Could I click my heels and go home? “Then what I show you might be upsetting.” I folded my hands in my lap, and tried to keep them still. I nodded.
Ms. Ducharme, turned her computer screen around so I could see it. It was my low-rise jean shorts with the silver button undone, my freckled torso, my cleavage, and my pink nail polish. It was my name in the caption, Hot Narissa with hot pink nails, under the photograph. Agent Beaulieu was looking at my hands.
“Is this you?” I felt the same as when I was eight and my mom found out I had been hiding a stray cat in my closet all evening. I nodded to the police officer. “Do you know who took this picture of you?” My eyes stung. Nausea was rising in my throat while vultures pecked at my insides. I nodded. “Did you give permission for this person to take this photo of you?” Head nod. Head shake. I wasn’t sure. “You’ll have to be clear.”
“I gave him permission to take the photo. He didn’t ask if he could post it. I would have said no.”
“It is illegal for him to post it even with your consent since you’re under eighteen. It was posted in a closed group where individuals had