Perfectly Messy (24 page)

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault. Or mine.”

He pauses for a second. “My dad’s pissed.”

“Yeah, kind of dreading the conversation tonight. I was hoping a few days would give everyone time to cool off,” I say as Marissa hands me her phone. “One sec, Marissa just found the photos.”

The photos are at night, in back of the school, from when we chatted after the last game. A simple embrace after our first argument was edited to look like Justin had been tugging down the right side of my jeans, exposing my butt and a black thong. I don’t even own a thong! Those things ride up my butt like crazy. The two I bought last year with Marissa ended up straight in the trash.

“That doesn’t look good.” Marissa taps my facial expression in the photo. It’s pained, like I don’t want him to touch me like that but he’s doing it anyway. Like he’s forcing himself on me. The truth? It’s the look of devastation after realizing we have no idea how to stop the photos or why someone would do this to us.

Disgusting.

“You there?” Justin asks.

“Yeah. This looks really bad.”

“I know.” His voice drops.

“Our parents will believe us. They know you aren’t like that.”

“Yeah.” There’s a crack in the way he says it. Wait, does his dad really believe Justin would do this to me?

“It’ll work out, I swear.”

“I don’t know. Dad’s pissed. The media is bombarding his office. His public relations team has put me under house arrest. Someone showed up and pulled me out of our class review session this morning.”

Marissa stands up, studying the photo on her cell in my hand. “Lucy,” she whispers. “I can prove it’s fake.”

“Hold on, Justin,” I say, covering the phone. “How?”

Marissa points to the inserted butt in the photo. “That’s not your ass. We’ve shared too many dressing rooms. I know you tried to hide them, but I know about your scars. The ones from the locker room. Are they still there?”

Oh my gosh! She’s right! The purple gashes from being shoved into the sharp locker handles… One on my hip, the other on my right butt cheek. They aren’t there in this photo. But sharing them would mean telling Mom about what happened. Why I quit. Why I changed. Why I couldn’t tell her… because I was afraid she’d break.

“Lucy, this is your out. It’s time to give up the ‘protecting my mom’ act. She may be a bit looney, but she’ll be okay. The only person that has to worry about those scars is Coach T and whoever the bastard is that keeps manipulating photos of you.”

She’s right. Why am I still trying to hide the past?

Because it’s humiliating.

But it’s also the key to the truth. I’m stronger than I was then. I have to share this. I pull the phone back up to my ear. “Justin, if you can get your parents to my house tonight, I can prove to everyone they are fake.”

“Are you sure?” his voice raises.

“Yes. Without a doubt.”

“Okay, I’m calling them. I’ll see you at six?”

“Yup.”

A text arrives from Mom the moment I end the call.

Mom: These new photos. Your father is going insane.

Me: Don’t worry. This time I can PROVE they are fake.

Mom: I hope so. Justin should probably wear a hockey mask, just in case.

***

My face has got to be blue; I don’t think I’ve taken a breath in three minutes. Mom pours the last glass of water at the table, and I catch Justin’s eye. Other than formalities, no one has said anything since Justin’s parents entered the kitchen. There’s no food on the table. My parents were too frazzled to care. Apparently family members called all day, giving unwanted advice. It’s been a minefield that I dodged at Laura’s house, where Laura, Marissa, and I practiced what I’d say to them. Surprisingly, Laura was cool with including Marissa. I’m lucky to have a friend who’s so relaxed and believes in change.

“Should I order a pizza?” I offer, breaking the awkward air.

“No thank you, Lucy,” Mrs. Marshall says with a soft expression. Okay, at least she doesn’t hate me. Good. That’ll make mooning her a lot easier.

“We don’t expect to stay very long,” Mr. Marshall adds. My stomach clenches with the connotation of his words. Mrs. Marshall may not hate me, but he is definitely not a fan.

He leans in toward the table. “First, I’d like to say that I’m sorry about my son’s behavior toward your daughter.” He looks directly at Justin. “I’m ashamed.”

Justin rubs his chin. “I’ve explained this, Dad. These photos aren’t real.”

Mr. Marshall looks back at Dad, Justin’s words falling on deaf ears. “Mr. Zwindler, although you haven’t yet voiced your concerns about Justin, I want you to know I understand. I promise that my son will be dealt with, harshly.”

A vein pops out on the side of Dad’s neck. I grasp the edge of the table. Oh crap, here we go. As he opens his mouth to speak, I cling to the table, making myself stay seated instead of flinging myself in front of Justin, protecting him from Dad’s wrath.

“Mr. Marshall,” Dad takes a deep breath, “I believe your son.”

Wait, what? He does?

“Justin has given me no reason to doubt his character,” Dad looks at me, “and my daughter believes she can prove these photos are fake.”

Mr. Marshall shifts in his seat. “I don’t mean to be offensive, but it’s going to take a lot more than trying to point out Photoshop blurring to convince me.” He looks at Justin, who I assume tried to prove the first photos false that way.

“There’s no Photoshop blurring involved,” I assure him, standing up. “The proof is on me. Mrs. Marshall, would you mind stepping into the other room with me? Mom, you too?”

“No problem, dear.” They stand together.

Mom leans in close as we walk out of the kitchen. “Do you have a tattoo?” she whispers harshly. I sigh, wishing that was the case. It’d be so much easier to deal with.

“No.” I pull the living room curtains closed and turn to face them, looking at Mrs. Marshall. “Please know if this wasn’t the only way to prove the photos are fake, that I would never in a million years do this.”

One brow furrows, the other peaks.

“I have scars,” I explain as I pull down the right side of my jeans and underwear, exposing my butt cheek.

Both Mom and Mrs. Marshall stare at the purple gash in the flesh of my butt and the one on my hip. Mom reaches out, touching the one on my hip.

“Are we good now?” I ask.

“Yes,” Mrs. Marshall says. I quickly pull up my jeans.

“Lucy, what are those from?” Mom reaches out, trying to pull open the jeans to see the hip scar again, but I step away, buttoning my pants shut.

I take a deep breath. Okay, here it goes. “My freshman year of basketball.”

“I don’t understand,” Mom says.

I wave toward the couch for Mom and Mrs. Marshall to sit down. I take a seat across from them on the coffee table.

“Mom, that’s why I quit basketball.” I take a deep breath and jump straight into my story. Mom’s color drains as I describe the locker room bullying. Tears streak my face as she begins to shake. She’s losing it. My heart tears open.
Please stay together, Mom.

That’s when Mrs. Marshall wraps her arm around Mom. “Sarah,” she says, “it’s always scary when we discover something about our children that hurt them that we didn’t know about. It’s okay.” Mrs. Marshall looks at me. “Thank you for sharing this with me as well, Lucy. I had no idea this stuff happens at your school.”

“Unfortunately, it does. It happens at a lot of schools.”

“It’s quite a wake-up call.” She rubs Mom’s shoulder.

“Lucy,” Mom squeaks. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

I slide off the coffee table, resting my hand on her knee. “I wouldn’t let you be there for me. I didn’t know how to deal with it at the time. I was too weak so I pushed you away.”

“And to think of all those times I yelled at you…and you were dealing with this?” She shakes her head. “This can take years to recover from. No wonder you hid behind Marissa.”

I nod. “Well, thankfully it didn’t take that long. Justin helped me out a lot.”

“Does he know about the scars?” Mrs. Marshall asks, her face pink.

“No.” My face also heats as I debate the insinuation in her question. “But he’s very perceptive. He knew I wasn’t myself when we met and somehow drove me so crazy I couldn’t be anyone but myself. It freed me. Thanks for raising a good guy.”

Her eyes well with tears. “He’s great. I can’t believe we didn’t believe him through all of this. He’s never given us reason to doubt. Everything’s been so chaotic, we figured he lost track of his priorities and morals with all the inauguration drama. We woke up wondering who our son had become and how we didn’t notice his change.”

“He’s the same person. Amazing.”

Mom closes her eyes for a moment then straightens up, miraculously pulling herself together. “It’s difficult when the world is whispering lies in our ears, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Marshall wipes the wetness from under her eyes and stands up. “Okay, I need to get back into the kitchen before Jeff completely ruins everything.”

As I stand back up, Mom wraps her arm around my waist. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

I squeeze her in a sideways hug as we follow Mrs. Marshall to the kitchen. I’m still getting used to our relationship, now so much more affectionate than it was when I misunderstood her history of depression. So hugging her is weird. But it’s nice too; it’s starting to feel right.

Mrs. Marshall immediately goes to Justin, pulling him into an embrace. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” she says to him. She turns to Mr. Marshall, whose mouth has dropped open. “Jeff, Lucy not only proved to me the photos are fake but also that we are wrong. We have not been listening to wise counsel. This is our
son
.” She squeezes Justin’s shoulder. “I’m ashamed I needed Lucy’s proof to believe him.”

Mr. Marshall looks at me. “What is the proof?”

Mrs. Marshall moves, standing between us. “I told you she’s proved it. My word will be enough.”

Justin’s mouth parts and he shifts in his chair and stares at the floor. Clearly, his parents rarely argue. Especially around other people. I move next to him, resting my hand on his shoulder. This is good. There will be a breakthrough soon.

“Jeffery,” Mrs. Marshall says. They look at one another for a moment, then finally Mr. Marshall breaks eye contact, tapping the table.

“Lucy, Mr. and Mrs. Zwindler, I apologize for not believing our children.” Mr. Marshall says as he stands. He touches Justin’s arm. “I’d like to talk with you at home, if that’s okay.”

“Right,” Justin says, standing up from the table. “Thank you for having us over tonight.”

“Our pleasure.” Mom’s voice cracks, her eyes still swollen from our conversation in the living room.

“Sarah? Are you okay?” Dad asks.

“Yes,” she sighs, “but you better sit back down. Our family has more to talk about.”

Justin raises an eyebrow at me. “I told our moms about my freshman year of basketball,” I explain.

“Basketball?” Mr. Marshall says.

Mrs. Marshall taps his shoulder. “I’ll explain on the ride home.”

I follow Justin and his parents to the front door. Mrs. Marshall gives me an emotional goodbye. Justin hangs back after they go to the car. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “What did you show my mom?”

“Some scars.”

His brow furrows for a second and then he frowns. I look away, hating the scars and how ugly they are. An old fear resurfaces. What if someday the scars repulse him?

His finger tenderly lifts my chin and his lips meet mine. “I’m sure the scars are beautiful.” He reaches out, touching my side and giving it a squeeze. “I’d love to see them someday,” he adds with a forced chuckle.

I jump back to escape the playful attack. “Oh I’m sure you would.”

Justin steps out the front door. “What? I can’t help it, I’m a guy.” There’s something about the way he says it that isn’t so fun anymore. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets as he turns and heads toward his parents’ car. Shouldn’t he be happier that our parents finally believe us? Now that I think about it, the bountiful, confident energy that usually embodies Justin in each movement is gone. His shoulders have been slumped like that since even before the photos. Since before election day.

How did I not notice that before?

I stand in the door, doing some stupid, over-the-top wave on my tiptoes as they pull out of the driveway. When I close the door, I brace myself as a thought hits me like a freight train.

What if Justin is changing because of me?

Justin

The way Mom’s door slams when she gets out of the car shakes my spine. I follow her out. Dad’s impossible to be around. He refused to speak with me before the Zwindlers’ house. He didn’t even give me a chance to explain what was really happening in that photo.

Mom tosses her purse on the counter, crossing her arms and staring down the door from the garage. Dad takes a few minutes before he finally walks through.

“Jeffery.”

“Christy.”

“
This
is what I’ve been talking about. You’ve been blind.”

“You thought the photos were real too, Christy.”