The Last of Us

9 | Losing My Religion

With a flashlight tucked into my pocket, we journeyed back to the library under the glimmer of stars. When we arrived, we crossed the vacant faculty parking lot and ducked under cordon tape. The rear-side of the school had evaded the worst, but the gymnasium constituted a mass of rubble and steel beams.

The fire exit to the library was open, swinging from a loose hinge. At the entrance, I paused, and like the chicken-shit I was, gestured Cindy inside first. Wide-eyed and misguided, she proceeded with all the innocence of a canary-in-a-coal mine.

A darkness enveloped us. I switched the flashlight on; dust motes floated in the shaft of light that extended outwards. Sat centrally were a group of four study desks, a series of bookshelves pillared either side.

My heart jumped as my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. Pulling it out, I squinted as the harsh light hit my eyes. Emma was calling.

I swiped and answered. "What do you want?"

"Detective Scott came back." Emma's voice distorted as the phone reception crackled. He's downstairs right now. You're in deep shit, Nick. Where are you?"

I'm going to have to lie. But all the lies were suffocating, bearing down on my shoulders as if I was supporting the girders of the entire world.

"There's no time to explain. I'll be home as soon as I can." My nerves somersaulted in my belly. "Can I ask you something?"

A muffled voice sounded in the background. "Coming, Mom! I'm in the bathroom." Emma shrieked. "Be quick. This is already the longest bathroom break in existence."

"Did Daniel ever ask you to... Er... take any pictures?"

"Do I look like I pout for school quad selfies?"

"I mean... nudes." My cheeks flamed red, and I wasn't sure who I was more embarrassed for.

The line went silent.

"You've been in my fucking room. Trespassing little shit-head!"

"Emma!" I interrupted. "You weren't the only one."

The line went silent again, and she expelled a long sigh. "You'll ruin everything. We almost had him."

Emma made a strange noise, foreign to her. The last time I had seen Emma cry was on her thirteenth birthday. Eighth grader Jeremy Rogers announced to the playground that Emma wasn't like other girls; a tom-boy because she was less 'developed' than girls her age. He then snatched her beloved copy of Little Women and tossed it down a storm drain.

Emma stared at Jeremy and appeared to feel nothing at first. Then she bulldozed Jeremy to the ground and pummeled his face. Then, in a rare moment of internal reflection, she jumped back in shock.

She cried later that day, but not over the book. A sudden fear had gripped her; our parents might ground her, no longer allowing her to spend Labor Day weekend with Rosie and her parents.

Emma never shed a single tear in public since. I half expected her to hang up, but she stayed on the line. I was accustomed to Emma's anger being expelled by harsh words or sarcasm. But this was anger that people couldn't see - it's accompanied only by silence.

"She needs you to ask," Cindy prompted. "She needs to share her secret. I know more than most that no good comes from harboring them."

In the silence, I knew she needed me to ask if she were okay. "If there's something bothering you, I want you to know you can tell me."

"Zachary duped Rosie into sending him a picture." She sniffed. "Then he threatened to scandalize her on social media if she didn't do something for him. Said he'd made copies. We only ever found one. The boys' locker room stinks. You lot are foul. I kept the evidence safe. Like I keep her safe, always—she's such a dear girl to me, Nick."