22
Edinburgh, five years ago. Jack.
Jesus Christ. Did that actually just happen? It did. I didn’t dream it. I just slept with Andie .
My mind swirls as I rush across campus to the pool, kicking myself for drinking so much alcohol the night before. I’m going to be five minutes late, which means extra laps, and I already feel like I’m going to throw up. But I’m not worried about any of that right now, because I just slept with Andie. And, if I haven’t misread the signals, I think she might want to see me again. I resist punching the air – it’s early, but there are still students milling around – but elation is the only way to describe how I’m feeling. Since she sat next to me in the lecture hall at the beginning of this year, her red hair falling over her face as she pulled her books out of her bag, and made a joke about how little she cared about dusty old Chaucer, I’ve been absolutely hooked. I barely remember any of the material that’s been covered, I’ve been so distracted trying to build up the courage to talk to her beyond that first exchange. Before her cryptic email a couple of weeks ago, all I’d managed was a few comments about the weather, a joke about my hair being wet from swim team practice, not greasy (not my finest hour, I’ll admit – but she did laugh) and asking her to borrow a pen.
I rush into the changing rooms, unable to wipe the smile off my face, only to find the place surprisingly empty. I know I’m late, but I can’t be the only one. Niall, at least, is always late. I’ve actually never seen the room this empty: it’s almost creepy. But I don’t have time to dwell, or I’ll have to do so many make-up laps that I’ll definitely throw up. I rush over to my locker and start rifling through my bag, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I flinch, startled, and shake it off, turning to confront whoever decided it would be funny to scare the hell out of me. My words die on my tongue. Robbie is standing in front of me, looking at me with mild curiosity. My stomach falls. He can’t know. I only spoke to Niall. He’s my friend, he’d never do that to me. But something about his facial expression sets me on edge.
‘Carlson,’ he says. I stand up straight, drawing up to my full height.
‘Why aren’t you at practice, mate?’ I ask, trying to keep my expression neutral, my tone casual.
‘Cancelled, today,’ he says. ‘A few of the guys were so upset by that article bullshit that they went heavy last night. I gave them the morning off.’
I frown, ignoring his bait and pulling out my phone to find the email that he must have sent round, but there’s nothing.
‘When were you going to tell me?’ I ask, keeping my voice even.
‘I’ve told you now, haven’t I?’ he says, smiling to himself. He picks up my goggles, which have fallen out of my bag, and examines them.
‘These are looking pretty rough. Had them for a while?’ he asks, holding them between his thumb and forefinger. I nod, slowly, not sure where he’s going with this. A deep, gut instinct is telling me something is wrong. Very wrong. ‘Of course,’ he says, a look of barely disguised disgust passing over his face. ‘Scholarship boy can’t afford new goggles, can he now?’
‘Look, mate—’ I start, but before I know it he’s slammed me against the locker.
‘I know it was you, Carlson. You and that slut, Andie. Not that I give a shit who you sleep with, but it’s pretty obvious. You start hanging out with her right before this stuff blows up, then suddenly there’s an article out. I know you’re too stupid to write it, so it must be someone with a vendetta. And would you look at that, the last post before the article came out is about her little friend Sara.’
He tightens his grip on my shirt, leaning in. ‘I saw you in the library together, clearly up to something. And I saw you again last night. What did she do, promise you sex if you helped her out?’
I clench my jaw. Fuck this guy. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I say, fixing my gaze on the lockers ahead of me.
‘Really? Because Niall seemed pretty keen to tell me all about your involvement. Especially when I threatened to kick him off the team. Another scholarship boy, bless him. Mummy couldn’t afford his accommodation fees.’
His hand clenches around my T-shirt, and he leans in. ‘You’re playing with fire, Carlson. I could make your life really miserable, if I wanted to.’
I lean back, searching for a response, but find I have none. To my surprise, he studies my face for a moment, then relaxes his grip and lets go, moving a step backwards.
‘You’re not going to admit it, are you?’ he asks, fascination moving across his features as he looks me up and down.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I repeat, my hands curling into fists. If he tries to jump me again, this time I’m ready.
‘OK,’ he says, raising his hands. ‘Prove it.’
My forehead creases again as I try to decipher his meaning. ‘What do you mean, prove it?’ I ask, my tone still neutral even as a sense of dread moves through me.
‘Write a post about her,’ he says. Not that. Anything but that.
‘I didn’t sleep with her—’ I start, trying to throw him off the scent, to stave off the panic that’s starting to rise.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he says, shrugging. ‘Write a post about her anyway,’ he continues. ‘Lie. Make it up. I don’t care. If you don’t, I’ll know you did it. And I can think of much worse consequences than a post on the internet. Like, say, having your scholarship rescinded …’ His tone is casual, but there’s an undertone I don’t like. ‘Or having both you and that bitch kicked out of this university.’
Shit. His words have the intended effect, stopping me in my tracks for a moment. But, a second later, I frown, processing their severity – it’s a bit much, even for Robbie. The scholarship threat could be serious, and I’ll have to get my head around that: my scholarship is dependent on participation in the first team. He chooses the team with the coach, and I’ve been slipping closer to the bottom half in the last season. It’s a stretch, still, that Robbie could be so persuasive, since I have a good relationship with our coach. But it would potentially only take one conversation to have me placed on reserve, at risk of losing it entirely, and meaning my mum would have to somehow figure out fees for the rest of this year. The thought sends a lump into my throat. But having us kicked out? I know his dad is on the board, and is generally a pretty scary guy, but could he really have that kind of power? Despite all this, the panic I’ve been staving off since he tapped me on the shoulder starts to rise in pitch. I close my eyes, trying to organise my thoughts and assess the actual risk of this situation, unwilling to allow myself to be pushed into something by an empty threat. When I open them again, he’s moved a step closer. ‘If you think I’m joking, just look at what happened to Sam.’
I blink. Sam was a member of our swim team last year – a first year, on a scholarship. He and I got along well – I was a mentor of sorts. Towards the end of the year, he disappeared: quit the team, dropped out of university. I’ve tried reaching out since, but he hasn’t replied. Horror moves through me, chilling my veins, at what I realise Robbie is suggesting.
‘That was you?’ I ask, and he shrugs.
‘Little fucker got a bit too mouthy one night, started talking about how he thought he’d make a better captain than me. I taught him a lesson. Next thing I know he’s gone to the university about it.’ He pauses for effect, casually lifting the string of my swimming bag and letting it fall. ‘Obviously it went straight to my father. It was … gently suggested to him that since he had such violent tendencies and had started a fight with me, it might benefit him to drop out, rather than be kicked out, as he might then have at least a chance of getting a degree elsewhere.’
‘Jesus Christ, Robbie,’ I say. I knew he was shady, but I had no idea.
‘People don’t fuck with me and get away with it,’ he says, bragging now with the sociopathic confidence of someone who has ruined someone’s life and is happy about it. Poor Sam.
I process this information, trying not to show too much emotion in case it gives anything away. It’s clear from what he’s just said, if it’s true, that going to the university about this will be no help. As I’m thinking, the exchange I had with Andie yesterday rises to the top of my mind – when did she tell me the website was going to be taken down, again? I try to focus, to visualise the piece of paper. Tomorrow , she wrote. I check my wrist. It’s 7 a.m., and the website is due to come down today, I just don’t know when. So I have a choice: I can assume Robbie is bluffing and potentially risk my university career and Andie’s, or I can do this, and risk the post being up for a few hours, but at least buy us some time to work out a contingency plan. Maybe, if I can get to her in time, her friend can pull the website down before the post even goes up. If not – my stomach sinks. Even if it’s only up for a few hours, it will be awful for her. She’ll be disgusted and devastated, and it might ruin my chances with her forever. But I don’t see that I have much of a choice.
I take a deep breath, my mum’s face at the forefront of my mind, her relief when we got the letter about my scholarship. Slowly, a resolve forms inside me. The prospect of writing this post goes against every value I hold, but the risk is too high. This is by no means over – I know Robbie well enough to know it won’t be that easy – but at the very least it will get me out of this changing room, to find Andie and explain.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it.’
He nods, then gestures to my bag. ‘Your laptop in there?’ I grunt by way of affirmation. He spreads his hands, as if inviting me to get it out. I slowly extract it from my bag, every part of me rebelling against what I’m about to do. I open it and navigate to the website’s submissions page, repulsion moving through me, and open up the Google form. I type as quickly as I can.
Performance: 10/10
Looks: 10/10
Body: 10/10
I type 10 for every rating, trying not to read them too closely, to pretend I’m writing about some other person, some fictional girl who’s not Andie.
Events leading to the score: We went for drinks at the university bar, then back to my room.
Special mentions:
Here I pause, a wave of disgust moving through me, bile in my throat. This is the worst section. Other posts I’ve read use this box to objectify, denigrate or offend. I can’t write about Andie like that, can’t post it on the internet, to be recorded in the ether perhaps forever, even after the website comes down.
Robbie leans over my shoulder. ‘What’s the hold up, Carlson?’ he says, his eyes moving over the screen until they land on the last section, then a smile spreads across his face. ‘My favourite part. But clearly, you need some guidance.’ He leans closer, and for a moment I panic, terrified he’s going to take over. But then he continues, his tone jovial and conspiratorial. The bile rises further up my throat. ‘There needs to be some identifying feature. I want her to know you’ve written this. Otherwise we don’t have a deal.’
I pause, hands hovering over the keys, desperate not to do this.
Robbie sighs behind me. ‘Jesus, Carlson, stop being such a wuss. Look, fine – if you like, I can handle this part. You give me the details, and I’ll get a little creative maybe—’ he says, and I shake my head, dread flooding through me about what he might write.
I feel sick at the prospect, but if I’m going to do it, the least I can do here is write it by own hand, not hiding behind someone else’s. I can own it, I can apologise. I can explain. As I rub my palms across my eyes, trying to build up to writing something, anything, that won’t make this an unforgivable betrayal, an image of last night comes to me, unbidden: the freckle on her left shoulder blade. So small, beautiful, so perfectly Andie. I take a deep breath and open my eyes. That was for us, for no one else. But then I glance at Robbie, and see the firm resolve in his eyes, the subtle threat.
I let out the breath slowly and type the words that take the post from a series of meaningless numbers to something much, much worse. Focus, Jack . I keep my eyes trained on the keyboard, afraid if I look at the screen my resolve will falter. I place my attention firmly on the next steps: getting out of this changing room, getting to her.
I finish typing, then glance at the top of the screen, at the words ‘slutsofedinburgh.com’, and a sense of finality sinks in. After everything Andie has fought for, this will be her worst nightmare. Fuck this guy. Fuck all of this. I flinch as I remember referring to the guys who post on here as ‘low-lives’ when we first met in the library – that feels ironic now. Robbie’s eyes are on the screen, examining my work. It’s sparse, compared to the usual posts, but I can’t bring myself to write more. The more I write, the more real it will become. He frowns, reading, and I hold my breath, hoping I’ve done enough. He gives me a curt nod, and I click submit on the form.