Heather woke before the sun rose. Her sleep had been shallow and troubled, images of the video returning repeatedly as dreams. She lay awake, thoughts churning, alternatively terrified and angry. What if the tape got out? It wouldn’t get out. But what if it did? Well – was it that bad really? She had been drunk, and behaved like an exhibitionist slut for younger boys! But it could be said that she had been too drunk to know what she was doing. Oh please - her genitalia had been painted with lipstick! What could be sluttier?
Her mind wandered. She imagined the tape in the possession of her parents, or circulating through the college. She would have to leave the college if that happened. Not just her: her father’s career would be over. She curled into the foetal position, wondering how a nineteen year old could get into this position. She would never drink again. Never.
She dozed again, however, because her father had to rouse her from a deep sleep after the alarm had gone off. She climbed out of bed with the sense of doom more evident than ever. It seemed she had been tired for days now, in a nightmare that was out of her control. She left half her breakfast untouched, and barely talked in the car. Her father seemed concerned, but she brushed his question away, and muttered something about girl troubles. He seemed satisfied for the moment.
She knew, now, that someone had been close enough to her to put the videotape into her bag. Her tormentor could be anyone, leering at her across a corridor, walking behind her to class, sitting on the grass as she walked by. And if he made himself known, what could she do? Demand the tape back? Plead with him? Threaten him with suspension? He seemed to have all the cards in this situation. Her fear was that he would choose to use this force her into even worse situations (could there be worse situations?) and she would be incapable of stopping him. Worse – the next time she would be sober, and would have to experience the humiliation first hand.
The morning passed, with more than one lecturer commenting on her lack of focus. At lunchtime her food went untouched, just some Coke finding it’s way past her parched lips. When her friends rose to return to class she didn’t have the strength left to follow. Telling them she’d be right along, she sat alone at the outside lunch table, turning over her position, overcome with helpless frustration. She wanted to weep.
Instead, she looked up and watched a boy detach himself from a group and wander confidently over to her table. As he approached, she knew he was involved: his swagger and stare gave it away. She guessed his age as 17, 18 at most. He had the indolent slouch so often found in arrogant teenager boys, his shoulders swaying, turning as he walked, a slight smile threatening to turn into a sneer. He wasn’t unattractive – for a boy both her junior, and a world apart in social standing. To Heather he may as well have been a child.
He sat next to her. Her skin crawled, and she looked down at her Coke, ignoring him completely, tears threatening to slip down her cheeks, lips trembling too slightly for him to see. She could feel his eyes upon her, watching her, taking in the line of her cheeks, her hair blowing in the gentlest of breezes, the line of her neck, her breasts rising and falling with her breath. The other students were heading off to class now – it seemed as if the food court was emptying aside from them. Neither spoke, until the last witnesses drifted away and they were alone.
His voice was still that of a boy, but his contempt was evident: “I see you’re wearing no lipstick today, Heather. Any particular reason?”
She remained silent for a while, but he waited patiently for a response. Finally, she snapped out, still staring ahead of her, still not looking at him: “Fuck you.”
“Hmm”, he said. “That would be nice.”
“Do you know how much trouble you are in? If that tape gets out you’re going to jail.”
He laughed. “For what? You agreed to everything we did. In fact you fingered yourself while we watched, knowing there was a camera there. That undermines your case a bit, doesn’t it?”
“You took advantage of me when I was drunk. That’s despicable. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“You went to a bedroom at a party with three boys younger than you. What were we to think? What would anyone think? To lead on three teenagers, who were almost still boys. That’s actually quite shameful when you think of it. I know that’s what the College Board will say. You know how they are.”
The implicit threat hung in the air between them. Finally she turned to look at him for the first time. He had brown eyes, watching her closely, no hint of fear. His hair was slightly longer than it should have been; it curled untidily about his ears, and hung down around the side of his neck. She spoke with bravado: “Give me the fucking tapes and I promise you won’t get into trouble. OK?”
He smiled. “I don’t think so. Those tapes are valuable and rare.”
“Oh I see. Well tell me the price and let’s get it done with.”
He seemed surprised for a moment. “You don’t understand. I could copy those tapes and sell one to every student on campus. The profit would be enormous. You couldn’t afford to pay me enough. And I will never give you the tapes. Never. At most, I might be tempted not to sell them for profit.”
