Chapter 14

5 1 0
                                    


Mom would return from her shift at the grocery store to pure chaos if James didn't help me. I'd have to explain why I was late. Between a truth or lie—clearing my name of a scholastic crime or skipping my babysitting duties—either way, I'd be irresponsible, resulting in Dad doubling down on grounding me.

The library was a dead zone for cell service, but there was a few random areas that could pull a few bars. I skipped down the stairs, phone in hand, watching the signal rise and fall. At the base of the stairs, by a fake ficus plant strung with twinkle lights, my phone indicated a few bars—worth the shot.

Sinking to my haunches, I hid beside the ficus, dialed James's number, and waited. The phone felt slick like soap in my hands. My knee started to spasm, probably because I hadn't run in days.

A muffled voice crackled over the line.

"Hello?" It said.

"Hi, James? It's Luna."

"What the fuck, Luna. You were supposed to be home to watch the brats. They're driving me nuts."

"I can't come home right now. I'm at school," I whispered, cupping my hand over the receiver and scanning for disgruntled librarians. "This is really important. I'm doing something for a teacher or I could fail."

"Kinky."

"Stop! It's not—," I released a shaky breath. "I need you to watch Jay and Hunter for me."

"But Mom's going to be home soon."

"Cover for me. Please. I'll do anything you want."

"Hm, anything?" He teased over the line, and my heart constricted in my chest—I hope I wasn't making a poor bargain here.

My calf muscles cramped from my sitting position. Keeping an eye out for librarians, I stood up and leaned against the staircase, stretching my legs in front of me.

"Just...," I sighed and left the sentence unfinished.

He continued, "What excuse should I give them?"

"Tell me what you want first."

In a knowing tone, he said, "Well, I'm out of weed money."

Fuck! I moved the phone away from my ear and turned in place, rubbing my hand across my forehead until I regained my composure. Deep down, I knew he would ask me for this, but I'd hoped his request would be dishes or laundry.

I lifted the phone back to my ear.

"How many pictures?"

"Mmmm... thirty."

"Thirty!?" I squeaked, trying to not shout. "Make it seven. This is one time!"

"Seven? Fine, but then I take the pictures."

"I don't want you taking the pictures!"

"Tough shit."

Wiping my sweat palms against my jeans, I changed the phone to the other ear.

"What do you want me wearing?" I asked, my voice shaking.

"We can decide that later."

Shaking my head, I whisper-shouted into the phone, "No! We settle the terms here!"

"I want some half-dressed and some nude."

"No face."

"Fuck, Luna, nobody buys the faceless ones. Two with your face."

"Okay," I conceded. "Seven photos, two with my face in the shot."

"Sweet. It's a deal. What excuse should I give for why you're not at home?"

"I don't know, but make it good."

"C'mon! You're making me—."

"I'll text you when I'm done."

Pinpricks of tears entered my eyes as I ended the call. I ran my thumb under my bottom lashes to wipe them away.

Like after every interaction with James, he left me soiled and dirty. No matter how often I told myself that sex work was legitimate work and it was cultural pressure and gender norms that made me feel abused, I always wanted to cry.

What would happen if someone from school ever found these? Would I be expelled?

I took a few deep breaths.

Nobody will find them. I was being silly. With so much porn out there, nobody would find me even if they searched my name—nobody had found me yet, right?

Maybe... just maybe... someone would find and save me. A rich man would fall in love with me, take pity on me, and sweep me away.

But nobody will come for you. You're always alone.

The twinkle lights on the ficus tree tessellated and glistened from the tears that threatened to spill. With a deep inhale, I imagined taking my sadness and sweeping it away with a broom. Sweep, sweep, sweep until my mind was a blank canvas. I didn't have the luxury to throw a pity party for myself, not when people had more difficult lives.

I bound back up the stairs to the computer lab where two vexed students, arms crossed, eyed the reams of paper evidence spitting out of the printer.

"Yo, is this yours?" The girl student asked, flicking a finger at a stack of papers now almost two inches thick. "What the fuck are you printing? This is ridiculous."

Not seeing an amicable exit to this conversation, I ignored the question, collected the pages that had printed, and tapped the paper stack on the table to even out the edges.

"Seriously? You're just going to ignore me?" The annoying girl rolled her eyes.

I returned to my computer and began sorting through the papers, using paperclips I found on the ground to separate the stack into each citation. The stack of papers, still warm after exiting the printer, smelled like ink and toner—not a pleasant smell, but one that reminded me of professionalism and allowed me to imagine working a white-collar job in the city.

After shooting James a text message that I was ready to be picked up, I dropped the papers in my teacher's mailbox. The stack, coming to almost four inches thick, didn't fit inside the cubby. I rammed as much as I could into the wooden slot—let it be her problem now—and left the rest in a neighboring teacher's box. Let nobody say I'm not compliant, but in case they did, I took a picture of the stuffed mailbox as evidence.

I was so giddy to be done with this fiasco that I almost forgot about James and our bargain until my phone pinged. Then my heart sank.

Me, Me & YouWhere stories live. Discover now