The room was spinning and everything looked so weird and looney. The ceiling felt much higher than I could reach. Was I in a funhouse? Maybe Mr. Golfer was secretly a clown, or a magician. Maybe a magic clown? I felt myself giggle involuntarily as lazily draped an arm around his neck. He led me to a darker part of the hallway and opened a door to another looney room.
"You can stay here beautiful," he said shutting the door behind him. "With me."
I sat on the edge of the bed, twirling my hair absentmindedly and swinging my feet. Why was I twirling my hair? Marcus checked something in the hallway before he locked the door. Why was he locking the door? He turned to me with a sly smile.
"Well, beautiful," he strode towards me. "Smile."
I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. Was it because he called me beautiful? Why did I have this weird feeling in my stomach? Was I getting butterflies? Or was that just all the Keystone taking its revenge. Something to my right creaked.
"Wh..what?"
Before he could say any more, the closet doors burst open and about a dozen cheerleaders stepped out. I barely got a word in before I was drenched in something thick and gooey. I couldn't see it in the dark but the stinging sensation, the nauseating fumes and eye irritation were enough of a hint. Paint. A camera flashed and it took all I had not to scream and cry. The girls around me were a giggling mess pointing at me, taunting me. I sprung to my feet, not sure what to do. I didn't know if the stinging in my eyes was the paint or the tears.
So out of impulse, I swerved around to face Marcus who was now laughing hysterically. I felt my hands ball into fists, nails digging into my palms and I just...lost it. I swung at him.
He stumbled back stunned momentarily, wiping off some blood on his nose. He sniffed.
I shook my hand but it couldn't hurt as much as the numbing pain of embarrassment he had caused me. I felt the booze's effect wear off and I was feeling like myself again.
"That actually hurt." he chuckled.
His hand flew to my neck and clamped it tight. How was this the same guy I was laughing and joking around with a few minutes ago? I tried to pull his hands away but he was too strong for me. From the corner of my eye, some of the cheerleaders lowered their phones.
"But that's the last a damn newbie is ever going to do." he said seething with anger.
His grip tightened and I heard the other cheerleaders begin to murmur in discontentment. They backed away. The crazy look in his eyes said otherwise. He had to protect his ego and clearly if that meant hurting me, it didn't matter to him.
"Marcus, I think she's had enough."
"Yeah, it was just supposed to be a prank, let her go."
He laughed his grip tightening.
"Oh, I'll let her go alright." he turned to me. "Just as soon as she apologizes."
I could feel myself choking. He waited expectantly, but I lifted my hand and gave him my middle finger. Some of the cheerleaders unlocked the door and scurried off in a hurry. The last thing I say was a blur of blue and black before everything faded into inky blackness.
I sat on my bed freshly showered, in my pink robe, toes curled my neck still throbbing with pain as I carefully ran a hand over the pink bruises. Anger coursed through my veins. I cursed myself under my breath but Kye and Trish had caught it. They sat on either side of my bed, looking at me worriedly. I was angry that I let myself get drunk. Angry that I had let that guy lay a finger on me and most of all, angry that I had not fought back. What was wrong with me?
Kye took my hand.
"Dude, don't be hard on yourself." she said.
"Yeah, to be fair Marcus has never been violent with any girl so no one could have seen this coming." Trish said.
Kye shook her head.
"-Right sorry," Trish fished out her phone. "What if we distracted you a little bit?"
She tapped on something on her phone and pulled up a video on ViewTube. Some blonde haired guy from Hollywood in a purple, cotton suit and black shirt and some shades above his head. I think that was a Jaylen Sizra design three piece. He ranted about the newest season of 'With Every Song'. He gave off the picture of a pimp, all he was missing was the oversized golden chain. And charisma. Clearly, he was working on a false sense of confidence.
With Every Song was a reality TV show that pit the best singers from all over the country against each other so that the next big stars could be discovered. The judges were usually either award winning singers or CEOs of well-know record labels. The panel of judges could also include anyone in the film industry. Especially directors. The past seven seasons, the judges had been changed so I don't really think the eighth season would be any different.
Apparently, this year they were giving an opportunity to five lucky students from our district to participate since no one had ever really applied. Pepper Pot was about the smallest after Marion County so I don't think people even knew it existed.
The guy, Ingrid Lombardi happened to be the showrunner, for the past seven seasons. He did this weird heel spin, finger snap thing which made him look more choreographed than charismatic before a luminescent banner flashed at the end of the video, saying admissions were open.
"Thanks guys," I smiled at them. "But why would you show me this?"
"You look like the singing type?" Trisha shrugged.
"And what does this 'singing type' look like exactly?"
"Um, let's see you have your headphones half the time and you're usually humming? And you keep to yourself like the artsy type so I'm guessing you sing in your freetime." she said. "And you have a crazy bitch sister but there's not a single canvas or paint brush or drawing book in your room. So if it's not fine art, you have to sing to keep your sanity intact."
"That's...actually not a bad observation." I admitted. "I used to sing, with my dad. Not anymore though."
"But what if you applied for the show?" she suggested.
"I'm not really into it. Plus, it would make my life really public. And after tonight, the last thing I want is more publicity."
"Tell you what. Tomorrow, we're heading to the skatepark. And we're getting you out of this room." Kye said with resolve.
"What if Marcus is there?" I pointed out.
"You're contemplating on whether a pompous rich kid's going to be at a skatepark full of guys who'd bash in his skull in a minute." Kye's brow shot up.
I was going to argue that not all rich kids were pompous then my gaze went to Trish. I didn't recognize her name at first but Pembroke was one of the major producers of WES. He funded the show, according to what she said but she was nothing like her dad. She was simple. Or as simple as she could possibly be. And she was cool, you could never tell she was the daughter of a producer. As for Kye, she made her surname a secret for her own reasons.
"Good point," I smiled wide. "I'll meet you guys there."
"And don't worry about the pictures Kye took care of it."
"P...pictures? "I couldn't mask my horror even if I tried.
Kye shot Trish a deathly glare but it morphed into a soft smile when she turned to me.
"Yeah, way to let that cat out of the bag." she sighed. "Those cheerleaders were going to post pics of the prank online but I...made sure they wouldn't. It's all good."
"Yeah, she threatened them!" Trish perked up.
Kye rolled her eyes. "It wasn't a threat. It was...a guarantee."
She pulled me into a hug.
"Aspen, it's okay. It'll all blow over. We're here for you." she said.
"I...I'll see you guys tomorrow." I sniffed and Trish joined in the hug.
When they left, Allison walked into the room with a frown.
"Why the hell do you have to ruin everything for me? Couldn't you have just hit on some dork from the math club or something?" She snapped.
She turned around and slammed the door loudly on purpose. I slipped into the covers and hugged my knees to my chest. Hoping that I'd get to sleep at some point, if at any point at all.