by Mary Adkins
“That’d be great, thanks,” I said.
Tyler slid the beer toward himself as Ellen walked gracefully to the corner of the room, where a bowl of yellowish liquid sat on the university-issued wooden desk. I wondered what her legs looked like under her jeans. In them, they were, like those of an impossible number of girls on campus, perfect.
As she poured, for the first time I noticed that there was only one twin bed in the room. So Tyler had a single. That was pretty common for the fourth-years who remained on campus.
“I had a feeling,” said Ellen as she handed me a red Solo cup of punch, “that you are also a punch girl, not a beer girl.” She was calling me skinny. At once my confidence lifted.
Sam or Andrew—I’d already forgotten who was who—held up an ace.
“Waterfall!” he yelled. Everyone’s cups flew upward, and the group began to chug. I followed suit, holding my cup to my lips, my head tilted back like theirs, taking gulps, but small ones, apportioning my intake. Finally Sam or Andrew, whoever had drawn the ace, crinkled his can in his hand.
“You’re done, Annie!” he said, then belched. I lowered my drink. So did Tyler, then Ellen, then the other boys.
We played for an hour or so. The rules of Kings: a two card meant two people of your choice drink; a three card meant you take three drinks yourself; the four card through the queen meant various iterations of the same. When the first three king cards were drawn, the person who drew the hand dumped a splash of his or her drink no matter what it was—beer or liquor or watered-down backwash—into a dreaded red Solo cup in the middle of the table, which slowly was being filled with a revolting liquid. Whoever drew the last king had to drink it.
By the time I flipped a king of clubs—the fourth and final king—the cup in the middle of the table contained a mixture of punch, beer, and whatever Sam was drinking, some kind of brown liquor.
“You don’t have to chug the whole thing,” said Tyler. “Guys, are we okay with her not chugging the whole thing?” Then to me, “Annie, you can just take a sip.”
But then the others started chanting, “Down it! Down it!” And so I took as many gulps as I could of the foul mixture before handing it to Tyler, who grabbed my hand and finished it off in a sort of collegiate act of chivalry. He shuddered as he brought down the cup, then looked at me. I wiped my lips, then his, tipsy. We both laughed.
“Fucking nasty,” he said, and I said, “brutal” so loudly that it took me aback.
“When is the band starting?” asked Ellen, checking the time on her phone.
“They can’t without me!” Tyler said. To our quizzical looks, he explained, “I’m introducing them.” He was looking at Ellen but stole a quick glance at me as he said it, and that I could tell he hoped it impressed me endeared him to me further.
“Well, you guys want to go on outside?” said Ellen. We agreed and stood, refilling our drinks before exiting the room. As we made our way down the hallway, now packed with people, I noticed that my vision wasn’t keeping up with my movement. I had been really, truly drunk—not just tipsy, but drunk—twice in my life, and I recognized the sensation.
Tyler held my hand, leading me through the swarm of bodies. His palm was warm and neither dry nor damp, and I tried to enjoy the contact of our skin as the nausea hit. I swallowed and took a deep breath, then puckered my lips and blew it out, as my dad had taught me to do when I was a kid. I did it again, failing to notice that Tyler had turned and was studying me.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his face so close to mine that I could smell his breath, beer with a tinge of mint. He was hyped up, his eyes jumpy, his body emanating a kind of ferocious energy. He seemed ready to either dance or take off into a sprint.
I nodded and swallowed as the taste of bile flooded my throat. I needed to sit. I closed my eyes. Closing my eyes was a bad idea. I opened them, swaying.
“Whoa,” Tyler said. “Come on.” He escorted me back to his room, where he helped me lie down on the couch. “Breathe,” he said. I followed his instruction.
“I’ll come back and check on you in a bit,” he said. Then he filled a fresh Solo cup with water from a Brita in his mini fridge and placed it on the floor next to me.
The last thing I remember is feeling embarrassed at getting so drunk before the night had even begun, before he’d even introduced Something McGee, before they’d even played our song that he didn’t yet know was our song. I remember thinking that Tyler had handled my humiliating behavior magnanimously, with understanding and kindness. I remember hoping that I hadn’t ruined my chances with him. I remember feeling dizzy with gratitude.
When I awoke, the room was dark, and I was making myself vomit; my fingers were in my throat, like the one time we all tried it in the girls’ bathroom in middle school.
No—no, they weren’t.
“Yeah, girl. Eat it, girl.” A low, gravelly voice with a slur was giving orders. It took me several moments to recognize whom it belonged to. His hands gripped my head, pressing against my ears, my earrings digging into my cheeks.
“You like that?” he kept asking. “You like that,” he answered his own question.
With each thrust I gagged, and just as I felt the rise in my stomach, I was freed. Then there was warmth on my face, in my eyes. Through the wet, the blur, I was becoming more aware, more alert, my eyes adjusting to the moonlit room, to my body’s positioning, to my skin touching the sticky leather. Before me, Tyler was silently pulling on a pair of basketball shorts. He walked over to his closet door, disappeared behind it, and then reappeared with a T-shirt, which he handed to me. It was white and folded neatly in thirds.
Back in his normal voice, he said, “Did you get cum in your eyes? Sorry.”
I dabbed my face without unfolding the shirt, then placed it on the sofa next to me as I adjusted my skirt, which was hitched high, exposing me completely—my underwear was gone. It was nowhere to be seen. No, there it was, on the floor. Dread folded into me.
“That was hot,” he said, crossing his arms and yawning. “You want to crash?”
I was still squinting hazily at my underwear on the floor, focusing all of my energy on trying to remember the last thing I remembered.
You like that? You like that.
“No,” I said, picking up my underwear and balling it in my fist.
“Cool,” he said indifferently. “Hey, get back safe.”
And then, while I stood there, my arms dangling at my sides, one hand holding my underwear, he kissed me on the lips. It wasn’t a long kiss. There was no tongue. But it was soft and lingering, as if he wanted to leave me with something good. And though I hated myself for it, though my mind recoiled at the idea of it, my body accepted it with relief.
I AWOKE FEELING as if my head were being packed with sandbags. I reached for my phone to check the time and found it dead. Parched, my eyes dry and burning, I dragged myself to my desk, where I opened my computer. 11:22 a.m.
I was supposed to meet Matty for brunch at 11:30 before my bookstore shift at 2. Four emails from him flashed into bold at the top of my in-box—
meet where?
WHERE TO EAT
your phone is dead. can we do 11? Starving
omg Annie for real I hate you
There was a knock at the door, then the knob rattled.
“It’s me,” Matty said from the other side, annoyance in his voice.
So I’d made it home, and I’d locked my door. Flecks of recollection came in no particular order.
I was alive.
I hadn’t dreamt it.
My underwear in a ball, the gagging, the semen, the T-shirt. Had we had sex? Surely, I would feel something—a soreness, an awareness. But then, the only time I’d had sex before, it hadn’t hurt or left me sore. And then: they were on the floor.
“I knew it,” Matty said as I opened the door. “How late did you stay out? Who are you?” I never slept past eight. He found my dead phone and began looking for the charger.
�
�Does Converse have something to do with this?”
I reached into my bag, pulled out my charger and handed it to him. He plugged in my phone, then turned to me and put his hands on his hips.
“What?” I said.
“Are you going to insist on showering, or can we go eat? God, maybe you should. You smell like a sink drain.”
I remembered washing my face, but I didn’t remember showering. My clothes—skirt and top—were crumpled in a pile by my desk. I picked up my purse and looked at him. “Fine, let’s go.”
He scrunched up his face.
“Aren’t you going to change? Or at least put on a bra?”
I looked down. I was wearing the Carter T-shirt my dad had bought me two years earlier, before I even started, the one I still slept in. I had on yoga pants, and the strapless bra I’d worn the night before. I must have forgotten or lacked the energy to take it off.
“I have on a bra,” I said.
“Your face . . .” He narrowed his eyes, studying me. “Did you sleep on top of something? You have these weird marks.”
For the first time I looked in the mirror to find red scratches on my cheeks where my earrings had been smashed into them. Clouds of mascara encircled my eyes. Maybe I hadn’t washed my face.
“I fell asleep in my earrings,” I lied.
“Maybe let’s at least towel off last night’s smoky eye?”
“What the fuck, Matty?” My voice cracked. “I’m not your girlfriend. You don’t get to be embarrassed about how I look when I’m with you.”
“Okay,” he said, holding up his hands. “You just look a little bit like, you know.”
“Like what?” I said, unable to believe what was happening, what I thought he meant.
“Like you’re auditioning for the role of a victim on SVU or something.”
I felt my eyes well up.
“It was a stupid joke, sorry. I’m hungry because I’ve been up since seven. Can we just go eat please?”
I had dropped my purse on the ground while he was talking.
“I don’t want to go anymore,” I said.
“Because of a dumb joke?” Matty said. “I’m sorry. Rape culture is not a joke. I’m a feminist. Blah blah. Now let’s eat. You look fine.”
“I’m not available to you all the time!” I yelled. “God. Can’t you go two hours without stuffing your face?” I threw myself onto my bed facing the wall, aware of how out of character this was—surprising even myself. A few seconds later, I heard the door shut and his footsteps fade.
I texted Frank that I had food poisoning and couldn’t make my shift. Then I fell asleep and slept until the ding of my recharged phone woke me up.
Hey. How are you today?
What the . . . ? I sat up and grabbed the phone with both hands, which were shaking. Whether it was due to fear or alcohol withdrawal or low blood sugar, I didn’t know.
Been better, I typed back. As soon as I’d sent it, I wondered if I should have written something else, something honest. Other than waking up last night with your dick in my mouth and now feeling a lot of things, including rage at you and shame at myself and guilt that I just picked a fight with my best friend, I’m okay.
He wrote back: Can we talk? I can come to you.
I froze, conflicted. The last thing I wanted was Tyler in my room. But I also did want to talk, and not in public. I needed to understand what had happened. So many questions—what had gone on from his perspective? Why had my underwear been on the floor? Why hadn’t I woken up before I did?
I’ll come to you, I wrote back. I would shower first.
HIS DOOR WAS cracked. I nudged it open to find him seated at his desk barefoot, in a fresh long-sleeved T-shirt—army green—and jeans. The shirt still had two creases down the front from where it had been folded by someone else, not a college boy, and I remembered the white T-shirt suddenly, the one he’d handed to me. He must send his laundry off to be done, like some of the wealthier students did. His hair was still half wet, and his room smelled like men’s shampoo. I noticed he’d cleaned—there were no signs of the party, no signs of me.
“Come in,” he said, and I saw that he was working on a PowerPoint, a detail that struck me as funny. I laughed.
“What?” He frowned, as if I were making fun of him.
“PowerPoint?” I groaned, lifting my hands to my face and covering my eyes. More to myself than to him, I asked again. “PowerPoint?”
“What do you mean?”
Should I show him my cheeks? Or let him notice for himself? I’d wound up showering but hesitated before putting on makeup, ultimately opting not to. I didn’t want to care how I looked for Tyler, not now. The least I could do to salvage what dignity I retained was not to stoop to applying concealer.
“Have a seat,” he said formally.
“No, thanks,” I said sharply, sick at the sight of the couch. My tone was unfamiliar—it had much more edge than I’d heard in it before. Tyler also seemed alarmed by it, which gave me a dash of satisfaction.
“Okay.” He put his hands in his pockets. It occurred to me that he was performing sheepish, as if he were about to admit his carefully curated most embarrassing moment.
Please. Please don’t apologize, I thought.
“I was just hoping you could tell me,” he said, “what happened last night?”
I held my breath. What happened? Was it a trick, a ploy? Did he fear I was going to report him and therefore had decided to feign cluelessness? I searched his face and found it unreadable.
“What do you mean?” I said carefully. “Which . . . part?”
“You passed out,” he said, glancing at the sofa. I braced myself as he continued, “and I partied for a while and then came back here, but I don’t remember what happened after that. This morning when I woke up, I felt like . . . I thought I remembered—did we fight?” When I didn’t respond, he went on, “because I woke up feeling like you were mad at me.”
“You thought you remembered what?” My voice quivered.
“A fight. You left because you were mad at me. Did we hook up?”
Still he appeared mystified. His expression gave away nothing, not the tiniest clue.
“Here’s what happened, Tyler. Since you don’t remember. I woke up with your dick in my mouth.” I spat the words. “And my underwear was on the floor, but I don’t remember taking it off. Because I’m pretty sure I didn’t.” I should have put the emphasis on I: pretty sure I didn’t take it off, but that was too much for my own ears.
The silence that ensued was the strangest few seconds of my life. Tyler seemed to take this in, to process it, and to decide that it wasn’t plausible.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Impossible. I came in, and you woke up when I turned on the light. You asked me how the band was and kept saying how sorry you were for being drunk. We had a whole conversation. Then I got myself another drink and you some water, but you didn’t want it.” Another pause. “You don’t remember any of this?”
I shook my head, doubt seeping into the back of my neck.
“We both fell asleep on the couch,” he said, suddenly more confident in his recollection of events. “And I don’t remember anything after that, apart from at some point we hooked up. I definitely don’t remember what you just said.”
“Well, I don’t remember any of what you just said,” I said. How was this happening? We sounded like a couple of schoolchildren. Was what he was describing possible? I was very drunk. I’d passed out. No, no, no. He wasn’t going to confuse me like this.
“Okay, but I promise you it’s true,” he said. “I swear. And I swear, if we hooked up, you must have been into it, or I at least thought you were. I would never . . . while a girl is unconscious? Are you kidding? That’s fucking gross.”
“Did we have sex?” I asked, forcing myself to ask the question that had been haunting me.
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?”
“Um, are you asking if I r
aped you? No.”
I was baffled, flailing in a haze of bewilderment and shame and anger. Once I’d awoken, it was true I hadn’t fought him off. Coming to, I’d cooperated. Why? If it had been against my will, why hadn’t I resisted? And anyway, if it was only a blow job, was it rape? If my underwear was off, but we hadn’t had sex . . . The questions swirled.
“I thought you’d raped me,” I said quietly. I still think you might have, I didn’t say.
“I knew something was wrong when I woke up.” He sighed with relief, like clarity had finally been reached. He came over to me and tenderly placed his hands on my elbows. “Annie, I was shit-faced. We both were. We were two bombed people having a sloppy hookup. I would never rape you. I really like you. I think you’re beautiful and smart. And I thought you looked insanely hot last night in that skirt, so no wonder I couldn’t keep my hands off you.”
I smiled involuntarily. Why was I smiling?
Suddenly I had the urge to cry.
“No, don’t. Don’t cry.” He pulled me into a hug, and I let him. His scent was reassuring in some way my ragged body craved. I let my face sink into his collarbone. “This week, can we have a real date? Like one where we aren’t drinking, at least not as much? We can get to know each other for real, and I’ll keep my hands to myself. It’ll be PG. Maybe PG-13 if we’re, you know, feeling handsy.”
Looking back, I am unable to diagnose myself in this moment. I recall being afraid—not of the future but of the past. I recall hope so vicious that it sliced through me, disguising itself as belief. Because while I don’t think I did believe him, I wanted to believe him more than I’d ever wanted anything. I had never more wholly, more unequivocally hoped for something as I did that Tyler Brand had not raped me.
“Okay,” I said, lifting my head to look him in the eye.
8
Bea
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 30–SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 2
“Cooking product!”
Bea’s audition group consisted of her and six other hopefuls—all guys. They were to strike poses based on whatever Chris, the mustached guy who’d MC’d the show she’d seen, called out from a folding chair. Along both sides of the fluorescent-lit room, the rest of the team members observed the audition.