by Vi Lily
It destroys me that those I thought would have been — should have been — with me through thick and thin have joined the mob, pitchforks and torches in hand, ready to put my head on a pole.
While she hasn’t hit me again, Mom has been really cold to me. Barely looks at me. I’m like the unwanted houseguest she’s barely tolerating and looking for any excuse to throw out.
Rod won’t talk to me, other than to insult me. His newest affectionate term for me is “disgusting skank.” His favorite pastime is shoving me into walls as he passes by. Two days ago, he shoved me so hard that when I hit the wall, a picture came crashing down and cracked me on the top of my head. Besides all the blood — which my mom yelled at me for getting on the carpet — I have a knot on my head, slightly blurry vision and a headache that won’t go away.
My homelife isn’t much better than my school life. It might even be worse.
But it’s all crap.
Of course, because of their unfortunate association to me, my family has become the town pariahs, which gives them even more reason to treat me like crap. Mom came home the other day and yelled at me because she can’t even go grocery shopping now, thanks to her “daughter, the whore.”
I can’t even begin to tell you how much that hurts.
I’ve had a lot of time to think about how crazy it is that in this day and age people — especially grown-ass adults — would turn on a young girl, like I’m the rapist and not the forty-something man who had been clearly enjoying himself in the video.
Gross.
It’s like we’ve skipped back over a century’s worth of feminist progress. Back to Victorian times when a woman had no rights, no say, and was blamed for a rape because she must have “enticed the man.”
Just like this insane town that is scary quick to throw blame at the female, conveniently forgetting the male’s part in all of it. I’m living The Scarlet Letter. Soon, they’ll be throwing rotting vegetables at me.
I have been trying to look on the bright side in all of this, but it’s damned hard. I try to tell myself that it’s better I found out how jerk-ish most people are now, while I’m still young, so I can be on my guard as I move into adulthood and “real life.”
Surely, it’s good that I now know who to avoid, those who are judgmental and crazy, which equates to nearly the entire effing population of Bearing, right?
Then I console myself that I have a new best friend who I know will be in my life forever and who I’ll do anything for to reward her for her loyalty. Aleen has become my floatation device now that I’m drowning in a sea of misery caused by the storm that swept into my life.
And I tell myself that it’s better that, no matter how incredibly heart-wrenching it is, I found out what kind of man Ben is going to turn out to be — apparently, a douche like his old man — before I did something stupid like leashing myself legally to him.
I console myself over my family’s bitter betrayal and unfounded rejection by telling myself that it’ll be easier to leave them behind when I go to Harvard. I won’t even look back. My heart has already said its goodbyes these past few weeks.
The family that I relied on and that I thought loved me is gone.
I even tell myself that it was a good thing that I was drugged that night. I’m pretty sure the rape would have happened one way or another because effing rapists don’t care if their victims are willing. But having been drugged, I don’t remember the act.
As it is, I’m not suffering with the nightmare of memories.
While not remembering is a problem in itself, no one would believe me even if I knew exactly what had happened because I have no proof of any of it. I think I’m better off not knowing.
There is no doubt I was raped, but Coach and I are the only two who know it. At first, I thought someone must have been in the room filming us, and I desperately wanted to find out who it was, thinking I could maybe get them to confess the truth. But then I realized that the video must have come from security cameras because of the angles and the way the different views didn’t move at all.
Who it was that leaked the damn thing remains a mystery, though.
I know for a fact it wasn’t me. I know for an almost certain fact that it wasn’t Coach — that would have been social and career suicide. Plus, it was unlikely he knew I was eighteen at the time, which would have made it statutory rape.
I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Ben. There was just no motive for him to release the video, nothing to gain and pretty much everything to lose. Considering all the upheaval to his family, with the media circus and his dad losing his job, I also crossed off Gwen or his mom as suspects.
So… who?
I’ll probably never know. It would be nice, though, because whoever leaked the video of the rape had to have seen the fact that I was drugged, maybe even how Coach had managed to drug me. Maybe then the bullying would stop, once everyone saw that I really am totally innocent. Maybe my family would not disown me and act like they’re repulsed to be in the same room with me. Maybe Ben would crawl to me on his hands and knees, begging for forgiveness, pleading for another chance.
Yeah, and if wishes were horses, I’d have a ranch.
I survived another week, barely, only to make it home to find out that mom decided to ground me. Not that it matters; I have no place to go. No place I want to go, especially in light of the fact the whole town hates me. I might be able to leave the state and not get attacked at every turn, but even that possibility is iffy.
The video was leaked online and every news channel on the East Coast apparently picked it up — thankfully, blurring the naked parts, but not our faces. Even outside of this tiny psycho town, I was made out to be some freaking Delilah, seducing the mighty Samson.
Mom must have realized that just keeping me home wasn’t punishment, so she took my laptop, my tv and my Bluetooth speakers out of my room and as soon as I walked in the house, she’d held her hand out for my phone.
The only thing she didn’t take was my school tablet, thankfully. I need that for homework.
I wonder if it’s an actual grounding, or if she just doesn’t want me to have anything anymore.
She did quit buying the snacks that I like, although I noticed that Rod’s favorites are well-stocked. I had asked her the other day if we had any orange soda, which is my favorite. When she told me no, I said I’d just get orange juice. She had stared right at me with that hateful expression that seems to be a permanent fixture on her face whenever she lowers herself to actually look at me and said, “You can have water.”
It’s pretty amazing that I haven’t died from all the cracks in my heart.
I’m kind of surprised Mom didn’t take my shoes and clothes. I did notice that she pulled my photos and paintings off my wall. My room is pretty bare right now. Like a prison cell.
Again, I’m going to try to look at the bright side. That’s me, Polly Anna. Not really, but, hey, I’m trying everything I can to cling to this thread I’m dangling by.
The bright side is, without any social media or television to distract me, I figure I’ll get a lot of studying done. I’m going to have to work even harder to make up for these past few weeks when I’ve been too distracted just trying to keep from getting killed or maimed.
Plus, I figure the teachers are going to be extra hard on me now, just because they all hate me. Other than Aleen, there is literally no one on my side.
I grimace at the thought of her; Aleen and I had talked about getting together over the weekend. She invited me over to her house to study, because she knows what it’s like at mine. She told me her family “doesn’t give a damn about soccer,” that they’re all die-hard Packers fans.
“If you’d had this trouble with Matt LeFleur, then yeah, they would’ve wanted to string you up from the highest tree,” she’d teased.
I’d actually laughed at her joke, the first laughter I’d had in nearly two weeks. It was insane that I could laugh at something like that, but it just goes to show how s
weet Aleen is. I don’t think she has a mean bone in her body.
I can’t text Aleen or call her, but I can use my tablet to email her at least. It has social media blocks, but not email, since that’s how the teachers communicate with us.
I start on my French work then and it’s just minutes when my email notification chimes. Aleen wants to know how long I’m grounded for, reminding me that there’s a field trip planned in two weeks for Freshwater Ecology, the only class we share. Unfortunately, Raine is in the class too.
I email her back, saying that I’m sure my mom won’t ground me for a class field trip, even if it is on a Saturday. Aleen quickly responds, asking if we can ride together. Being from Florida, she hates driving in the weather as much as I do.
We go back and forth for a while and I tell her I need to get busy with my homework. It’s going to take me all weekend to get back to where I need to be academically. Harvard was in my grasp, but now it’s moving farther and farther away. I’m going to do my damnedest not to lose sight of it completely.
Aleen then emails me a question that makes me stop what I’m doing.
Have you thought about online school?
No, I haven’t. But now that I am thinking about it, it seems like the perfect option to avoid the effing storm that’s become my life. But it also kind of seems like the coward’s way out. At this point, though, with a future of more of the crap that’s been dealt out so far — and likely even worse stuff coming my way once soccer season starts — it seems like a damned good idea.
But I don’t want to quit Athole just yet. I want at least a semester on my record for Harvard, just in case I can still get in. It won’t be much, but it’ll be something.
I quickly open a browser window and start researching accredited online schools. I’m surprised at how many there are, frankly. I need an online prep school, though, if such a thing exists. I spend a good hour looking for one, before I find exactly what I’m looking for.
The classes are college preparatory and they even offer actual college classes too. I see much of the same subjects I’m taking now and those that I still need for my diploma. The cost is outrageous, but I have money in the account mom set up for me.
I wonder then if she even remembers the account, or if she emptied it after deciding her only daughter is a home-wrecking whore, like the way she emptied my room. It’s almost like she’s trying to erase me.
My heart clenches and my eyes fill again. I’ve shed so many tears over the past few weeks, more for the loss of my mother — and Ben — than anything else. Their rejection hurts worse than anything Coach did to me.
I angrily swipe at the tears and then fill out the school’s application. After that’s done, I sign up for online banking and check my account to see that Mom hasn’t touched it. My eyes bug at the amount in there. She wasn’t kidding when she said there was enough to buy a house and cars.
My mind wanders as I ponder the unbelievable fact that I’m eighteen and have almost half a million dollars available to me. It’s not just unbelievable, it’s unfathomable. A year ago, I had twelve hundred dollars and that was earned by blood, sweat and tears. Literally. To have that much just given to me… crazy.
The thought that I could easily move out of this amazing mansion that’s become no better than a prison with me in solitary confinement, hits me then. Just the idea of leaving gets my blood pumping hard with excitement… and hope.
It would be easy — I could set myself up somewhere else, away from these stupid, judgmental, sexist people and my unbelieving, uncaring, and unloving family.
And I can still go to Harvard.
My heart races at the idea that maybe, just maybe, I can leave this all behind me. Start over. Forget everyone who turned on me. I just have to get through this semester, in just…
I open the calendar app on my tablet and do the math. Just eighty-two more days before school is over. Fifty-eight school days. Then I can get outta here. Leave the hatred behind me. Go somewhere no one knows me and where I won’t be judged for something that happened to me that was completely out of my control.
I sure as hell won’t look back.
Chapter 2
I START TO put my long-term plan into action Monday. Mom is still letting me drive the Mercedes, mostly because she doesn’t want to take me to school — and she actually said it’s because she doesn’t want to “be alone with a whore,” which hurt like a bitch — so I leave during lunch and drive about a hundred miles to Stevens, the nearest big town.
I find the same bank branch where my account is and I go in, heart pounding. The town isn’t far enough away to not be recognized — hell, my face is all over the freaking internet — but at least not everyone in this much larger town knows me.
Still, to be on the safe side, I have my very recognizable long white-blonde hair tucked up in a beanie and I’m wearing a crap ton of makeup, which I never do.
Thankfully, no one even glances my way.
I give a fake name for the appointment. The last thing I need is “Bethany Hanson, the whore who got the winning Coach Penn fired” announced across the bank.
Okay, it is possible that I’m getting more paranoid, but it’s not unreasonable, considering.
I almost miss it when the woman calls “Barbie Bradford,” the name I gave in honor of one of my favorite fiction authors, Barbara Taylor Bradford. I finally jump up when I realize it’s me she’s calling and follow the tall redhead to her office.
“I’m Rayanne Benavidez. What can I help you with today?” she asks as we sit.
I hug my purse in my lap. “Um, I need to transfer my money to a new account.” I don’t want my mom suddenly remembering she gave money to the whore living in her house and take it back.
Yeah, I know, I’m bitter. What can I say?
Rayanne gives me a smile that’s a little condescending. I figure she thinks I’ve got like a hundred bucks or something, like most kids my age would have. She’s going to be in for a surprise.
I hand her my account documents and my license. She clicks away on her keyboard with her bright orange fingernails while I watch for her reaction. I smirk when her eyes widen, and then she frowns, types on the keyboard again. I know she’s double-checking the numbers.
Her attitude changes considerably when she realizes she’s not dealing with just small bucks. I almost laugh when she asks me if I’d like some coffee or a soft drink. I missed lunch and I’m hungry, not thirsty.
Rayanne tells me that I don’t need to open a new account, but that I can simply remove my mother from the existing one, since I’m now eighteen. Mom won’t have access to the account at all. Awesome.
I feel a little guilty that it’s my mom’s inheritance and all, but I shrug that feeling right the hell off. She gave it to me in good faith. And with absolutely no faith at all, she turned her back on her only daughter. The daughter who has done nothing wrong and who needs her mother now more than ever.
So, screw her. I’m using her money to better my life. She owes me.
The bank takes longer than I planned, and since I’m starving, I go through the Taco Bell drive-thru. I’m super thankful that they don’t recognize me, and I can actually get food and not be told to eff off. I order extra so I’ll have something to eat for dinner, since I’m no longer allowed in the kitchen.
It’s too late to go back to school, so I head back to my prison home. I didn’t want to miss all of my afternoon classes, but it couldn’t be helped.
I have a new life to plan.
The next day, I blow off my schedule B afternoon classes so that I can go to Stevens again and look at apartments that I researched on my school tablet. There are a few complexes that I really like, and I want to see if they’re as nice as they looked online.
I thought about moving to Massachusetts as soon as the school year ends, but two things stopped me — one, I don’t know for sure that I’ll get into Harvard. And two, I have no friends, no family, no nothing in Massachusetts and it’s a
little daunting to think about just packing up and going so far away without a plan, a future, in mind.
But then again, I have no future here, no family and only one friend. There’s a stupid part of me that hopes my family will come around someday. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive them though.
Turns out that one of the places is perfect for me, so I pick out a fully furnished two-bedroom luxury townhouse that has a view of the pool. There’s some hesitancy about my age and lack of references, but when I give them both the security and damage deposits, plus six months’ rent up front, they gladly hand me my lease agreement and keys. My lease starts in May, so I’ll move in the day school ends.
I have enough money to buy a house, but that would be stupid. With my plans of going to Harvard, it doesn’t make any sense to buy a house in Stevens when I’ll hopefully be moving to Massachusetts soon.
Sooner than I originally thought, if all goes according to plan.
The online school already sent me an acceptance and I in turn sent them the money for the summer semester for double the amount of classes than is usually recommended. But I won’t have anything else to occupy my time. No boyfriend. No family. No nothing.
By taking the extra classes, I’ll be able to graduate at the end of the fall semester. I’ll even have four extra college credits by then too. I’ve already started my Harvard application for the spring semester next year.
So, it’s possible that in less than one year, I can be a Harvard student. I can’t freaking wait.
And honestly, the possibility of getting the hell out of here is the only thing keeping me from slitting my wrists right now.
While I’m trying to stay focused on school and my future that will hopefully be sans rapists, bullies, and drama, I still have to deal with them for now. I still have to suffer the constant humiliation, torment, and fear.
The attacks always seem to come when I least expect them. Yesterday, just before lunch when I left to go apartment hunting, Raine and her clique of bitches decided to confront me in the girls’ bathroom near the dining room.