to him with my eyes: I'm sorry I'm about to let you down.
He greets me with a strained smile and holds up a hand to halt the crew member's monologue. "Hi, Erika. You can sit anywhere in the front row. I'll make a few comments and then introduce you. After that, I have some informalities I need to go over with the senior class about graduation, prom, et cetera."
I nod and walk over to a seat in the center of the first row. My brain feels fuzzy and I can't really tell where my legs are carrying me until I come in contact with the chair. Already, the auditorium is starting to fill with students. Some acquaintances sit around me, and I resist the urge to crane my neck and look for my friends.
In a few more minutes the room is packed and Mr. Denham is climbing the steps to the stage. I'm gripping my speech so tightly that my nails are piercing through the paper, creating tiny rips along the lines of my carefully crafted words. What's the point of all this? So I can pretend to have my life together in front of a school that will soon know the truth? So I can pretend to be a good example, the pride of the senior class?
My heart is racing. Mr. Denham thanks the class for attending the meeting and then calls me up to the stage. I stand and lose my balance, cursing my decision to put on heels that morning. The girl next to me catches me, but her face is blurred out as I start the walk to my demise.
The sound of my feet on the steps rattles my eardrums. It's fifty, twenty, ten steps to the podium—then I'm there, and there's no running away. I have to face this. Somewhere in the audience, Liam Alvarado, the boy I thought I knew, is sitting and smirking at how pale and desperate I look right now.
I clear my throat. "Thanks again to everyone for coming today." The word sound stupid coming out of my mouth, a harsh juxtaposition with how I really feel. "I just have a few remarks I need to make to the senior class, and then we'll continue with the assembly."
I still have no idea what I'm going to do, and this stresses me out more than anything else. At Aquino High, people's expectations always have a way of ruining my reality.
"Graduation is approaching. This means that soon, we'll all be moving on to our own futures. But we've grown together so much in these four years, creating the building blocks that will propel us into the bright and fresh prospect of the rest of our lives."
I'm such a hypocrite. All I've done in high school is tear people down. Am I going to continue with that now? Am I going to throw everyone else under the bus to save myself? Or am I willing to take the hit for my friends, once and for all—even if one or more of them have betrayed me?
I'm swaying at the podium, and I grab it tightly for support. My knuckles are white. When I look down to see what I'm supposed to say next, my vision is to blurred to read the words.
"Um..." I clear my throat and then let my eyes raise to the ceiling, willing the tears that are welling up to dry out. I realize that I'm crying because I've made my decision—I'm not going to say anything about my friends. These are the people most important in my life, and I can't hurt them no matter what it means for me.
My tears dry temporarily, but I still can't read the paper and I have no intention of finishing the long, elaborate speech I had planned. Hurriedly, I add, "I want to save the brunt of all this motivational stuff for my graduation speech, so for now I'm just going to say: make the most of these last few months. They're the last ones I'll have in high school."
Before I change my mind or burst into tears, I hurry off stage. There's a smattering of surprised applause as the student body realizes my speech is over. It's not until I'm back at my seat that I realize I've left my speech onstage.
Mr. Denham masks the confusion on his face as he heads back to the podium. "Thank you, Ms. Soto," he says, straightening his tie. "Now, I have a few housekeeping items about graduation to go over with you."
Suddenly, everyone's phones in the audience buzz, creating a flurry of movement as students reach to check it. With shaking hands, I pull my phone out of my pocket and open my email. It's a video link, and I don't need to click it to know what it's of—or who the anonymous sender is.
The girl next to me watches the video for a few seconds before she turns to me, her jaw gaping. I want to run away from the whispers and elbow jabs and murmuring that's spreading through the audience like wildfire. I want to disappear from the judging looks I'm receiving. But I just have to sit there and suffer through the pain, because to run away is even more embarrassing than enduring the torture.
Mr. Denham continues with his speech, oblivious that nobody's listening. I try not to think of what my friends are saying about me right now, or what Taylor's thinking as he realizes our secret is out. Instead I pick at the pale pink nail polish on my right thumb, zoning in on that one small thing and trying to tune out everything else. When I've finished that finger I moved on to the index finger, sucking in my cheeks so I don't cry.
"...And you'll be receiving an email with more details later." Mr. Denham snaps shut his notebook which, amplified against the microphone, makes a sound that causes me to start out of my little bubble. "That's all for today. Go on and head to your next class."
There's a rustling of movement as everyone stands and rushes towards the exit. People are pulling at each others' sleeves, yanking each other closer to ask about the video. Some are texting, no doubt sending the link to their underclassmen friends. I sit in my seat, stone-still, with my arms wrapped around my torso and my vision fixed on a piece of dust on the stage floor. Once the last person's left the auditorium and the door has swung shut for the last time, I stand.
First I walk back up to the podium for my speech, but I realize that it's gone. It seems like a trivial thing to care about, but I hate that someone else is reading the words that I prepared and chose not to share. The invasion of my privacy that's happened in the last few minutes is mind-blowing, and for once I wish I wouldn't just sit and cry about it.
A tear trails down my face but I wipe it away angrily. I'm tired of being weak, tired of being known as the girl who cries in front of her classmates. My heels stab against the floor as I stride out of the auditorium and burst open the door. My confident walk contradicts how I feel inside, and how I know everybody else feels about me. I can act strong and powerful all I want—I can act like I have my life in control, like every block is perfectly balanced in a glamorous tower that can never be toppled over. But it's not true, and now I and everyone else knows it.
One thing is for certain. Erika Soto is ruined.