Cancelled, p.2
Cancelled, page 2
“Otto, c’mon!” I called, fully tipsy now. I rubbed my hands up and down my banana bod in a movement that would make grandmothers everywhere clutch their pearls.
From across the room, Faith Tobinson snorted. She was dressed as an angel (for the third year in a row) along with my former friend Katie Delcavo, who went to Jesus camp with Faith the summer of eighth grade and then ditched me to be part of Faith’s Lord-loving friend group.
Perhaps I wasn’t the greatest influence.
Duncan and Thomas laughed, but Lenora pretended not to notice. I didn’t care. I was having a good time. Marlowe encouraged me, twirling her blond hair as she shimmied her hips.
All of a sudden, Otto’s hand was at my elbow, pulling me outside.
I did not enjoy being led around like some kind of leashed Pomeranian. I tugged out of his grip once we’d crossed into the backyard.
“What’s your problem?” I asked, annoyed.
“Can’t you just act normal?” he muttered.
I blinked at him. That’s when I understood. In front of his football buddies, Otto was embarrassed by me.
How had I not noticed it before? It wasn’t just this scenario. It was when I talked too animatedly about product design, my dream major. Or when I laughed too loudly at someone’s jokes. Or when I called his friends out for saying something sexist. When I got passionate, I got loud. Otto suppressed that. Rejected it.
My personality wasn’t for everyone, sure, but I knew your person was supposed to love the things that made you, you.
Otto and I had been together for a few weeks, but I realized we wouldn’t last much longer. We didn’t click.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
He snort-laughed, his upper lip doing that weird curl thing. It used to be charming to me. Now it wasn’t. Otto told me to be normal when I was doing the most normal, cliché thing I could think of: participating in underage drinking and dancing at a high school party.
To him, I was doing it all wrong.
“You’re serious?” he finally said when my expression didn’t change.
“I’m sorry, Ottoman.” I tried to soften the blow by using the nickname I gave him, but I quickly realized that wasn’t the move. “I don’t think we’re meshing together in the ways we should be meshing.”
“Brynn, c’mon,” he pleaded. “We’ve been drinking. We can talk about this tomorrow.”
But I knew in my gut I’d feel the same way when I woke up. This wasn’t fun anymore, and I wasn’t going to be with someone who dimmed my light. “It won’t change how I feel now, though.”
He let out a hiss of air. “You know, people warned me this would happen. That you’re so fucking fickle in relationships.” He downed the rest of his beer. “Guess they were right.”
I felt my eyebrows shoot to my hairline. I mean, sure. It’s not exactly false information, but spewing it in such a vitriolic way to get a rise out of me was plain shitty.
“I’m letting that comment slide because you’re clearly upset, but I’m not going to stand here and apologize for knowing what’s best for me. You’re not it.” He opened his mouth, but I was already taking off. “Don’t follow me.”
I rejoined Marlowe and Tahlia where I’d left them in the living room. I tried to shake off his words, but it wasn’t as if I was immune to hurt. I wasn’t a soulless person. Every side of a breakup sucks.
We didn’t stay much longer after that. Mostly because I was sobering up and didn’t feel like dancing with Otto lurking around. It killed the vibe.
I’d woken up a little sad but not regretful. It was the right decision.
I down the rest of my Cocoa Pellets and rinse the bowl in the sink. As I’m drying my hands, my phone begins to blow up. Not just one text, but multiple texts roll through so quickly that I have to catch my iPhone before it vibrates off the counter to an untimely death.
Who the hell is texting me this early?
When I navigate to my messages, I realize it’s my group chat with Marlowe and Tahlia. Before I can open it, another text from Marlowe arrives.
Marlowe
he’s a rancid scummy dingus weasel skid mark
I blink. What powerful poetry, but who is she talking about?
I scroll to the beginning of the messages, where the conversation starts.
Tahlia
have you seen the video?
Marlowe
please tell me you’re ok
Marlowe
don’t panic, ok? I’m coming over now with tahlia to do damage control.
Panic sets in anyway. What are they talking about? What video? Oh god. Did I do something embarrassing last night? I don’t remember dancing on any coffee tables, though I’ve been known to do that. Who doesn’t love a good coffee table?
I keep reading, starting to sweat.
Tahlia
I’m so sorry Brynn
Tahlia
he’s going to get in so much trouble for this though
Tahlia
marls and I are in the sbux drive thru and then heading your way
Sorry for what? I send that exact thought to the group chat, but I don’t get a reply.
Hoping for clarity, I scroll through the rest of my incoming texts. They’re mostly from my classmates, but it’s the same meme every time. A screenshot from some reality cooking show where a contestant is trying to eat three pickles at once.
If this is some kind of sex joke, it’s lost on me.
A second later, Marlowe and Tahlia burst through my front door with a Venti Mocha Cookie Frappuccino, both wearing matching concerned expressions.
I look between them. “What’s going on?”
Marlowe bites her lower lip. We’ve been friends since she moved from San Diego to attend Greenlough at the start of sophomore year. After my fallout with Lenora, we gravitated toward each other, spending weeks bonding during movie nights and homework sessions. It was around that time when she opened up about her transition, explaining she was certain of her gender identity by the time she was eleven.
She’s my most caring and empathetic friend, and the way she’s looking at me now is turning my stomach to ice.
“You haven’t seen?” Tahlia asks, a note of surprise in her voice.
Tahlia is the most analytical out of the three of us. She’s Muslim American, a proud hijabi, and pansexual. Her grandparents immigrated here from Lebanon in the ’70s, and while Tahlia loves that all her family is in California, she’s always wanted to live in Boston or New York, where there are seasons. We grew closer sophomore year when the three of us had US History together, which eventually led to us eating lunch together, forming what is now our inseparable union.
Marlowe and Tahlia exchange apprehensive glances. Why are they so hesitant?
I suck in an anxious breath. “I swear if you don’t tell me—”
“Someone sent a clip of Duncan Rowe getting a blowie to the entire senior class this morning. Everyone thinks it’s you because the other person in the video was wearing a banana costume,” Tahlia says in one breath, like ripping off a Band-Aid. She immediately follows this by handing me the Frappuccino.
The drink is slick with condensation. I nearly lose my grip due to my current state of shock. My heart drops. Other than spotting him in the kitchen at Keith’s, I had zero interaction with Duncan Rowe last night. And I’m not trying to be messy. He’s in a committed relationship with my ex-BFF. I am very aware of this.
But if it wasn’t me, then who? Because as far as I know, I was the only one dressed as a banana at Keith’s party last night. Apparently what I imagined would be hee-hee-ha-ha funny was fated to be phallic in a way I had not intended.
“The video was spread around on Snapchat,” Marlowe explains, her green eyes full of sympathy.
I quickly check Snapchat, but there aren’t any unopened messages. Whoever is circulating the video didn’t send it to me.
“It’s not like anyone can save it, right?” Tahlia says. “But I swear, this will blow over—”
Marlowe gives her an incredulous look. “Blow over?”
“Poor word choice,” Tahlia amends. “It’ll pass. And obviously we know it wasn’t you— Duncan knows it wasn’t you. So, you know, he can clear it up.”
I’m overheating. I want to crawl out of my skin and make this whole situation somebody else’s problem. Why would someone do this? Because of the way I’d handled things with Otto? As far as breakups go, it wasn’t bad. Only—he was a little upset, wasn’t he? But not enough to actively ruin my life.
“You both opened the video?”
They nod, giving me compassionate stares.
“We didn’t know what it was when it came through,” Tahlia explains.
“It looked like it was taken through a crack in the door, and it was only, like, five seconds,” Marlowe continues. “Nobody knows the user behind the Snapchat account. It’s already deactivated. You could see the banana suit but not the face of the person inside of it.”
I open the lid to my Starbucks cup and scoop up a heaping amount of whipped cream with two of my fingers. I do this until it’s gone, pacing back and forth.
Who would think it’s okay to share something like that? As—what? Some kind of blackmail against Duncan? Did he do something to piss someone off? It doesn’t make sense. If he’s happy with Lenora, he wouldn’t want this to get out. So maybe he doesn’t know who sent it.
I stop pacing. “You guys know it wasn’t me.”
“Duh,” Marlowe says.
“But it’s weird.” Tahlia looks at me. “Who else had the same costume as you?”
That’s when it hits me.
Most students were at the Halloween dance, and a majority of the senior class came to Keith’s after-party. They saw me in that costume. They know Lenora and I aren’t friends anymore. Why she’s spent so long hating me.
I’m going to look like the guilty party.
I set my drink down. How many of my classmates received that video? Have opened that video? They’ll believe it’s me. And if word about my breakup with Otto has gotten around, they’ll assume I ended things and hooked up with my ex–best friend’s boyfriend the same night.
I feel sick. This is a colossal nightmare.
Until my name is cleared, I’m screwed. Ruined. I will absolutely be the most hated person at school.
A dozen more pings chime from my phone in rapid succession.
Scratch that. I already am.
2
“Brynn Whitaker can deny it, but it’s obvious it’s her.”
“Lenora shouldn’t have left Duncan alone around her.”
“History always repeats itself, doesn’t it?”
You know that bowling-ball-sized rock that sits in your gut after something terrible happens? And you think, Surely it can’t get worse. SURELY this is it. But you haven’t yet spotted the gargantuan meteor that’s hurtling through time and space, ready to blow up the rest of your life.
Well. That meteor has made its earth-shattering impact.
My reputation as a serial dater has made my classmates assume I jump at the chance to have sex with everyone I’ve been with. Which is false. Besides, the definition of intercourse has always been centered around male pleasure, which is heteronormative, patriarchal, and, frankly, outdated. Also? I have vaginismus, which makes P-in-V sex painful, and anyway, society shouldn’t determine how anyone chooses to define their sex life.
I digress.
Point being, my classmates are aware of my sprawling dating history, which apparently goes hand in hand with sex, so they’re going to speculate that I’m actually guilty.
Which is, coincidentally, bananas.
I’m now the most hated person at school. My classmates, who I’ve known my entire life, are posting my most recent Instagram selfie to their stories, drawing a huge red X over my face, and encouraging others to unfollow me.
It’s truly Bananagate, and it hurts more than I thought it would.
Marlowe and Tahlia spend the morning distracting me from Insta-gram, reassuring me the record will be set straight on Monday. I want to believe them. More than that, I want to know why someone would do this.
My friends take off once my mom texts me that she’s on her way home from her Postmates shift, where she finds me in pie-and-cry mode as she walks through the door.
“Oh, honey,” she says, her voice softening as she sets two paper bags on the kitchen counter. She must have stopped at the store on the way here. “What happened?”
I’m taking my frustration out on my dough, pretending I’m steamrolling over Duncan’s stupid face.
She hugs me from behind, her arms pinning mine to my sides and ceasing my Demolish Duncan fantasy. “I love you, but please do not destroy my countertops.”
I hang my head. “I have to tell you something.”
“Oh boy. You didn’t hit the mailbox again, did you?”
I’m momentarily thrown. “What? No. I didn’t even have the car today.”
My general teenage recklessness has cost us a new car bumper, though in my defense, I did have to slam on the brakes to avoid accidentally murdering a seagull. I couldn’t have that on my conscience, and that bird was abnormally slow.
She unwraps her arms, turning me toward her with a smile. “I’ve seen you do more with less.”
“It’s not my fault my physics project defied all the laws of gravity.”
“At least you got an A at the expense of my window.”
I try to smile. I’m in no way a perfect person. I break curfew and talk back and avoid calls from my older brother, Smith, because he always needs money.
But this rumor is so much worse than all of that.
I’ve strived for years to prove I’m worthy of my dream school. Stanford University is my Everest, mostly because they have a specific program for product design in their School of Engineering. For me, it’s the only degree that fits. I’m a problem-solver—hence the flirt coaching—but I’m also good at figuring out how to make ordinary things more efficient.
For instance, during my first year at Greenlough, I noticed the student pickup line cut into the senior parking lot, which caused overflow, congestion, and the very worst Big Karen Energy road rage. I mapped out a solution and took my proposed route to Dean McTiernan, explaining why this remedy would be better for everyone. It was executed flawlessly.
I also suggested a new section in the official Greenlough Academy app that uploads a digital version of the biweekly Greenlough Gazette that students could easily access, plus a paperless solution if they ever wanted to go fully green.
I’m solution-oriented, and I want to come up with concepts and creations that make life easier.
But as much as I feel like I’m the perfect fit for this degree, there’s one problem: Stanford’s enrollment rate is 4 percent. This means I need a spotless record and an impressive application in order to even be considered. I cannot afford to slip up. Unless Duncan sets things straight, it’s very likely I’ll have to face Dean McTiernan on Monday.
Duncan has avoided the string of texts I’ve sent so far, but he can’t ignore me forever.
Tears of frustration fill my eyes as my mother’s expression switches from sympathetic to concerned. “You want the bag?”
I nod.
She leaves, then returns with a paper bag that has two eyes cut out of the front and a tiny little mouth for breathing purposes.
The bag started when I was five and went through a rampant fibbing stage. The only way my mom could coax the cold, hard truth out of me was if I pulled a knit cap all the way over my head so I didn’t have to look her in the eyes. The cap turned into a paper bag because my mom worried I would suffocate. Eventually my fibbing habit stopped, but I’d sometimes use the bag to tell her I’d failed a quiz I hadn’t studied for.
I pull the bag over my face. Take a deep breath. Once I say it, it’ll be out there. I don’t know what she’s going to think, but I have no doubt she’ll be disappointed. I hadn’t told her I was going to an after-party and participating in underage drinking. I could leave the drinking part out, but my mother wasn’t born yesterday. She knows exactly what goes on at parties. Lying by omission won’t help me here.
“I was at a party last night and today somebody sent a video to the whole school of someone who looked like me performing a sex act on Duncan Rowe,” I say in a rush.
I don’t look through the little eyeholes, but I hear her sigh. Then, her hand is in mine and she’s leading me toward one of the kitchen chairs. I sit down and explain the entire story, emphasizing that it wasn’t me, but that people are sharing saved Snaps and videos of me in costume that night as if it’s proof.
When I gain the courage to look at her, it’s like another deep cut. She’s disappointed.
I don’t think any kid likes disappointing their parent, but this is different. I’m supposed to be her good child. The scholarship student. Smith has put her—well, us—through a lot. He’s been in and out of rehab and refuses to move back home. We never know where he is or who he’s staying with. When he’s using, he’s off the grid. When he needs money, he persuades my mom into giving it to him. I’ve stopped trying to get her to cut him off. She never listens.
That’s why disappointing her hurts so badly.
“Brynn, I’m so sorry,” my mom says, and I’m surprised at how gentle her tone sounds. “We’re going to need to report this situation to the dean. The distribution of underage sexual content is illegal. You know that, right? They need to punish whoever did this.”
