Allison

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Allison—Pinterest devotee; mother of Olivia and Seth; longtime member of St. Agnes’s; and chair of the Salem South High Alumni Committee—had chosen the Sapphire Hotel for her class’s 20th reunion, although she didn’t note that she’d lost her virginity there on the invitations. (Prom night.) She glanced around the ballroom. It allowed for social distancing and showed few traces of the recent police raid. Perfect.  

As long as Tori didn’t come. But—that seemed unlikely. That photo…

She wouldn’t.  

Surely.

Tori, five houses down, had spent late elementary school decapitating her Barbies, and middle school dissecting squirrels-of-unfortunate-fate. She maintained an inflexible rotation of “gloomy band” t-shirts in high school. And she hadn’t even bothered attending graduation.

But, as her mother had always reminded her, Allison had to invite everyone. She cc’d a probably-abandoned email address.

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Jeff Cochran—her junior-year ‘maybe-but-never-quite’—flirted pleasantly. Angela Reynolds expressed interest in ordering from her Etsy store. Former debate-team captain, now State Senator Danny Nguyen, asked if she’d consider running for the school board. A Prezi video containing old photos of the entire class. A tea-light tribute to Derek Brady, who died in Iraq. Picture-perfect with that herb-of-grace arrangement… 

“Allison.”

She started, slopped cabernet over her hands. “Tori!” Tori’s dress boasted a vampiric collar. She appeared otherwise unaltered. “How—are you?”

Tori’s gaze pricked her. “You didn’t think I’d come.”

“I’m—ah…glad.”

“Do you remember that photo?” Tori asked.  “The un-cropped one?”

“…don’t know what you’re…” Allison mumbled.

“Attention, everyone!” cried Tori.  The masked attendees swiveled toward her. “I want to thank Allison for organizing,” she said. “That slideshow—wow. So many memories.”

Dutiful applause—but Allison’s stomach churned. 

“So,” continued Tori, “You all ruined my last six weeks of high school—”

“Please,” whispered Allison.  

Tori snorted beneath her mask. “—after Allison circulated a photo of me—nude to the waist.”

Gasps.  

“Maybe you can correct the record now, Allison?”

Post-prom. The Sapphire Hotel. The gang. Connecting rooms. Easily breaking into the mini-bar.

She saw Tori’s wounded eyes—Danny’s concerned gaze—and something erupted. “My mother made me bring you!” she cried. “No one wants their creepy neighbor tagging along!”

They’d taunted Tori until she downed shooters with them…

Laughter…

She and Joe had co-opted room 312—

And afterward, rejoined the party in 314…

Tori sneered, “Neighbor. You go to church. Did you love your neighbor as yourself?”

Tori, naked; Danny holding her wrists; Derek, pumping with an unmistakable rhythm…

Tori’s frozen scream.

And she—she, Allison—had taken Polaroids…

Cut the boys out of one.

Shared the fragment.  

To remind Tori not to party-crash.

“Your mom was so lovely when I dropped by and asked if I could look through your old photos, Allison. I found one you took, that showed Derek Brady raping me. Know what else, Allison? I was still seventeen. And there’s no statute of limitations on child pornography in this state.”

Then Tori held up her phone and captured Allison’s expression.

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Linda McMullen is a wife, mother, diplomat, and homesick Wisconsinite. Her short stories and the occasional poem have appeared in over one hundred literary magazines. She received Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations in 2020. She may be found on Twitter: @LindaCMcMullen.

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