I Have the Right To

by Chessy Prout

“I don’t care how many teachers are watching over her. She is going to get chewed up and spat back out,” Lucy hollered. “If I was treated so badly just for breaking up with Brooks, she is going to be treated a million times worse for getting someone arrested.”

  “But she’s a victim,” Mom said. “The police clearly found enough evidence against him.”

  “You don’t know St. Paul’s like I know it. Do the math. He was a popular guy and this was a school tradition,” Lucy warned. “If you let her go back, I’m never going to talk to you again.”

  Lucy barged into our room and glowered at me. Christianna twisted herself around me like a cobra. Maybe if she squeezed hard enough, she could keep me there forever.

  We then traveled on to Hong Kong to pack up my family’s apartment on the twenty-ninth floor overlooking Repulse Bay. I hated that Mom and Dad lived so far away, but I loved visiting Hong Kong’s vibrant markets. Where else could you eat a bowl of ramen and then get a foot massage at ten p.m.—all in the same building?

  Dad was filling out paperwork so that he could take a formal unpaid leave of absence from his job. He wanted to stay close to New Hampshire to support me and the legal process. Mom and Christianna would move back to Naples and start over again there.

  Dad assured me repeatedly that it was his decision and it was no burden at all to the family. Things had been strained at work since he’d spoken up a few months ago about a colleague who he believed was misusing funds. Instead of thanking Dad, his boss ostracized him. It went from bad to worse after I was assaulted. When Dad explained why he couldn’t return to work immediately, his boss retorted, “I certainly hope your daughter gains better judgment in the future.”

  His boss was a jerk. But he wasn’t a lone real-life troll. I knew there were classmates at St. Paul’s who would judge me. I assumed that the worst they would do was ignore me. Mr. Hirschfeld sent several letters to the school community over the summer, and I hoped his words like “alarming” and “serious breach” resonated with them. At first, I felt comforted by his August 7 email, which stated:

  Dear Students and Parents,

  . . . While the allegation and the people it involves will not be a topic of conversation at the School, the broader issues it raises—the use of social media to perpetuate unhealthy relationships, the “hook-up” culture and unsanctioned student “traditions”—will be. Students will be supported in these conversations when they return to the School. . . .

  Sincerely,

  Rector Hirschfeld

  All I wanted was support. When we arrived back in Naples, Mom scheduled a group session with Dr. Sloane. Mom and Dad were still very reluctant to send me back to St. Paul’s.

  Dr. Sloane was a New York transplant with dark curly hair that came down to her shoulders. She was a no-bullshit therapist who had a potty mouth just like me. I usually sat on her charcoal-gray couch while she settled into a chair in the corner of the room. I’d study the books on her shelves—Yoga for Depression, Feminist Family Therapy, Staying Sober—and admire her small golden figure of Ganesha, the Hindu god with an elephant head who is revered as the remover of obstacles.

  For our group session, we met in a different room with cushioned black chairs arranged in a circle. Dr. Sloane got right to the point: “So the purpose of this meeting is for Chessy to talk about why it’s so important for her to go back to school and how she is prepared to deal with the various issues that may arise. Chessy, why don’t you start?”

  “I want to be there. I deserve to be there,” I said. “He’s taken away so much from me, so much from us. I don’t want to him take away my education, too. St. Paul’s is my school. I trust my friends to know that what happened to me was wrong and to help me through it. Everyone was so supportive after my health leave last year.”

  “But what if that doesn’t happen, sweetie?” Mom asked. “What if there is backlash from other students? I want to make sure you don’t turn your anger inward.”

  “I know it’s not going to be perfect there. But I have Buzz. And Catie,” I insisted. “There are just so many goals I have with piano and singing and Japanese. I can’t give that up. I can’t run home to Mommy and Daddy. I want to show people I’m strong. I’m stronger than this.”

  “We know you are. But we want to make sure you stay strong if it gets tough,” Dad said. “You need to be able to wave the white flag if things aren’t going well.”

  “I will. I’ll get help if I need it,” I said. “I won’t try to hurt myself.”

  “We’re going to visit every week, but we can’t be there every moment,” Dad said. “How can we get you a larger support network at the school?”

  “Are there other adults who can support you besides Buzz?” Mom asked. “Is there a way to have another adviser? Maybe Mrs. Hebra? Or Lucy’s adviser, Ms. Carter?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “That’s a good idea to build up the support network,” Dr. Sloane said. “You can hear how important it is for Chessy to go back and to feel like she has control and power over her life. If she doesn’t return, she’ll always wonder what it could have been like.”

  Weeks after my assault, I went on a mission trip to Cat Island in the Bahamas. The kids there taught me that I could survive and fight for justice.

  TEN

  Shunned

  Ivy wouldn’t even look at me. It was late August and we were standing in our wood cabin at Team Prep, a volleyball training camp near Sebago Lake in Casco, Maine.

  The girls were scrambling to find bunkmates and flinging knee pads and spandex onto beds they claimed as their own. I tried to catch Ivy’s attention, but she locked eyes with Haley, whose older brother was best friends with Owen. The last time I saw Haley during graduation weekend, she had her arm around my shoulder and promised me everything would be okay. Now I felt a chill sweep across the room.

  I glanced down at my red toenail polish and waited for the girls to finish pairing up. I was left a sagging bottom bunk below Erin, a sweet girl who had been unfairly deemed worthless by the social climbers because she was a little overweight and spoke her mind.

  We headed over to the volleyball courts, where things actually mattered. The coach greeted us and instructed us to do warm-ups, passing the ball back and forth with a partner.

  Ivy had been my bump partner for most of last season. We’d sing loudly to “Reflections” by MisterWives, a Kygo remix of “Younger,” and other music on the practice playlist. We’d do silly moves like setting the ball backward and then laugh hysterically.

  But this time, when I turned around to find Ivy, she already had a partner. All my good friends had found someone. Someone who wasn’t me. I wished Lucy was there.

  I tried to stay upbeat when Dad picked me up a few days later. I gave my friends and teammates the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I was just being overly sensitive. Either way, I didn’t want Dad to worry and have second thoughts about letting me return to St. Paul’s.

  “How was it, sweetie?” Dad asked.

  “Good,” I said.

  I knew Mom and Dad hated when I gave one-word answers like that.

  “Things were okay with the team?”

  “It was fine,” I said.

  “You sure?” Dad asked skeptically.

  “Yeah, some of the girls didn’t really talk to me that much, but it’s okay,” I said, before changing the subject. “So what music do you want to listen to?”

  I settled in as copilot for our journey across Maine, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts to meet up with family in Hillsdale, New York. But first, and most importantly, was food. Dad and I shared a passion for eating. We planned our days, our trips, our lives around finding delicious meals.

  We needed the best lobster roll—we were in Maine, after all—and our destination was Clam Shack in Kennebunk. After I plugged the address into the GPS, Dad fed me his music requests and we jammed to “Lady” by the Little River Band and then rapped to “Ice Ice Baby.” Dad got so into it that he pumped both fists in
the air, forgetting he was driving.

  About an hour in, Dad turned down the volume and put on his serious voice. He told me he had met the day before with the Merrimack County district attorney’s office about my case. They hoped to reach a plea agreement, but they needed to wait until Owen completed a psychosexual evaluation.

  “Okay,” I mumbled, not processing any of it.

  “And there’s another thing,” Dad said softly. “They did some testing and found traces of semen on your underwear.”

  “Oh my God,” I gasped. “Dad, now they have to know I’m not lying! It’s not just my word against his.”

  “Chess, we’ve always believed you. That was never even a question.”

  “Yeah, but this is so much more real now,” I sputtered. “All those lies he was saying that he didn’t have sex with me. He’s a hundred percent lying. This is indisputable now.”

  “Absolutely, and he’s going to pay the price and get in big trouble,” Dad said.

  “Yeah, but those people who commented online and called me a liar and slut . . .”

  “Those people are ignorant assholes and don’t know the truth.” Dad turned red with anger and his voice rumbled like thunder. Then he got quiet. “You know the truth. We know the truth. The police know the truth. And that’s what matters.”

  But Dad’s attempts to comfort me didn’t make me feel any better. It was another reminder that I was not okay, that this thing had happened to me. It was as if I was being violated all over again, like somebody was trying to get inside of me. I crossed my legs to protect my private parts. I wanted to roll out of the car.

  When we finally pulled up to Clam Shack, overlooking the water and Dock Square, I had no appetite for juicy lobster meat. I just wanted one thing: to be believed. And now we had proof. It all seemed so simple.

  Dad drove me back to St. Paul’s in early September for volleyball preseason. All the athletes arrived a few days early to move in and start practice. Dad planned to stick around for the rest of the week to talk with Mr. Hirschfeld, Buzz, and the security team at the school to make sure I would be safe.

  We had a brief meeting together with Mr. Hirschfeld in his office, where he called me an inspiration. I wasn’t sure who I was inspiring, but it was nice that he said it.

  I hoped things would return to normal with Ivy and my other teammates now that we were back on campus. I was terrified of walking around by myself, especially going to the Upper and facing the senior couches on my own. The last thing I wanted was attention.

  Catie and the rest of the students wouldn’t show up for several days, so I needed the volleyball girls by my side. During practice, I asked Ivy and another teammate if they could pick me up on their way to dinner so we could walk together.

  “I definitely can’t see those guys alone,” I explained.

  “Yeah, of course! No prob,” Ivy replied.

  Around six p.m., I saw Ivy slip outside the front door of the dorm and walk past my window facing the chapel. Maybe she’d forgotten me. I couldn’t chase her across campus. That would look ridiculous. Maybe she would come back if I messaged her.

  Me: Did you guys head to dinner already?

  Ivy: Ooff ya we are getting to the upper now Haley was calling me

  At first I tried to make excuses to protect myself and my friendship with Ivy. As I sat in my room and peeled open a tangerine, I felt more alone than I ever had before. For the next few days, I subsisted mostly on Luna bars for breakfast and tangerines for dinner when it became clear that plans we made were not plans Ivy intended to keep. I started to get mad and had silent fights in my head: Why was she ditching me? What had I done to her?

  Whenever I saw Ivy, she gave me weird looks—if she even looked at me at all. The next night, I tried to find common ground with treats.

  Me: Hey, my dad just brought me a ton of snacks, if you need some tonight come by!

  Ivy: Awesome! I actually have some too but that’s sweet

  I don’t think she had ever rebuffed a snack before. Thankfully, Dylan and Lilly were around. They invited me to get ice cream in town with Mrs. Hebra and her daughter Reese, who was in my grade. I girded myself for the two-minute walk from Con20 to the flagpole. I stayed hyperalert, my head spinning in all directions like in The Exorcist. What was in front of me? Who was behind me? Was I in danger?

  I noticed the hockey boys up ahead congregating on benches outside the post office. As I got closer, about half a dozen guys stood up in unison and turned toward me, including some of the boys who had aggressively pursued me and Ivy the year before.

  One hockey player who stood near the front pointed in my direction, and the rest followed his lead. I looked behind me, thinking there was another hockey bro. But there was nobody. The team was staring me down, trying to intimidate me. I was shaking by the time I opened the door to Mrs. Hebra’s car.

  “Did you guys see that? Or was it just me?” I said. “Those hockey boys all just stood up and pointed at me. It was crazy.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Mrs. Hebra, the vice rector, who now worked as a dorm adviser in Simpson, where many of the hockey boys lived. “But if you want, I can talk to them.”

  “No, it’s fine!”

  I was petrified of making waves. I held my breath and pressed my lips together in the backseat. Dylan gave me a knowing smile and filled me in on his summer vacation. I told him that Ivy bailed on dinner plans and Dylan suggested we order in sushi that week and eat at his dad’s house.

  “We can go over to the rectory anytime if you want to escape the Upper,” Dylan offered.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll definitely take you up on that.”

  I tried to forget the hockey boys as we pulled up to Arnie’s Place, an old-school ice cream and burger shop with red-and-white checkered floors. I rested my elbows on the sticky countertop and ordered a small cup of vanilla Heath bar crunch. It immediately brightened my mood, and I smiled in the pictures Reese, Dylan, Lilly, and I took together, posting some to my Snapchat story in hopes of seeming fine and normal.

  The sugar rush—and the temporary courage it fueled—wore off when Mrs. Hebra dropped me at Con20. My breath quickened and my hands trembled as I searched for the red high-heel door stopper Mom had bought to keep my door propped open. Instead I slammed the door shut and jammed the shoe between the bottom of the white door and the carpet so that no one could open it from the outside. Especially not the hockey boys.

  I didn’t tell Dad about barricading myself in my room. I figured that wouldn’t happen again once Catie arrived. Besides, he had more important things to focus on. We had our first meeting with the attorneys working on the criminal case coming up.

  A couple of days later, Dad and I pulled up to a redbrick building across the street from the Merrimack County Superior Courthouse. A woman with long dark hair and thick glasses introduced herself as Barbara, a victim advocate. She led us to a conference room, where Catherine Ruffle, the deputy county attorney handling the case, stood up and shook our hands.

  Back in June at the Child Advocacy Center, Dad had met a different lawyer, David Rotman, who frequently prosecuted sex crimes. But Catherine seemed really smart and approachable. She and Barbara spoke in soft, comforting voices but didn’t try to sugarcoat anything.

  “Don’t compare this to what you see on TV or you’ll end up being disappointed,” Barbara said. “The criminal justice system is not user-friendly.”

  Catherine explained that there were two paths forward: a plea or a trial. It could take several months to negotiate a deal in which Owen would plead guilty to certain charges and receive some form of punishment. If that failed, the case would go to trial, and that process could take a year.

  A year? The gravity of all this was sinking in. I played out the worst-case scenario in my head.

  “Will I have to see him again? Will he be in the courtroom?”

  “If there was a trial, you would see him,” Catherine said.

  My stomach lurch
ed.

  “What if the jury doesn’t believe me?” I asked.

  “Juries are unpredictable,” Catherine explained. “It’s our job to convince them beyond a reasonable doubt. We believe you and that’s why we’re here today.”

  I nodded.

  “Hopefully we can reach an agreement and avoid a trial,” she added.

  “How are things going for you at school?” Barbara asked.

  “Some of my friends are distancing themselves and it’s hurtful,” I said. “No one is talking to me about what happened, and I guess that’s okay.”

  “These kinds of cases can polarize people,” Barbara explained. “I’m here to help you, and I want you to reach out to me and use me as a support if something is going on beyond your control.”

  “I just don’t want to be an alleged victim,” I sighed. “I want people to believe me.”

  “Chessy, ‘victim’ is the wrong word. You’re a survivor,” Barbara said. “You’ve made it through a terrible experience, and we’re here to help you get justice.”

  Survivor. I liked that word. I wasn’t a faceless, nameless victim. I was a survivor seeking justice.

  I had no interest in reconnecting with Owen MacIntyre, but he kept messaging that he wanted to talk.

  O. Mac: Hey Chessy just wanted to say sorry again for what happened and that I hope we can talk when we get back to school when you are ready. Miss you

  I was furious with him for convincing me to go on the Senior Salute and then pressuring me not to tell anyone what happened. I had heard rumors he might get kicked off campus for “pimping” me out.

  I would have preferred to curl up in bed, but I didn’t want to be rude and lose all my friends. Besides, I was warned that Mr. Hirschfeld told O. Mac he had to apologize to me, so I didn’t really have a choice. The pale sun was falling in the sky when O. Mac met me in front of my dorm. We walked up the brick path past Nash and toward the Upper.

  “Look, I’m supposed to apologize to you. I’m really sorry for pushing you to do something you didn’t want to do,” he said.