by Patty Blount
“What do you want to happen?” While I consider how best to answer that, he keeps going. “With the camera and all of this getting in everyone’s faces. What do you want to accomplish?”
I glance at the wall clock and strip off my gloves, slide to the floor, and try to find a way to explain it. “I just want people to believe it happened.” I shiver, suddenly cold. “Nobody does, you know. The cops wanted to know if I was Zac’s girlfriend, if I was drinking, doing drugs, if I ever I worked as a stripper, if I ever kissed Zac before that night. What the hell does any of that have to do with what happened? Do the laws against sexual assault not apply to strippers? To girlfriends? I don’t get that.” I wrap my arms around my legs, put my head on my knees, and shut my eyes. “Not even my parents believe me. My dad—all he kept saying is, ‘Are you happy now, Theresa? Are you happy now? You let her leave the house looking like this and look what happened!’ And my mom—she thinks I should apologize to Miranda for stealing her guy and then go to Europe for a semester or two so I can forget.”
“Your dad believes you.”
I lift my head, frowning.
“He was here yesterday. Wanted to rip Jeremy and Kyle into tiny pieces.”
I scrub my hands over my face. “Yeah. I heard about that. He got arrested, but they let him go.” I rest my head against the locker behind me. “But that’s only about what Jeremy and Kyle did yesterday. He still doesn’t get that I was actually raped. He thinks because I went to the woods, drank alcohol, and dressed the way I dress, I should have expected this to happen. That I actually wanted it to happen. Ugh!” I fist my hands and pound on the lockers behind me.
“Did you?”
I glare at him through narrow eyes. “Are you kidding me?”
He holds up both hands. “Serious question. Why do you dress like this? You want guys to notice you? Stand out from the crowd? To want you?”
“You want to know why I dress like this? Fine. When I was about nine, I used to take dance lessons. I loved it. Loved my lessons, loved my teacher. She used to wear these silky skirts over her leotard. I loved the way they floated around her when she twirled. She was so graceful. And beautiful. She had the smoothest, shiniest blond hair I’ve ever seen. Her eyes were like the color blue of the car we had back then. I couldn’t stop staring at them. She was perfect. Absolutely perfect in every way until the day of my first dance performance when I saw her backstage, wrapped around my father like he’d just saved her from drowning.” I sit up, curl my legs under me, and lean forward. “She went after him, Ian. A man she knew was married and had a family. She went after him, got pregnant, and he left us to be with them and—” My voice hitches. “And at their wedding, their fairy-tale wedding where she had the nerve to wear white, he tells me he wants Kristie and me to become great friends because she’s such a wonderful woman and he hopes I’ll learn from her. Learn what? How to be a cold, calculating home-wrecker?” I hold up both hands. “No. Hell, no. I’d rather wear black clothes and black hair color for the rest of my natural life than let anybody believe for a single second that I am anything like that woman.”
He angles his head and peers closely at me. “So what’s your real hair color?”
I roll my eyes. “Same as my dad’s.”
“Like light brown?”
I nod.
“But Kristie’s blond?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“So why do you dye your hair if it’s not the same color as Kristie’s?”
“Oh.” I run a hand through it, stare the dark tresses. “Because my mom’s always saying how much I look just like him. I hate that I make her sadder than Kristie already did.”
“You think she’s a slut.”
Ian says those words so flatly, so genuinely. It fuels my fury.
“Kristie’s president of the slut club and wears cashmere for God’s sake! He doesn’t get it. Nobody gets it. I was with friends. People I know, people I’ve known for all of high school and even before that. I should have been able to stand there buck naked and be safe. Why didn’t anybody help me when I passed out? Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do? Why did Zac think because I was unconscious, my body was nothing more than a, than a slot for him to use just because he was pissed off and horny?”
Before he can respond, my phone buzzes. I tug it out of my pocket, open an email from Detective Buckley. I read a sentence or two, and after the part that says, Not enough to convict, the rest just blurs.
“Problem?” Ian asks, and I shrug.
“You’ll be happy to know the police say the picture I sent them doesn’t prove anything, so Zac will get away with raping me.”
Ian sucks in a sharp breath and turns away. When a minute goes by in silence, I figure he’s not so surprised by this news. I press my lips together. Okay. Fine. I square my shoulders, stand up, and get back to work. It takes me a few minutes to realize I never really answered his earlier question.
I glance at him, scrubbing the door of a locker, jaw clenched.
I guess my answer no longer matters.
Chapter 22
Ian
I am such a dick.
I didn’t mean to get her all upset, and now I don’t know if I should hug her or give her space or pretend I never said anything. I saw her dad’s wife that night in the hospital. She looks like a sitcom mom. She was wearing a skirt. My mom only wears skirts to somebody’s wedding. And Lindsay, she was wearing just jeans and a T-shirt at Miranda’s party, but she let three guys touch her. Jesus, how the hell did everything get so complicated? I don’t even know why I asked her about the camera in the first place, and now I’ll never get that image of Zac with Grace sick and losing consciousness out of my head. I don’t know what to say, what to do, what to think about this—any of it.
So I say nothing. I pick up my cleaning crap and go back to scrubbing lockers and can’t stop wondering what color Grace’s hair really is.
Like I said. I’m a dick.
I didn’t mean to upset her. I’m just trying to understand. So, yeah. I think Zac messed up big-time here. But was it really rape? I can’t ask Grace that. She’ll tear my tongue out and choke me with it. Why do girls not get that there’s a fine line between looking good and asking for it? Okay, so now I get why she dresses like a heavy metal chick, but the high-heeled boots? The skin-tight clothes? There is no question that Grace is hot and noticeable. Why can’t she just—I don’t know—wear sweats and not wash her hair if she wants to be the opposite of her dad’s wife? It’s like the people who leave their doors unlocked and then cry when they’re robbed. Why are girls not smart about this? I don’t get it, and damn, my head really hurts now.
“Need a break.” I mumble over my shoulder and head to the boys’ bathroom. I take my time and then splash some water on my face. The phone in my back pocket buzzes, and when I pull it out, I see Zac is getting a bunch of people together to party in the woods tonight. I text him back.
Ian: Can’t. Have MD appt to sign off for play. Guarantee parents won’t let me out tonight.
Zac: Sucks
I laugh.
And then I think about it. Another cold night drinking colder beer, getting wasted. Watching the guys try to get laid—Jeremy usually fails, and Zac usually succeeds. Watching Miranda prostitute Lindsay so she can be close to a guy who doesn’t really want her in the first place. I don’t want to go. I don’t care about missing it.
I laugh again because I guess I suddenly turned into my dad. I scroll absently through my phone’s apps and check the news. The local paper claims a resident reported a vandalized mailbox on Old Brooke Road. Witnesses say a black SUV was seen speeding from the street shortly after midnight. Police are asking anybody with information to call their Crimestoppers hotline.
Christ. Jesus Christ, it wasn’t a black SUV. It was a white Camry. It wasn’t midnight. It was about 1:00 a.m. I know this because I’m responsible, and I’m lucky, so fucking lucky it was the mailbox and not the guy walking a dog in the street
I swerved to avoid.
I lunge for the closest empty stall and hurl into the toilet, trying to convince myself it’s the sour smell that’s making my eyes burn and nothing else. When I think I’ve run out of bodily fluids to lose, I flush, lean back on my heels, put my head on the cold porcelain, and try to think up ways to hide this, to make sure my dad never finds out I did the stupidest thing I could have done, to fucking turn back time so it never happened in the first place.
The touch of a hand on my back nearly catapults me into orbit. “Jesus, Grace. This is the boys’ bathroom.”
She ignores my indignation and hands me a bottle of water. I accept it gratefully, swilling some and spitting into the toilet.
“Ian, what’s up with you? The headaches, the dizziness, now this—How bad is that concussion?”
Concussion. Okay, concussion. “Find out later. My parents are taking me back to the doctor this afternoon.” I move back to the sink, wash my face, avoid eye contact. In the mirror, Grace picks up my forgotten phone, and my blood goes cold.
“You broke this mailbox.”
I whip around, eyes popping. “How the hell do you know that?”
She cocks her head, and I want to kick myself in the ass for practically drawing her a freaking diagram. I want to lie. I want to tell her to mind her own business, but those freaky eyes x-ray me so that I have no secrets, no thoughts she can’t see. I resist the temptation to pull my phone of out her leather-covered hands and stomp on it. “Yeah, I did, okay? What’s the big deal? I didn’t kill anybody.” My voice scratches and shakes, and I can’t figure out why I said that. See? It’s those X-ray eyes.
“You tell me. You’re the one vomiting over it.”
Jesus. I rake both hands through my hair, wishing she’d come looking for me just a few minutes later.”
“Obviously it bugs you, Ian,” Grace says with a wave toward the toilet. “Did you tell anybody?”
I shake my head. “Just Zac. He’s the only one who knows because he was in the car. None of the other guys know.”
“Tell me.”
I slide to the floor and break it down for her. “Friday night we were down in Holtsville, and we were drinking. I wasn’t drunk. I had maybe two beers, tops. Driving back, there was somebody walking in the street. I swerved to avoid hitting him and hit the mailbox and freaked out. So I kept going. I didn’t stop because I didn’t want a DWI and it was just a mailbox.”
I rock back, sit on my heels, but can’t meet her eyes. “The next day my dad grounded me for denting the car. No car for one week. I sulked in my room, studied until I got bored.” I look up, knowing I’ll see disgust in her eyes.
But I don’t. She just looks—I don’t know—worried, I think.
“I called Zac. I couldn’t tell my dad. He was freaked out about the car and still freaked out about the police calling the night you—” I don’t finish the sentence. Figure she was there. She doesn’t need reminding. “If he finds out I was drinking, this will put him over the edge—I know it. He’ll probably send me to military school or something.” Fuck, I’m practically whining.
“You need to tell him.”
I slide her a look. “No. I really don’t.”
“You’re puking up your guts because you feel guilty. That’s not a bad thing. You’ll never do it again—that’s for sure.”
Christ, she sounds just like Zac. The breath leaves my body in a whoosh when I think of Grace and Zac sharing anything, even the same thought. I hate this. I fucking hate that she caught me freaking out over something that shouldn’t be such a big deal, and now I’m freaking out more because of her—her disapproval? I glare at her. “And what about you?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. What was all that shit you said to Zac? You’re afraid of him, so you goad him? Why?”
She stiffens up. “We’re not talking about me, Ian. We’re talking about you. Come on. You know I’m right.”
“Seriously. What is up with you?”
She blows hair out of her face. “Okay, fine. I said that to piss him off. When he’s pissed, he shows his true colors. That night? In the woods? Jeremy kept taunting him about me. He had to do something then.”
Had to. Right, right, here we go again. Zac says one thing. Grace says the other, and somehow they’re both right. I can’t focus. I can’t deal. I climb back to my feet, grab the phone, and turn for the door. “I need to think. I need some air.”
I leave her sitting on the cold tile floor.
• • •
Dad and Mom are in the car that afternoon to pick me up for my follow-up appointment.
“How was your day?” Mom asks lamely.
I shrug. “Glad it’s over. I may smell like orange cleanser for the rest of my life.”
“Did Grace get any more pictures for me?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think she had time.”
Now that we’ve run out of small talk, I can hear Beyoncé singing about being a boy and just sigh. Even superstars think the entire male sex just sucks, and the even sadder part is I’m starting to agree. I replay everything that happened since the night of the party—everything Grace said, everything Lindsay and Miranda did. Seriously, what the hell is up with them? Maybe the whole female sex is worse than the males, the way they turn on each other, transforming from bat-shit crazy into straight-up vicious over some guy.
Jesus, even sharks aren’t that mean.
The song ends, and the news plays. My entire body kinks up. I squeeze my eyes shut, whispering prayers to a God I’m not even sure I believe in anymore.
“Ian, you coming?”
I open my eyes, and we’re here. Dad’s parked. “Oh, yeah, sorry. Must have fallen asleep.”
After a twenty-minute wait we’re inside an examination room, me up on the table, Mom on the single chair, and Dad standing beside her, hands shoved into his pockets while he reads some stupid poster hanging on the wall. Dr. Bernard comes in, shakes everybody’s hand, and starts looking in my eyes, making me follow his finger.
“Any headaches, dizziness?”
I shrug, refuse to tell him how bad it was. I cannot be benched.
“Yes, he was dizzy enough to fall back to the bed when I woke him up.”
Great, thanks, Dad.
“Trouble concentrating?”
“He’s been irritable, depressed, and unable to sleep too.”
Dr. Bernard asks me to stand and then does drunk tests like making me walk heel to toe in a straight line, touching my finger to my nose, and grasping his fingers with each of my hands. He rotates my head around while I’m standing, and I lose my balance once.
“Ian, your brain isn’t recovering as quickly as I’d like to see. This is fairly typical in athletes who have sustained multiple concussions, but I want to be cautious and keep you off the field until we can run more tests.”
My heart falls to my feet. “For how long?”
“Until we can repeat your MRI and EEG, but certainly for the rest of this term.”
“Dr. Bernard, my school has a shot at the title this term. And I’m playing in the All Long Island Tournament this June. I can’t miss these games. I can’t let down my team.”
The doctor just shakes his head and turns to my parents, ignoring me like it’s past my bedtime or some shit.
“This was Ian’s second concussion in high school. Concussions can be serious. In Ian’s case, repeated concussions are beginning to cause some minor damage.”
“Damage? Like actual brain damage?” I interrupt.
Bernard nods. “Yes, Ian. Actual brain damage. Every time you bruise your brain, tiny blood vessels burst and bleed, sometimes scar. The brain is a large network of neurons. Those scars force certain neurons to drop off the network. Network connections are rerouted around off-line neurons. They don’t reconnect.”
Shit. Holy shit. What does this mean? Am I—he’s not saying—I can’t be dying, can I? Jesus.
“If you continue to play and are hurt again, more
damage will occur. Over time it will render you unable to function.”
“Muhammad Ali,” my dad murmurs.
Bernard nods. “Sustained blows to the head can cause similar closed-head injuries like Ian’s concussions.”
“Is this permanent?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes it takes longer to heal from a concussion when you’ve had one or two before. With time, I hope we’ll see a reversal. First we need to map the damage, assess its significance. Let’s get you signed up for another EEG and MRI as soon as possible, and then we’ll know.”
The three of us follow the doctor to the main desk, shuffling our feet, dazed and confused. A hand claps my shoulder and squeezes, and I jerk. I was numb until that second. I sit in the waiting room while my parents coordinate schedules, and then we’re back in the car for the ride home.
“Ian, we don’t know anything for sure, so try not to worry, okay?”
I nod and then worry anyway. I can’t play. I may not be able to play ever again. There’s no shot at an athletic scholarship now, which means community college for me. Yay. Christ, what do I do? What the fuck do I do?
Chapter 23
Grace
The weekend passes quickly. Mom let me take the car to two more of Mr. Russell’s job sites, where I took some excellent pictures, uploaded them to a file-sharing site, and got an excited message from him telling me how much he loved them. With some extra money in my pocket, I buy Kody a few Iron Man figures—one with an extra Tony Stark head and one with electronic action. Whatever that is. I finish all my Taming of the Shrew reading and the essay that’s due this week. On Sunday evening while I’m wrestling to straighten my hair, my cell buzzes, and a grimace replaces my instant pang of excitement that somebody is actually calling me. “Hey, Kristie.”
“Hi, Grace. Listen, sweetie, something’s happened. There was a glitch in the petting zoo booking system, and they’re not coming.”
Aww. Kody’s going to be so disappointed. “Wow, that sucks. Kody was really looking forward to it.”
“I know. I’m not sure what we’re doing yet. Probably just doing cake for the family.”