After breakfast, Mom and Bentley go shopping for new baseball gear for his summer league. I retreat to my room and play on Facebook. Ian's profile has been tagged with fifty-six new photos from last night's party. I have been tagged in exactly zero photos. Because I didn't get to go.
My blood boils the moment I click on the first photo. Forty of the photos were added by some girl named Stacia who looks like she could very well be a Victoria's Secret model. She definitely doesn't go to our school. One thing is for sure – I've never seen her before. What the hell kind of name is that anyway? I click on her profile. It's private. Fuck.
I go back to his photos and sink into a depression hole that gets deeper with every click. Stacia's captions bother me: TWO HOTTIES. It's a self-taken close-up of her and Ian. I scrutinize every detail, every pixel. At least her hand is around him, not the other way around.
The next several photos chronicle their game of beer pong. The last one has Ian looking tipsy yet adorable. I save it to my desktop. He's holding a Styrofoam cup in one hand, two ping pong balls in the other. I LOVE HIS BALLS! XOXO is the caption. That's it. I text Becca.
Who the fuck is this Stacia girl?
My phone rings, Becca's smiling face showing up on the screen. “Who is she?” I say instead of hello.
“I dunno, I didn't even know her name till I saw the photos online.”
“Was she flirting with him all night?”
“Umm,” she thinks for a moment. She's stalling to save my feelings.
“I knew it,” I say. “What a bitch.”
“She was all over every guy last night, Bayleigh. I don't think you should worry.”
I go back to Stacia's page and stare at the Facebook warning telling me I have to be her friend to view her full profile. “Are you online right now?” I ask her.
“You know I am.”
“Add her as a friend, and then let me know if Ian's posted any comments on her page.” She whines. It takes a few more minutes to coerce her into doing it, and I even have to pull the “You know I would do the same for you” card, but she finally agrees.
Now I have two things on the agenda for today: wait for Ian's next text message and wait for Becca to call me back with details on Stacia's page. I watch an episode of Supernatural, paint my nails, brush my teeth and stare at the ceiling for a million hours until he finally writes me back. His texts are so sporadic, but getting them totally makes my day.
Ian: I want to see you.
I write back, I wish. Mom will be home soon.
I refresh my homepage. No new comments. My phone vibrates. Send me a pic.
Me: That's not the same as seeing me…
I know it's totally against the rules to double text a guy you're crushing on, but I do it anyway.
Me: Speaking of photos, I just saw a ton of you and some girl??? on your profile…
Fifteen minutes later, no reply. Shit, that was a mistake. I bite my lip and do something terrible. I triple text. Where'd ya go?
He replies immediately. Waiting on your pic. Ugh. I send him a photo from my phone's storage of images. It's of me and a kitten. He replies, sexy… anymore?
Me: Who was that girl?
My thumbs ache from pressing the screen so hard.
Ian: No one, pic please? I miss you.
I don't know why he needs so many photos of me when there are hundreds online. I turn my phone's camera on myself, stick out my tongue and cross my eyes and snap a photo. I send it to him.
Ian: Come on, you can do sexier than that.
Me: Sexier? What does that mean? I'm not a Sports Illustrated model.
Ian: Shirtless.
My heart races. No. Freaking. Way.
Twenty-five persuasive texts later and I'm standing in the bathroom in my bra, phone camera ready. I so cannot do this. The neighbor's dog starts barking and soon our dog Patch joins him. I know all guys care about sex but why does he want this photo so badly?
I bet Stacia would send him a photo. I wonder if she already has.
I shift my leg, tilt my hips and shoulder like a model. Purse my lips. I look silly. I switch out my bra for a padded one. Better. I still don't want to do this.
I don't feel sexy at all. I feel stupid. But maybe this will get him to stop saying he doesn't want a relationship. I hold out my phone, using the mirror to check my pose. The dogs are still barking. The back door slams shut. Shit, Mom's home.
She calls for me to come help them carry in groceries. “I'm in the bathroom, just a minute,” I say through the door. Knowing it's now or never, I snap the photo, send it to Ian and throw my shirt back on. I open the door. Mom is standing there. “Why did your camera sound just go off?” It doesn't sound like a question.
Her jaw is set and she appears to already know the answer.
“Umm,” I stammer a lie about dropping my phone and the accidental camera clickage that resulted. I muster a weak laugh. My phone beeps and Mom snatches it from my hand.
Ian: Damn girl, you're sexy.
My face flushes so fast that I get dizzy. Breakfast threatens to resurface. I stare at the floor, waiting for an earful. But she doesn't yell. She starts to cry. This is worse than yelling. I would rather her punch me in the face with spikey, flaming brass knuckles covered in flesh-rotting acid.
She removes the battery and puts it and the phone into her pocket. I can't speak or else I would try to apologize. “I just don't know what to do with you, Bayleigh,” she says as she walks away and I am left feeling like the worst daughter in the world.