Age of Consent

by Amanda Brainerd

  Eve lit another cigarette. Stanley giggled.

  “Okay, out with it,” she said.

  Stanley reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small object. There, in his palm, lay a tuft of wiry blond hair, a miniature tumbleweed. “Admit defeat,” he said.

  Eve could not believe her eyes.

  “You fucked Bruce?” she breathed.

  “Get ready to dance. Naked, skin to the sky,” he intoned.

  Eve jumped up and twirled around. “Holy shit! How?”

  “I had Damon take him a note,” Stanley said, as serious as ever.

  “Damon? That cokehead? What did the note say?”

  “I believe the exact words were ‘I think you’re hot and I want to get it on.’”

  Eve stared at him, dumbfounded, as Stanley described the sequence of events. After giving Damon the note, Stanley had waited in his room. Eve wondered why Stanley had entrusted a fuckup like Damon with such a delicate mission. What if he told someone?

  But Stanley seemed to have known exactly what to do. After curfew he had climbed the stairs to Bruce’s room on the fourth floor, a fifth of Jack Daniels under his sweatshirt. Eve had heard that floor of Crawford was less patrolled by the dorm master.

  Bruce was already stoned when Stanley arrived, and after a few shots of whiskey he was wasted. It was easy. Bruce didn’t mind at all as Stanley unzipped his jeans.

  After it was over Stanley insisted on a snippet of pubic hair, saying it was a fetish of his, and, with the treasure in his pocket, had crept back downstairs.

  Eve sucked in her breath. If it weren’t for the proof sitting in Stanley’s palm, she’d never have believed it.

  Stanley seemed utterly unfazed. He could be in the CIA.

  “I always had a vibe,” he said. “It was just a matter of time.”

  Despite her supposed “worldliness,” there was still so much that she had to learn. Was Bruce gay? But didn’t he like Justine? It was all way too confusing.

  Even worse, Eve couldn’t keep her imagination under control. Bruce on his back, Stanley bent over, moving his head up and down. She shook her head, but the images persisted.

  Then it occurred to Eve; she and Justine had lost the bet. They actually had to dance naked in the Skeets.

  “Who’s that?” Stanley pointed to a figure, mostly obscured beneath a large golf umbrella. Eve recognized the confident stride and the tweed blazer.

  “Shit!” She threw the cigarette in a puddle where it fizzled.

  But the Wanker lowered his umbrella and kept walking.

  They remained silent as the teacher moved across the field, raindrops from the gutter of the athletic building making dull plips on the asphalt.

  Eve understood the message Mr. Winkler had sent. He had seen her smoking and had turned a blind eye. She was off the hook with the school, but on the hook with him.

  * * *

  —

  Eve headed straight for Claverly, stomped up the steps, and burst into Justine’s room. Justine was sitting at her desk reading a textbook.

  “We lost the bet!”

  Justine jumped up and stared at Eve in shock.

  “Stanley did it! He blew Bruce.”

  Justine stood there for a few moments, as the news sank in. “Do you have the proof?”

  “Ugh! No way would I touch it!” Eve laughed.

  Justine should have known. Bruce would do anything with anyone.

  God, how she burned with hatred for him.

  Justine looked up to see Eve eyeing her thoughtfully. Could Eve read her mind? But all Eve said was, “How are we going to be naked in this weather?”

  “Indians used to be almost nude all winter,” Justine replied. “I think you get used to it.”

  “We’d better smoke the peace pipe first.”

  Justine smiled a cheerless smile. “Apparently at night, the teachers sneak around the Skeets with flashlights. I heard they even use dogs.”

  Eve imagined the Wanker skipping from tree to tree on goat’s legs. There was a game she and India used to play in Amagansett called German Spotlight; it was hide and seek in the dark, with a flashlight. Only now did Eve realize it had to do with the Nazis.

  “What happens in a lie-detector test?”

  “They shoot you full of stuff like in A Clockwork Orange,” Justine said, throwing her chem notebook in the desk drawer.

  “I’ll tell them to ask me what my fucking English teacher is doing to me!”

  “You can totally handle him,” Justine said, slumping on Tierney’s bed. She looked up at Eve. “And don’t take it the wrong way. But this might be just the opportunity you’re looking for.”

  Eve went silent.

  Justine patted the bed beside her. “Come here, I want to tell you all about my older man.” And she told Eve about Gerald, all about him, even the parts that didn’t cast her in the best light, how he’d romanced her, their teas at the hotel, the music box, the first edition, the candy. How he had taken her virginity on the stage. She described how it had hurt at first, then felt better, even good. How Gerald had dumped her so soon afterward. For a fleeting moment, as she confided in her friend for the first time, Justine almost forgot about Bruce, about Clay, and about taking off her clothes in a frozen field.

  SEVENTEEN

  On the appointed Saturday, the rain turned to sleet and then a fine snow. It drifted down steadily, and by suppertime it was more than six inches deep. Tree branches were laden with soft white piles, an occasional wind rustling the pine boughs and sending a shower of flakes down like pixie dust. The school looked like a fairy tale.

  Stanley had agreed to meet them at the Skeets at nine and provide the soundtrack for their striptease. Justine had fantasized on more than one occasion that he’d tell them it had all been a joke. Justine could not imagine what the encounter had been like, but she had a feeling it hadn’t taken long.

  Her anger still felt more like pain.

  Justine made Cup O Noodles for supper in the dorm kitchen. Afterward she dug into the wardrobe for her snow boots, shiny blue and secondhand. She would call them vintage and toss her hair if anyone said anything.

  “It’s freezing out there!” Eve pounded on the door, stamping her feet.

  “This whole situation really sucks.”

  “It was your idea!”

  “It was a sucky one,” Justine admitted. “This’ll help,” she said, pulling a bottle of vodka from under her bed.

  She still hadn’t told Eve about the night in the Skeets with Clay.

  They walked through the common room past Jackie and Tierney, envying their cozy evening nestled under a blanket watching I Dream of Jeannie.

  Jackie held her nose as they walked past.

  “I wish I could blink those bitches into oblivion,” Eve whispered.

  * * *

  —

  They trudged across the icy footbridge.

  The fresh snow on the field was crisscrossed with footprints. To her shock, Justine could see several kids, including Christina, Damon, and Stanley, waiting for the show.

  “I forgot about that part of the deal,” Eve groaned.

  So had Justine. What if Bruce had been invited? Justine scanned the field. Nobody else, at least not yet.

  To make matters worse, the moon was almost full, its silvery light reflecting off the snow, transforming the field’s velvety darkness into a luminous stage. Maybe, Justine thought, if she imagined this performance as theater, it would rise above pure humiliation. Unscrewing the cap from the vodka, she took a big gulp. It tasted like rotten potatoes. She took another, then handed it to Eve, who refused, making a face.

  “Your choice,” said Stanley, approaching them with his boom box, a zealous gleam in his eye. “Mozart or Chopin?” Again, coat billowing around his knees, Stanley reminded Eve of the
Grim Reaper.

  Justine protested, “You said a song, not a fucking symphony!”

  “Who dances to classical music anyway?” Eve scoffed.

  “I thought it might elevate the event,” Stanley said, waving his arm. “Stars, moon, downy nymphets . . .”

  David emerged from the trees a few yards away. “Shit!” Eve hissed. “I’m not dancing to Mozart naked in front of David!”

  “How’s ‘Lady Grinning Soul’?” Stanley asked, pulling a cassette from his pocket.

  “A waste of a fucking great song,” Eve said, yanking off her jacket. Without another glance at the onlookers, she turned her back and said, “Let’s just get this over with.”

  Stanley balanced the boom box on a hip and inserted the cassette, pressing the play button with exaggerated solemnity.

  Justine took another deep swig of vodka.

  Dark pines swayed, sparkling swirls of snow were airborne over the field.

  The Bowie song began.

  Justine took a bigger swig, forced it down, then threw the vodka in the snow. She whipped off her jacket, letting it fly. If they wanted a show, she would give them one they wouldn’t forget.

  Someone let out a howl of delight. She heard Damon catcall and yell, “Strip!” as she started peeling off the layers.

  The frigid air made her pores shrink. She listened to the wind running through the trees that surrounded the open field. Anyone could be watching from that black circle. Justine took a step forward, toward the calls and hoots, snow crunching under her boots. Her nipples were as hard as pebbles, the moonlight gleaming on her skin. She glanced at Eve, who was covering her breasts and pubic hair with her hands.

  Justine caught sight of Damon’s pockmarked face, his jaw hanging open. Theater, just theater, she reminded herself, closing her eyes tightly, raising her arms to the sky, and starting to sway like the pines. Thinking of the stars above, Justine tried to imagine that she was part of some primitive ritual. She was Clay’s sister in a cult, she was the high priestess of the moon, she was Hathor. The snow was getting in her boots. Her skin had turned numb, and when the clothes are strewn, don’t be afraid . . .

  Suddenly someone grabbed her by the hand and tugged her into the trees, dragging her across the snow. She opened her eyes, but the forest was dark.

  “Quiet!” Clay’s voice.

  She tried not to stumble; her legs were numb.

  “Sssh!”

  Justine was aware that she was shivering violently, her teeth clacking against one another like joke plastic ones clattering across a table. She wrapped her arms around her ribs, hands like ice. She could hear angry voices. Was that the Wanker? Mrs. Tibbets?

  “Hang on.” It was Clay, gripping her arm, breathing heavy clouds of steam. They were in the forest. She looked back. The students had vanished and several teachers were arguing, their voices carrying through the clear dark air. Before them stood Eve. Alone. She was desperately tugging on her clothes in front of the Wanker, Tibbets, and a few others. Justine couldn’t see her face and could only imagine her expression.

  Behind a tree Clay held out her underwear and her sweater. “Should I turn around?” he whispered. She detected a hint of irony. The cold burned her like fire.

  He put his hands over his eyes.

  “Rules are rules!” A teacher, maybe the crew coach, stood with his legs apart and his arms crossed, like a referee. Eve was hugging her coat around her now, and Justine could see her trembling.

  Where was everyone else? This was unbearable, it was like an execution.

  “P-poor Eve,” Justine chattered, fumbling with the string on her sweatpants, her fingers stiff with cold. “C-can you help me?”

  Clay tied the string, his fingers brushing her stomach.

  “We have to help her!” Justine started for the clearing.

  “No!” Clay whispered, pulling her back. “It’s too late. She’s busted already.”

  Justine sagged against him.

  “Let’s get back.”

  They moved silently through the forest until they were well out of earshot.

  Her teeth were still chattering.

  “If it’s her first offense, maybe they’ll go easy on her.”

  Even the inside of her ski jacket was freezing.

  “Cl-Clay.”

  “Yeah?”

  “H-how-how’d you know about the bet?”

  He paused for a moment.

  “As if I’m too square to know?”

  “No, no.” She moved closer. She put her arms under his parka. “I’m so c-cold,” she said.

  Clay pulled off his ski hat and tucked it on her head, then unwound his boy-scented scarf and wrapped it around her neck.

  “You’re so lovely,” he said, admiring her.

  “Hat head,” she said, reaching up to fix his matted hair. He pulled her closer and kissed her cold lips. Her teeth chattered against his, then she lost her balance and they lurched into a birch tree.

  “I’ve been th-thinking about doing that again,” she admitted.

  “Falling over?”

  “Something like that.”

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  Struggling to keep up, Eve followed the teachers back to the dorm. If it had just been Mr. Winkler who’d seen her, there would be an easy fix; she would be on her knees begging right now. He would enjoy looking down at her, so willing, so compliant, but it would be a small price to pay. Mr. Winkler would be on her side, would fight for her.

  The common room was deserted. The television was on. Soda cans and popcorn littered the table. The salty smell of instant noodles filled the air.

  “Have a seat,” Mrs. Tibbets said.

  The Wanker was pumping up and down on the balls of his feet. Tibbets glanced at him. “Eve, would you excuse us for just a moment?” she asked. They walked across the room and began a whispered conversation.

  Eve watched them, wondering if Mrs. Tibbets knew. About her and Mr. Winkler. About Mr. Winkler and other girls.

  Eve stared glumly at the teachers. How on earth had Justine gotten away?

  They would call her parents in a moment. She could see Patsy taking a message on the magnetic refrigerator pad. Eve pushed their angry faces from her mind and looked away, staring at the television screen.

  “So, Miss Straus,” Mr. Winkler said, startling her.

  “Bob,” Mrs. Tibbets said, twisting her gray hair around her fingers, “thank you, but I’ll handle it from here.”

  The Wanker frowned, but started to walk away. He turned back once, looking as if he had been denied dessert, then disappeared through the door.

  Tibbets sat down across from Eve, smoothing her corduroy skirt.

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened,” she said in a gentle voice.

  Eve looked at the center stone of a large Navajo necklace around Tibbets’s neck. “A mistake,” Eve said.

  “I asked what happened. In your own words, please.”

  There were tiny ivory veins in the large lapis, encircled in silver fretwork.

  “It was a bet.”

  “What about the vodka?”

  How did Tibbets know that? Had Justine dropped the vodka when she fled? How had Justine escaped so fast?

  “It wasn’t mine and I didn’t touch it.”

  The teacher shook her head in disbelief. “Who else was there?”

  Eve did not respond.

  The nostrils of Tibbets’s nose were flared, her lips compressed and white. When she spoke, however, it was in a tone of measured calm. “Lying is a suspendible offense.”

  What? Eve had thought she was getting expelled. Suspension sounded almost desirable.

  “But you have information,” Tibbets said.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “If
you help us out, tell us who was drinking, we might be able to settle on a lesser punishment. Perhaps just detention.”

  How had Justine just vanished?

  “Nobody else was there,” Eve said stiffly.

  Tibbets searched Eve’s face. “If you cooperate I might be willing to argue on your behalf.” Despite her motherly tone, her mouth remained in a tight line.

  “I was alone.”

  Tibbets regarded her suspiciously. “There will be a disciplinary hearing.”

  “Do my parents know?” Eve felt the beginning of a nasty headache.

  “Bob’s calling them. We’ll get this resolved early so we have a clear verdict.”

  “You can’t tell them I was drinking. Because I wasn’t,” Eve said. Only Justine could tell them Eve hadn’t taken a drop.

  “At Griswold it’s innocent until proven guilty,” Tibbets said. “Eve, think again. Think hard. You’re a smart girl.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Justine lay awake all night, staring at the ceiling while Tierney breathed softly below her. What would happen to Eve? She would be suspended at the very least, but what if she got expelled? It was so unfair. First thing tomorrow, Justine would find Mrs. Tibbets and tell her that Eve hadn’t been drinking.

  How on earth had the teachers found out? And of all people to have witnessed it, the Wanker!

  At 7:15 in the morning, Tierney still asleep, Justine left the dorm and headed up the hill toward Londry. She knocked on Mrs. Tibbets’s door.

  “Come in!”

  She opened the door into a living room with a Tiffany chandelier on a chain and a green parrot in a cage. A man she hadn’t seen before stood up from the sofa.

  “Looking for Alice?”

  “Go ask Alice! Go ask Alice!” the bird squawked.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “she’s in New Haven at a seminar. Can I take a message?”

  “When’s she coming back?”

  “Tonight. Maybe after supper.”

  “Alice doesn’t live here anymore!” the bird cried.

  “Hang on.” Justine yanked a sheet of lined paper from her book bag and scribbled: