Age of Consent

by Amanda Brainerd

  Dear Mrs. Tibbets,

  Eve didn’t drink last night. I swear.

  Justine Rubin (Claverly 301)

  She handed it to him.

  “Now, don’t worry,” he said, folding the note and tucking it in his sweater pocket, “I’ll make sure she gets this first thing.”

  * * *

  —

  The door to Eve’s room was open.

  “Oh, hi,” Eve said.

  “What happened? Are they sending you home?”

  Eve jumped off her bed and walked to the closet.

  “Eve”—Justine stared at Eve’s back—“I just went to Tibbets. She’s out but I left a note with a man.”

  “Her husband.” Eve started rummaging for clothes.

  “I’ll tell Tibbets you’re innocent,” Justine continued.

  Eve yanked a striped T-shirt over her head. “Thank you. But it’s too late. How could I have been so fucking stupid? I suggested if we lost, we would do something simple, like eat sausages,” Eve continued. “But no, that wasn’t enough!” Eve threw her arms in the air. “I’m screwed. Tibbets had the nerve to say it was innocent until proven guilty. What a load of bullshit. They smell blood in the water and they won’t give up.”

  Eve looked like she was about to cry, but she stormed out of the room. Justine followed, but as usual, Eve’s long legs carried her ahead. As Justine hurried after, across the frozen spars of the bridge, she wanted to run, tug on Eve’s coat, but at the end of the bridge Eve ducked sideways and disappeared into the trees.

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  Eve forced down her rubbery eggs and bacon. Justine was going to stand up for her, but it wouldn’t change anything. Her parents must know, and their silence was worse than their remonstrations.

  Her hearing was scheduled for 10:00. In the Graves Room, the paneled library reserved for board meetings, important alums, and visiting scholars. James Dickey must have slugged down several bourbons there among back-slapping faculty. Go ahead, Eve thought, haul me in like the shark, watch me thrash on the carpet.

  Eve checked her watch. 8:45 a.m. Dumping her tray she pulled her ski hat down and made her way down the hill to David’s dorm.

  Climbing the stairs of Strathmore, Eve felt her heart thumping in her chest. Down the hall to the left.

  “Cookie?” David answered his door with a look of surprise.

  She kissed him.

  “What the . . .”

  She kissed him again.

  “Wait!” But she shut him up. His roommate wasn’t there, they’d have time. She had nothing to lose. She would probably be expelled and would never see David again.

  Eve slid her hand under his shirt, over his chest, hairless and smooth.

  He held her at arm’s length. “What happened at the Skeets? I saw . . .”

  “Hush.” She wrapped her hands around his hips. She looked over his shoulder at the room. The sole ornament was a gas mask on the wall, looming over the bed, its shadow like a snout.

  She let David go and sat on his bed.

  He dropped to his knees before her, cupping her chin and examining her face with concern. “Eve”—he rested his hand on her arm—“you okay?”

  Justine would be ripping his pants off right now.

  “Dandy. How much did you see?”

  “Not a lot. As soon as I got there, someone tapped me on the shoulder and said there were teachers coming.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. It was dark,” David said, pursing his lips.

  “It was as bright as frigging daylight!”

  He shook his head. “It happened so fast. Everyone got out of there in seconds.”

  Eve glanced at her watch. 9:12. His roommate might be back any minute.

  “Come here . . .” She pulled him toward her.

  She reclined on the bed.

  “Let’s rewind the tape,” he said. He leaned down and kissed her. She put her hands on his back.

  9:24. At least a ten-minute walk to Meade.

  Her shirt was off, then his. The glassy eyes of the gas mask gazed down.

  9:27. 9:32.

  David sat up. “Why do you keep looking at your watch?”

  She covered her breasts. “I have to be somewhere at ten.”

  “Where?”

  “The Shark’s Parlor.”

  He smiled and took her hands off her breasts. He touched them, then kissed her, his hand moving toward her pants.

  She glanced at her watch. 9:40.

  “Hurry,” she murmured, “let’s get this over with.”

  He frowned. “This isn’t something we can hurry.” He turned her wrist over. “We have time.” He moved on top, his hips between her legs.

  9:48. “I have to go,” Eve said.

  David sat up and handed Eve her shirt. He did have that Michelangelo body. Justine had been right.

  “Hey,” he said. “Just come back later.”

  If there was a later, Eve thought as she picked up her coat and hurried toward Meade.

  * * *

  —

  Eve skipped supper and stayed in her room, knowing word would have spread by now. Suspended. Going home until after Christmas. She didn’t want to see a soul.

  How had it come to this? She’d been caught and Justine had gotten off. Tibbets had tried to use the bottle of vodka to scare her into telling on her classmates. No matter what, Eve thought, she would not have ratted Justine out. Or anyone else, for that matter. But getting caught naked was enough for them to suspend her, and in the end they didn’t bother to bring up the vodka.

  The sky turned an intense cobalt, then bled into black.

  Suddenly, Eve saw her parents’ Mercedes wagon pulling into the parking lot. How different this trip was than when they dropped her off in September. They had all been full of hope and anticipation. Her mother slammed the car door. Eve watched her stride toward the dorm, and the sick shame she had felt all day turned to dread.

  A minute later, Eve’s door opened and Deirdre’s skinny hip rested against the frame. Her face was a death mask.

  “Ready?” she said in a cold voice.

  “Oh, Mom!” Eve cried and leapt off the bed, flinging her arms around Deirdre’s bony body.

  Her mother pushed her away.

  “I’ve seen your father cry only once before today, Eve.”

  Eve imagined tears running down her father’s cheeks. His daughter had ruined everything, all of their lives, with one stupid move, and nothing would ever be right.

  “Get your bag, the car’s running.”

  * * *

  —

  Eve slumped into the back seat. Her father stared ahead, refusing to acknowledge his daughter. The car slid into the night with all the silence of German engineering. Eve pressed her cheek against the cool window as they drove down Elm. The lights were on at Mr. Winkler’s. Tea with him seemed suddenly safer than going home.

  Count Basie on the car radio, and the rush of wind past the glass. The headlights swept over the power lines, projecting them onto the asphalt like swinging halyards on a ghost ship.

  From time to time Eve caught the flash of her father’s angry eyes in the rearview mirror. He looked hurt, too. A strange kind of hurt that Eve hadn’t seen on his face before. They were passing Greenwich when her father turned off the radio and cleared his throat.

  “I want an explanation.”

  For a moment Eve remained in her sad fog. Her father raised his voice. “Eve?”

  She sat up reluctantly and spoke in a monotone. “I bet a friend something. I lost the bet. The penalty was dancing naked.”

  Her parents fell into the kind of silence that is worse than shouting.

  “I’m having trouble believing that you would do something so immature and
vulgar,” her mother said, her voice unsteady, as if still trying to convince herself it had really happened.

  It was hard to think of a reply.

  “And dangerous. What was it, twenty degrees on Friday night?”

  Eve did not respond.

  Frederick banged his hand on the steering wheel. “Do you have any idea? Any idea at all what I’ve had to do to get you into that school?”

  “I’m so sorry, Dad, please! You don’t understand how sorry I am!”

  “You’ve barely been there four months! Did anyone else get in trouble?” Deirdre asked.

  Eve shook her head.

  “It’s all because of that Justine,” her mother said, and even with her back to her daughter, Eve could see her grim expression. “Don’t tell me she wasn’t involved. You would never have done that on your own.” Deirdre turned and cocked an eyebrow. “And pray tell, why isn’t your darling best buddy getting suspended?” Her mother’s voice felt colder than the Skeets. “Are her parents driving her home right now?”

  Eve did not respond. She felt as if she were pierced with arrows, like the painting of St. Sebastian at Barbara’s.

  Deirdre stared at her daughter.

  “Are they? I’m calling those theater people tomorrow. No, actually”—she glanced at her gold watch—“tonight.”

  “No, please don’t!”

  Deirdre pushed a strand of black hair behind her ear.

  “Her parents don’t know anything about it,” Eve pleaded.

  “We shall see.”

  Eve slumped back into the seat and watched the snowdrifts speed past. She tried to imagine Justine knocking on Tibbets’s door. It must have been right after Eve ignored her at breakfast. But Eve couldn’t muster gratitude yet, could feel nothing but pain and envy. Eve was envious of everything: Justine’s confidence, her looks, and, above all, her freedom. Justine was free, totally free. Eve was a rat in a cage.

  “And don’t think you’re leaving the house after dark,” Deirdre was saying.

  Eve let out an involuntary whimper.

  “What, you think this is a vacation?” her father asked.

  “Oh, right,” Deirdre said, “just get home and call up India and flit off to Dancetastic or wherever you gallivant off to.”

  Danceteria, Eve thought, but did not correct them.

  NINETEEN

  The trees outside Justine’s room were black against the steely sky. The absence of Eve was as if a vital organ had been removed. But her pain was nothing, she told herself, compared to what her friend must be suffering.

  Justine was about to put on her jacket when Clay walked through the door.

  “Hey, how’re you doing?” he asked.

  “I should have told them I did it too,” she said.

  “That wouldn’t have helped anything,” Clay said, pulling her into his arms. After a moment, she pushed him away. She didn’t deserve his affection. His or anyone else’s. The dance had been her stupid idea, and she needed to pay the price.

  “Everyone hates me,” Justine said bitterly.

  “Wrong. They totally admire you.”

  Justine shook her head.

  “Seriously. You’re the brave girl.”

  “You mean the slut.” She struggled into her jacket and grabbed a scarf. Clay’s scarf. She was going to be late to the radio show. Hers and Eve’s.

  “Can I at least walk with you?”

  Justine nodded and they headed into the cold.

  Students were hurrying back for curfew, and they passed Damon talking to a bunch of junior girls. They all went quiet as she passed.

  “Yo, Gypsy,” Damon called. The girls giggled.

  “Why do they keep calling me that?”

  “Barbara says Gypsy was some famous stripper.”

  “You told your mother what happened?”

  “I was telling her about my girlfriend.”

  “Shit!” she said as she slipped and Clay reached out and caught her arm. Justine regained her balance. The snow had melted, only to be refrozen in a treacherous glaze.

  Girlfriend? Nobody had ever called her that before.

  Clay’s breath billowed in the cold air.

  “Can you come to the city?” he asked, still holding her arm. “My New Year’s party.”

  Yes, Justine wanted to say, yes. But the train fare, the cabs; she couldn’t afford any of it. And she had spent all of the money Cressida had sent her. “Remember the last time I was at your house?” She saw Clay nod. “You try to erase that.”

  “I know, I know. But he’s going to be in the Caribbean.”

  She stopped walking. Clay sure knew a lot about Bruce’s comings and goings.

  Clay put his hands on her shoulders. “Look, it’s just that you have to try to see the whole picture. I know he’s awful, but his parents . . . He’s had a really bad time.”

  “Lots of people’s parents get divorced! They don’t all end up leaving girls tied to bedposts.”

  Clay’s arms dropped to his sides.

  “I can’t understand it,” Justine said. “He’s an evil person, and you’re so, so . . .” She wanted to say pure, but he’d probably take it the wrong way.

  Clay looked down at the icy ground. “I’m just trying to help him,” he said quietly.

  Was he trying to save everyone?

  “You have so many options, you can’t understand,” he continued.

  Options? What was he talking about? “You’re the one who has money,” she muttered.

  “Money?” Clay spat the word out like a bad piece of fruit. For the first time since he had found her in Barbara’s loft she saw real anger on his face. Anger she had caused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Justine felt the itch of tears behind her eyes.

  They were in front of the science center. She would be late for the radio show, but she needed to make Clay understand. “You take it for granted, Clay. Like, tonight, imagine you want to go to the city, drink booze at some cool club, and come back in the morning? That’s an entire month of rent from my parents’ tenants. And yeah, they don’t live in the whole house, because they can’t afford to.”

  He frowned, then gripped her shoulders again, and looked hard at her. “As if drinking at some club would improve anything?” His face was contorted with disgust. “Look at my family. Having money doesn’t change that.”

  Clay pulled her closer to him, his grip almost painful. “You’d drink at the club, and then the morning would come,” he said, his flushed face inches away. “Like it always does.”

  He kissed her then, with a fierceness she hadn’t felt before. He pulled back and whispered, “And you’d be in the same fucked-up world you were in the night before.” He released her, roughly this time, turned, and walked down the hill.

  Yes, he had to save everyone, Justine thought. Everyone but himself.

  * * *

  —

  The basement of the science center was empty and David was nowhere to be seen. Justine grabbed the headphones and put the needle down on “The Man with the Child in His Eyes” by Kate Bush. What was so bad in Clay’s life? She had seen his family but it didn’t seem fucked up to her. She was missing something major.

  “Sorry!” David burst in. He looked around, worried. “Where’s Eve?”

  “Very funny,” she said, pulling the crate of records toward her.

  David stared at her blankly.

  Did he live under a rock? “She got suspended.” Justine was too sad about it to be exasperated.

  David rested his fingers on his temples and closed his eyes.

  “She didn’t say goodbye to me either.”

  He shook his head slowly. “But you’re not in love with her,” he said.

  No. She was just my best friend, Justine thought, putting on the next s
ong, setting down the needle, and flipping the switch. Was.

  “You’ve never been in love, have you?” David asked, his eyes shining with tears.

  She didn’t respond. Girlfriend, she thought. Girlfriend.

  “I saw Clay leaving.”

  “You mean my boyfriend.”

  “You’re going out with him?”

  “Why are you so surprised?”

  “He doesn’t seem very sophisticated. Especially for a rich kid. No offense.”

  Justine wasn’t offended because David was so clueless. She kept searching through the albums in the crate. Eve’s albums.

  “Sorry. I’m happy if you are. Clay just seems so insubstantial.”

  TWENTY

  India Clarkson walked up Park Avenue, tucking the collar of Kiki’s fur coat around her face in case anyone recognized her. Kiki Kristoff had spent most of her short life here, even after becoming Mrs. Clarkson, but India didn’t often come to her old neighborhood. The December air was crisp and cold and made India feel alive. She couldn’t understand why her father preferred Florida.

  Poor Eve, getting suspended. Nothing bad had ever happened to her until now. Not that India wished bad things on her friend; on the contrary.

  She nodded to Eve’s doorman and rode the elevator to the Straus apartment.

  The foyer was dark, the apartment quiet.

  “Hello?”

  India heard a noise from the bedroom wing. Eve rushed from the hallway and flung her arms around her. India endured the hug.

  “Wow, I’m glad to see you,” Eve said. “The wardens are out, but we only have about a half an hour. I’m supposed to be at the Met.” Eve’s hair was unwashed, and she was still in her flannel nightgown.

  “You look amazing,” she said, admiring India, who would never have entertained a guest in sleepwear. Mademoiselle had raised her that way.

  “Want anything to eat?” Eve asked. “I’m famished.”

  “No, thank you, I just ate,” India lied.

  “Well, I need sustenance.” Eve took her hand and pulled her toward the kitchen. India slid off her fur and folded it neatly over a kitchen chair as Eve began flinging the cabinet doors open.