Page 14 of I Did Something Bad
“She’s the one doing the profile,” Tyler says at the same time that May says, “You’re the one who wrote that piece on the abortion clinic, right?”
I blink once, then another two times.
“The one inTime?” she prompts.
“Yes,” I answer, apparently having forgotten my own article that I wrote earlier this year and that has already been nominated for two Society of Publishers in Asia awards.
May jerks her head at Tyler. “Ty’s the one who sent it to me. I forwarded it to everyone I know.” She takes one step forward, and her mouth curves into a small, sweet smile. “I bet it wasn’t easy to get all of those stories on record,” she says. “Thank you for what you do. Journalism is important, necessary work.”
I’ve had people, especially women and particularly Myanmar women, reach out to me with some variant of the same sentiment over the past several months, but I did not expect May freaking Diamond to be one of them.
“Thank you,” I parrot back at last.
May gives a nod before turning her attention back to Tyler. “You ready?” she asks, linking their elbows together.
“Am now,” he says.
That was approximately five hours ago. It is now nearing midnight, and I am exhausted and perspiring like we’ve been shooting on location with the location being the sun. My arms and ankles are covered in red, blotchy mosquito bites, and we still have about two more hours left. And apparently this is one of the shorter shoots. I’m surprised that May and Tyler are still as cheery and nice as they were when we first arrived, because truthfully, I now get all those stories about actors banning people on set from talking to them.Iwould like to ban anyone from talking to me if I could. I already miss being able to hear myself think.
When a thirty-minute break is announced—the longest we’ve had all night—I start toward the wooden walkway that surrounds the lake, not caring where my feet take me as long as it’s away from all ofthis. A few other crew members also disperse in different directions, as well as a group of three extras who’re passing around a lighter, unlit cigarettes in their mouths as they stride toward theparking lot. A few paces ahead, one guy is headed in the same direction as me for the walkway, his face scrunched up as he concentrates on his phone screen.
I take out my own phone as I walk, and as predicted, the group chat has been going nuts this whole time, even though Nay and Thidar both know that I don’t answer when I’m on assignment. The texts are basically different all-caps iterations ofDO YOU KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE’S INSTAGRAM LIVES YOU’RE IN!!!andHAVE YOU SEEN HIM SHIRTLESS YET?andIF THERE IS AN AFTERPARTY TONIGHT AND YOU DO NOT INVITE US, WE WILL NEVER EVER EVER FORGIVE YOU.
Trust me, nobody here has the mental, physical, or emotional capacity for an afterparty,I type before I realize that there’s no signal in this section of the park. I look around to see if anyone else is having the same problem, but thereisn’tanyone around. I actually can’t hear anybody anymore either, not even the majority of the cast and crew who were still hanging around the set; all I can see of said set through the trees and across the grass are the white canopy tops, and that’s only because they’re lit by the string lights. I didn’t mean to getthisfar away from it all, but then again, I have been told (read: reprimanded by my friends) more than once that my regular walking pace is most people’s power-walking pace, so.
I’m lifting my hand in a feeble attempt to find a single bar when I feel the hairs on my neck stand up a millisecond before I hear the cough. It’s deep and drawn out, and my body takes in a huge gulp of air and doesn’t exhale.
When I turn, the man from earlier has done a one-eighty and is now approaching me, phone gone, hands tucked into each of his pockets. Under the sparse, dingy yellow lamps, I can tell that he’s white, dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a baseball cap, and, most important, looks not insignificantly taller and stronger than me. Mybrain’s first automatic command to my body is to find my pepper spray and alarm—which are sitting attached to my bag in Tyler’s trailer. All I have on me is my phone, which is a glorified rose-gold brick right now. My eyes subtly scan around for anything I can use as a weapon—a rock, a large branch, pebbles to throw in his eyes—but there’s nothing. All there is is darkness and the silent lake and me and a stranger and this narrow walkway.
“Hi there,” the man says in what sounds like an Australian or possibly a New Zealand accent.
“Hey,” I say, making my voice as unperturbed as possible, my unfounded optimism positing that he’s just a friendly (and socially awkward) crew member trying to make conversation. After all, it’s too dark for me to see if there’s a set-regulated lanyard tucked under his shirt.
“Khin, right? You’re working on the movie? The one with those two big stars?” He jerks his head toward the loud, bright set, which now looks and sounds like it’s on another continent.
I nod, now certain that he doesnotwork on the movie. How long has he been hanging around the set if he knows my name? How did no one notice him?
“Yeah,” I say. “I should actually be heading back.”
“Cool,” is all he says.
I don’t want to turn my back to him, but I also can’t leave without turning away. “What’s the movie about?” he asks, still strolling toward me at a steady pace.
How could I be so stupid to leave my entire bag behind? I thought the whole park had been sealed off to outsiders, but he must’ve snuck in through another entrance and loitered in the background. Was he just waiting foranyof the women to wander off? Why the fuck hadIstrayed so far?
“Oh, just your standard rom-com,” I say with a light chuckle. Myleft foot takes one cautious step backward, every brain cell screaming,Get the fuck out of here right the fuck now.
“I like rom-coms.” With two, three,foursteps, the guy is much closer than I thought he could or would be in just two seconds. “They always cast such…prettygals.”
I feel the boulder sink in one heavy motion, right from the top of my throat to the bottom of my gut. Any previous foolish notions I’d had about misjudging this guy have evaporated into the thick humidity. I want to cry. I know what happens next.
“My crew is waiting.” I’m still trying to remain calm, breezy, not let my spine-warping fear show.
“They can wait a little longer, can’t they…” And then he does it. He takes one final step and he’s so close I can smell the alcohol on him, so searing and pungent I gag, see the stubble on his chin, feel his disgusting warm breath on my forehead. “…sweetheart?”
My brain switches off the moment his hand grips my left shoulder. When I feel the tightness of his hold, Iknowthat he’s not going to let me go, not unless I make him. I attempt to scream but he thrusts his free fist into my mouth. On reflex, I bite down into his salty palm.
“Fucking journalist bitch,” he growls. Tears trail down my cheeks as he sandwiches me between him and the rail and starts grinding against me.
