The Comeback(51)

“I liked this guy so I hooked up with him at a party, then he changed his mind about me and told everyone, and now they think I’m a slut.”

Esme scrolls through something on her phone, frowning. “And now he goes out with my ex–best friend so none of my friends are allowed to speak to me anymore.”

“Is your friend hooking up with him now?”

“Of course,” Esme replies witheringly.

“So why isn’t she a slut?”

“Because they’re committed,” Esme says mechanically, without a trace of irony.

“That’s stupid,” I say stupidly.

“It’s how it works, Grace. I don’t expect you to understand the nuances of teenage dating.”

“Come on, Esme. This is serious,” I say, and Esme folds her arms across her chest. I remember what I said to her about the bad guys winning, and try not to wince.

“Was he also the guy you sent the nude to?” I ask quietly.

“It was fake,” Esme says, and even though my sister is partly, mostly, still a stranger to me, I think I can tell that she’s lying by the way her eyes dart instantly down to the ground. “But everyone still reposts it all the time, and they write disgusting things on anything I share, even when it’s, like, literally a photo of me holding a lizard.”

“Right,” I say slowly, out of my depth and sort of wishing I’d never asked. “You know, I’m not sure you’re supposed to hold lizards.”

“Ugh, Grace!”

“If it makes you feel any better, millions of people have seen me naked,” I say, but Esme just stares back at me as if I’m missing the point, which I possibly am, but only because I can’t explain it properly. I want to tell her that I know all about the power imbalance that exists every time you meet someone who’s seen you at your most vulnerable, whether or not it was your choice in the first place. How you have to hope that they don’t use it against you in some way, or say something flippant that might burn its way into your sense of self, resurfacing every time you look at your body in the mirror or undress in front your partner.

“Have you talked to Mom about it?” I ask instead.

“She knows I was suspended for indecent exposure,” Esme says, annoyed at the question. “But my school would never admit what actually happened because it makes them look shitty. And it’s not like she’s going to ask—you know she doesn’t like talking about anything like that. She probably thinks I streaked across the football field or something.”

“Can you just delete the app?” I ask, and Esme reacts as if I’ve just suggested she remove her own toenails with a pair of rusty tweezers. “Maybe transfer schools?”

“You don’t understand,” Esme says slowly. I can hear my fall from grace in surround sound. “My school is supposed to be shaping the most brilliant minds of our generation, but it’s just the fucking same as anywhere else.”

Esme picks her phone up again and then drops it straight back down next to her as if it’s burning hot. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Okay . . .” I say, but I can’t think of anything else to talk about. I know that I should tell her that everything will be okay, but who am I to talk?

“Do you still want to go swimming?” I ask eventually.

The boys have disappeared and Esme nods, but she is more subdued than usual, so I stride confidently down the porch steps and onto the sand, trying to set a good example for the first time in my life. Goose bumps are already spreading over my arms and legs, but there’s no way we’re not going in now. Once I reach the water, I lift my face up and let the salty wind whip my cheeks as I wait for my sister to join me. She follows me, dropping her T-shirt onto the sand at the last minute and carefully wrapping her phone in it.

“I think you’re being very brave,” I say softly to Esme once we’re in the icy water, just before she dives underneath the waves and stays down there for a long time. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen her lost for words.





CHAPTER THIRTY





Dylan answers the door as soon as I ring the bell, before I’ve had enough time to adequately brace myself. I smile nervously as he stands and looks at me for a moment before stepping back to let me in the house.

“How are you doing, Grace?” he says easily.

“Almost, definitely, okay,” I say, and for some reason I also flash him the scuba diving hand signal for okay. His eyes crinkle slightly in response.

I trail my finger across the leaf of a cheese plant we bought as a test to see whether we were allowed to get a dog. It’s still alive, which is something, but I’m not sure how much I had to do with it.

“Do you remember the video camera?” I ask, and Dylan nods. “Do you know where it is? I’m working on a project.”

Dylan breaks into a smile and I have to look away, because of those beautiful fucking teeth.

A couple of years ago I told him about the late-night talk show appearance I’d done when I was seventeen. It was the first one I’d booked where I didn’t feel like a little kid anymore, and I was excited to show everyone how much I’d grown up. I wore a short white dress that, naturally, the host made the audience applaud, before he encouraged a bonus round of applause for my virginity, which he then joked had been insured for $10 million. I squirmed and giggled along with him and, at his encouragement, gently scolded him like he was my naughty little brother instead of what he was: a middle-aged pervert. Afterward, everyone told me how well I did. Once again, I had impressed with my amiability.