Page 47 of Bookish Boys Don't Date Social Girls
She includes a link in the text that I tap, hesitantly. It opens to a video hosting site and there I am, asking boys questions about myself. It shocks me so much, I tap the screen to stop it from playing. The title of the video is GIRL STANDS UP AGAINST UNDESERVED SLUT SHAMING. I grimace. Have the rumors gone as far as slut shaming? I realize it doesn’t matter if they are telling lies about me kissing them or doing more. It’s all wrong.
My frozen image on the screen stands tall and determined. I like what I see, so I start the video playing again. I’m not gonnalie, I hate hearing my voice, but I love what I’m saying and how I’m saying it. I get riled up all over again listening to it, even though I’m the one who said it in the first place. Whoever filmed the scene stayed on me until I started asking for a show of hands. They scan the crowd too fast, and my stomach roils like I’m about to capsize on a boat. Then they scan the crowd more slowly as I ask for the show of hands for second dates.
Whoever is filming mumbles a swear word. “Seven. Seven out of 18.” It’s a girl filming. Then I ask for the final show of hands and the pause feels as long during the video as it felt in real time. The videographer swings the camera back to me just in time to capture the ironic look I gave the boys not willing to admit the truth. Then she does a slow pan of the entire room and ends up on Spencer. The girl swears again, but this time you can hear her own anger. She says, “That’s effed up.” And the video cuts out.
I don’t know how to process the fact that my speech was taped and is already online. Then I look at the counter under the viewing screen and I almost drop my phone. Three hundred people have already seen it. I don’t even know if there are three hundred girls in our school.
Tentatively, I scan the comments under the video. Comments are usually so shallow and often not even related to the subject matter. I’m not surprised when I see one criticizing the dye job on my hair. I snicker when I see that someone responded that it is natural and called them a nasty name. But most of the comments are positive. Either cheering me for standing up for myself or talking about female empowerment.
The whole time I watched the video, my phone was buzzing with new notifications. I’m more encouraged to dive into my messages based on the video comments. There are a couple mean ones from guys who feel challenged by me outingthem. I shake my head and wonder if they truly believe something happened between us or if they think they should have a right to tell whatever story they want of me.
I lay in bed even though I’m still clothed, because I can’t take my eyes off my phone. There is something really good happening for other girls because of my speech. I have that same feeling I got when I learned that I’d empowered Latisha to stand up for herself, but this time it is a thousand times bigger.
I feel like a crazy person tucked up on my bed, alone, laughing and crying and responding aloud to some of the more heartfelt comments. Maybe I am crazy, but it feels too good to stop.
When I can’t keep my eyes open any longer and I notice that my phone is on the last drop of battery power, I shut it off completely, plug it in, and burrow under my covers.
I concentrate on trying to relax and calm my mind. The stress begins to melt away when a series of comments flash behind my eyes, or the video plays in my memory and my brain kicks into gear again. I try an old-fashioned sleep remedy and picture sheep jumping a fence as I mentally tally them, hoping the distraction will allow me to let go of the whirlwind of emotions I’m feeling. But instead, sobs take over. Though I don’t understand why I’m crying, it feels like the right thing to do. My tears are the anger I felt for being wronged, the empowerment I feel for standing up for myself, and the joy I feel for the other girls who realize they don’t deserve judgment either. They are happy tears, sorrowful tears, and exhausted tears. And eventually, I’m too tired even for them, and I fall asleep on my damp pillow.
Chapter Twenty-Two
When I wake,my head feels thick, and my brain is a sloth. I stretch over the edge of the bed, as far as my body will go without tipping onto the floor, then reach my arm forward. My fingers just barely brush the edge of my phone as it lays on my dresser. I catch it with the tips of my nails a couple times until I pull it toward me enough to grasp the edge. Panting from the effort, I realize it would have been less work if I’d just gotten up and grabbed it, and hopped back into bed.
I growl when I find it turned off.
It isn’t until the phone powers up and my notifications explode that I remember everything from the night before. I drop my phone and bury my head under my pillow, already too exhausted to deal with the fallout.
My phone rings and my hand automatically reaches for it. But I pause. Do I want to answer it? With a groan, I unbury my head and pick up my phone. But I don’t recognize the number, so I send it to voicemail.
I stare up at my ceiling, trying to figure out how to handle my new and unusual situation. My phone seems pleasantlyquiet, so I open the screen and my eyes bug out. I have twenty-five voicemails, over one hundred text messages, and—
Over one thousand Instagram notifications? What on earth?
I can’t stop my thumb from opening the app. There are so many notifications to page through, but from a quick glance—because I’m still too afraid to look at things too closely—it looks like someone tagged me in a post. A scan of the comments indicates someone tagged me in the video. Great. My eyes catch on some comments as I do a fast scroll through my notifications. Comments such as “girl power,” “you tell ‘em, honey,” and “effing can’t.”
Oh, that isn’t “can’t”.
I panic scroll away from the horrible word. That’s exactly why I don’t want to pay too close attention to anything surrounding this.
There’s a pounding on my bedroom door just before it flies open and Ava and Bek barge into my room.
“Why haven’t you answered our texts or phone calls?” Ava’s scanning me like she’s looking for a mortal wound or some other reason I’ve ignored them.
I close out of Instagram and show them my phone screen. As they scan from app to app, their eyes bug further.
“Holy smokes, Sam,” Bek whispers.
It’s a testament to how utterly bizarre the situation is when Bek crawls up onto the bed and sits cross-legged, facing me. Both Ava and I gape at her. I must look to confirm the bubble chair is still in my room.
Ava recovers first and looks at me, “It’s mostly super positive, though.”
I tell her the comment I just happened to see even when I wasn’t looking. Bek curls her lip and Ava physically leans away.
“That’s such a horrible word,” she says. “But you don’t have to worry about those people. There will always bepeople like that. Just focus on those copycat videos. They’re so inspiring.”
Bek nods, tears shimmering in her eyes. “So inspiring.”
“I’m so proud of you, Sam.” Ava plops onto the bed and wraps her arms around me. “You can’t help but be a leader.”
