EXPOSED

by Susan Vaught

Copyright 2008. All rights reserved.

Mom starts to leave, seems to remember why she came, and turns back to us, pointing her finger at our faces. “If the batons come out in the house again, I don’t care how old you are. I’ll use them to tan your hides. Got me?”

“Yes ma’am,” we say at the same time.

Devin lets out a breath as Mom shuts the door. So do I.

But when I turn back to the computer, there’s my new e-pal profile, blaring out, bigger than life.

“Oh, no.” I grab both sides of the screen, then throw Devin a desperate look. “Did she see it? Did she see us in the streaming video window­or the AmherstViolet337 name?”

Devin shrugs and glances back at the door as if waiting for Mom to come charging back in and start yelling.

At that exact second, a new message pops into my inbox, and not one of the generic porn-and-perv spams I usually get when I start a new profile.

This one’s from KnightHawk859 with a subject line of, “Dear Goddess of Twirling.”

Devin and I stare at the message, then at the door.

No Mom.

My finger slides across the laptop’s touchpad.

“Girl, you better delete that,” Devin says in a low, tense voice. “It’s probably some freak.”

“Yeah, but he thinks I’m a goddess.”

She shakes her head and gives me the shut-up hand. “See, now you’re trippin’. He thinks I’m a goddess, not you.”

I highlight the message from Knighthawk859 and click open.

Devin’s halfway through a sentence about how I’m an idiot for clicking on the message and how KnightHawk859 is probably some gutter-sucking lowlife when the message opens.

KnightHawk’s face fills my screen.

The sight of him makes Devin suck in her breath and shut her mouth so fast her teeth click together.

So . . . do . . . mine.

My entire world spins down to stillness. In the distance, I hear the murmur of Lauren’s television. Something clatters downstairs. Neither sound seems real or connected to the universe.

In my room, the only noises are the soft rattle of the central heat and air fan and Devin’s breathing.

KnightHawk has thick black hair trimmed even with his jaw, and he has big brown eyes. The kind of eyes I could stare into for hours. His upturned mouth makes a perfect heart, and his chin has the cutest dimple dead-center. I want to push my thumb into the spot and watch him grin. KnightHawk’s head rests against his hand, and tattoos peek above his black shirt sleeve.

Does the boy ever have some muscles, too.

His note says,
Great stream, Red. You should pop a video to the Band Section.

“OhmyGodhewaswatching,” Devin blurts. Then slower, “He saw us. Me. On that video.”

I’m too busy staring at the email to say anything.
It’s signed Paul, 1st Trumpet, Jazz Band, with a link to his profile at BlahFest. Under that is a p.s. reading, I’m nobody, too.

“Now that has to be a coincidence,” I mutter, running my finger over the line of type. But how incredible is it that he’s finishing a line from the poem I quoted in my profile? No guy really knows an Emily poem well enough to do that, right?

No straight guy, anyway.

Devin’s probably missing that reference, because the only Emily poems she knows are the two I gave her to learn so we won’t flunk the classroom part of presenting our paper.

After a few seconds of shameless staring, she says, “Daaaaaay-um, Chan. Click that boy’s profile.”

I don’t waste any time following the link.