Someone I Used to Know

by Patty Blount

  Pain? “What do you mean? What pain?”

  He’s silent for a minute. “Well,” he says, and his tone is different. Softer maybe. “Secondary survivors feel a similar loss of power. We feel like it’s our job to protect, to take care of our sisters and girlfriends, and we failed. They were hurt. So the guilt we feel over our loss of power sometimes shows up in inappropriate ways. Like Grace and me? I got so busy bulking up, trying to become this big bad bodyguard so she’d feel safe, I didn’t notice that the things I was doing to protect her were stripping away more of her control instead of giving it back. And by the time I did finally figure that out, she was close to not wanting me around.”

  His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.

  “Groups like GAR? They can teach us—boyfriends, husbands, fathers, and brothers—to be what the people we love need, not what we need.”

  For a second, my heart stops. Then it takes off galloping, beating against my ribs with a vengeance. Against my will, I start imagining life without Ashley in it all. No April and Leonardo, no playground escapades, no joining forces against Justin. No fighting over who has to sit in the middle in the car’s back seat. No one to build blanket forts with in the living room. No one to back me up when I tell Mom I didn’t break something. I may be a year older, but I can’t remember life before Ashley.

  Without Ashley.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and lean over my knees in case I puke. Again.

  “Derek, trust me on this—it doesn’t matter how much weight you can bench, it doesn’t matter if you have a black belt, nobody’s strong enough to deal with this alone. You have to know what to expect so you’re prepared to handle it, to help her handle it. And that means you have to find ways to deal with your own rage and pain, which, if you’re like me, you have in truckloads.”

  I snort out a laugh at that because it’s the biggest understatement I’ve ever heard. “Yeah. I guess. So what if your girlfriend needed you gone for good?”

  I hear him swallow hard. “Then I’d go. I love her, maybe more than I love me. So yeah. I would go if she wanted me to.”

  Jesus. Go. Could I do that for Ashley? Could I leave our home so she never needs to look at me like the reminder I am?

  You already did, a tiny voice whispers in the back of my brain.

  Sighing loudly, I admit the truth. “I left, too. Fled so fast, I think I left skid marks. I accepted a scholarship to Rocky Hill. But it’s still not enough.” I tell him all about how I thought I was helping when I reported Aaron, but I’m not sure that will actually prevent him from hurting somebody.

  “Come to the rally. Start there.”

  “I will.” I mean it. I suddenly feel like I can’t miss it.

  “I’ll see you there. We can talk after if you want.”

  We end the call, and I shake my head.

  Talk. Listen. Listen. Talk.

  I don’t get how this helps anybody.

  15

  Ashley

  I know football was canceled because of this. But it wasn’t canceled because of me. I never asked for that. Some of our neighbors, some of our friends won’t let their kids near me, pretend they don’t see us. Some even insult us to our faces. They blame me. They think the court should let the defendant play football because that matters more than some stupid little freshman girl who got what she asked for. I wanted a kiss, a boyfriend, just like every freshman girl. I never asked for this.

  —Ashley E. Lawrence, victim impact statement

  NOW

  BELLFORD, OHIO

  On the day before the homecoming game, the school gym is nothing but noise. Shoes squeak on the waxed floor, students shout and laugh, and the band plays the school song. Tara and I are sitting on the bleachers—first row—and I’m huddled into my hoodie, waiting for people to point and stare and whisper behind their hands the way they did when the word got out that Victor Patton had raped me under the football field’s bleachers two years ago.

  Today, they mostly ignore me, pretend I’m not there so they don’t have to acknowledge me and they don’t have to face what happened. I try to convince myself I’m cool with that, but I’m not. I wish one person, just one person, would look at me and say, “Hey, it really sucks what happened to you.”

  My heart keeps skipping beats, and inside my stomach, there must be an entire colony of butterflies. I felt so brave when I recorded all those videos. But now? This is a huge mistake that won’t have a prayer of changing anybody’s minds.

  A hand touches my elbow and just about launches me into orbit. “Sebastian. Hey.”

  He goes still and shoots both hands up in surrender. “Hey,” he replies, waiting. When I say nothing else, he asks, “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  “Not one bit. But we’re gonna do it anyway.”

  “Ashley—”

  “No.” I put up a hand. “Let’s just do it. It’s stupid to pretend they’re not all talking, that everything’s fine. This way, they’ll get what actually happened.”

  I walked into the girls’ bathroom one day last term and heard a few girls a grade behind me talking about my side of the story. As if there were teams they could cheer for. That seriously pissed me off. It was a crime. I was the victim. There are no teams, no sides to take.

  So now, I never say “my story.” The videos I shot last night for Sebastian are my version of events because you can’t argue with events.

  Sebastian smiles with tight lips, nods once, and disappears into the crowd.

  At one end of the gym, beneath the scoreboard, there’s a portable projection screen erected on a large tripod stand. The noise level in the gym drops by decibels while Sebastian and another guy spend several minutes connecting a laptop and cables. The lights fade, and then my voice echoes around the huge room.

  I’m, well, I used to be Ashley Lawrence. Before I was raped two years ago. Seven hundred and twenty-three days ago. It’s not like I want to count the days. I can’t help it.

  On the screen, the video blinks into life, only it’s not me talking into my webcam. It’s me walking down the school’s main corridor, eyes darting left, right, left again, looking at everybody with undisguised distrust, shoulders hunched up, steps uncertain. Fearful.

  Oh my God. Where did this video come from? Is this what I look like every day? Sebastian’s voice plays. “Hey, Ashley.”

  My fingers inch along my collar to the short ends of my hair. Two years ago, my hair had been long and pretty. After I begged, Mom let me cut it to the middle of my back for dance. And then I’d hacked off the rest of it after a really bad flashback when I remembered Vic pulling it.

  I redirect my fingers to my bare lips. That’s another thing that’s different. I used to have a collection of lip glosses in dozens of colors and flavors. Vic said my lips tasted sweet, so I never wear gloss anymore.

  I’m different. Do they not see that? Do they see that thing all over my face that I can’t ever stop wearing?

  It’s fear.

  Video Me stops at her locker, looking over her shoulder every few seconds and jumping like she was shot when someone slams another locker nearby.

  My voice talks about why I count the days since the rape.

  The video changes to the one I recorded of me talking to Sebastian through the screen on my front window, because I was too scared to let him into the house.

  So here’s the thing. Getting raped pretty much sucks. It’s, like, almost the worst thing that can happen to you. Because it makes you want to die. And every time you remember that the person who did this to you was someone you knew, someone you maybe even liked, part of you does die.

  Heads swivel, and dozens of pairs of eyes stare at me. Oh God, oh shit, oh crap. I feel my skin start to crawl. This was a bad idea. A really bad idea.

  In the video, Sebastian bleeped out a curse word I’d used, an
d nervous laughter rings out across the gym. A few of the gazes pinned to me look away because Sebastian added a bunch of news article headlines to the video that scream how many sexual assaults there were last year and how old the victims were.

  And how few of the perpetrators got punished.

  Suddenly, it’s me on the huge screen, staring across the gym. There are tears in my eyes, which is funny, because I don’t remember crying while recording the videos. I’m mad and disgusted, and it shows. With a sneer on my face, I tell them exactly what I think.

  It sucks to have something you value, something you maybe worked really hard on, get taken away by somebody else. It sucks that you didn’t do anything wrong but got the blame for it anyway, even from people you thought knew you. And it sucks that the court looks at the person who did this thing to you, did the worst thing that anyone’s ever done to you, and says two years in prison is justice, and everybody, even your therapist, tells you that you should feel proud that you won. It sucks when you finally figure out that there’s no such thing as justice.

  Sebastian’s video splits into two screens. I’m on one side, and on the other, there’s a really awesome car that rolls to a stop at an intersection, while I tell the car analogy.

  In slow motion, another vehicle approaches the intersection and loses control, T-boning the gorgeous car just sitting there. Pieces of it break off and fly into the air in an explosion of energy. The car is totally, painfully, and obviously ruined. The driver steps slowly out of the wreckage, dazed and heartbroken when he sees what’s left of his car. While I continue the car analogy on the video, I notice some people lean forward and frown, and a few others nod.

  A chill skates down my spine because it’s working. The video is working.

  All those eyeballs are pinned to the screen now. Not me.

  Not me!

  On the screen, the guy whose car got wrecked sits with his head in his hands, a look of such heartbreak on his face, I almost laugh. I mean, it’s just a car, right?

  And then I remember it’s not.

  It’s me.

  The video goes back to a single screen. This time, it’s video of four feet walking. And then I hear Sebastian ask me if I’m afraid of him right now. It takes work to remember that not all guys rape. My voice echoes across the gym. That was the day we talked to the new coach. I didn’t know he was recording. I want to be mad, but I’m not because, like I said, it’s working.

  The scene changes, and now, it’s the video I took of Sebastian from my window, with voice-over from one I recorded last night.

  Where is your outrage? Every time there’s a terrorist attack, everybody starts screaming for border closings and tighter security at airports. Does anybody ever shrug it off and say, ‘Oh, it’s just extremists being extremists?’ So why do you say, ‘Oh, it’s just boys being boys,’ when you terrorize girls? Because that is what you’re doing. Terrorizing us.

  Sebastian’s video cuts to a clip of a girl walking down a street while men harass her.

  My brother told me to stay home if I was so scared. He thought it was my problem. He’s wrong. And if you agree with him, you’re wrong, too. It’s everybody’s problem. And only everybody can end it. So I’m here to ask you an important question. Are you ready to raise the bar?

  The last few words echo, and the video freezes with my furious face staring directly into the crowd.

  Then my jaw drops when my dad’s face appears on the screen. “Raise the bar,” he orders, a car up on a lift behind him.

  Justin’s face is next. “I’m raising the bar,” he says proudly, holding up a document and pointing to his signature.

  Justin fades away, and the principal appears. “Help us raise the bar.”

  I wonder if Derek was too busy to be bothered to sign a pledge as the video fades to black, and across the dark screen, white words appear.

  Raise the BAR! Bengals Against Rape. Sign the pledge today.

  The screen freezes right there. There’s an eerie calm hovering over the entire gym. No shouts, no squeaking shoes. I look around, and everybody seems to be shell-shocked.

  Motion from across the room catches my attention.

  It’s Sebastian, wearing his football jersey with the large C patch. He holds up a piece of paper. “Raise. The. Bar. Raise. The. Bar,” he chants, keeping the rhythm with the hand holding that document.

  Next to me, Tara claps in time. It spreads from Tara to the people next to her, and soon, the entire gym is chanting and clapping, and I have never felt anything so powerful. I look around and see tears in people’s eyes, which makes me want to cry.

  Sebastian powers off the projector and takes out a stack of forms he puts on a table in the center of the basketball court. Seconds later, Coach Davidson strides to the table, sticks two fingers in his mouth, and lets out a whistle so shrill, it stops everybody.

  Without a word, he makes a big show of taking a pen out of his pocket, picking up a form, and signing his name to it. He shakes Sebastian’s hand. “Good job, Captain.” He hands the paper to Sebastian and steps to the side, folding his arms over his chest.

  That starts a stampede. At once, the athletes wearing jerseys stand up. One by one, they approach the table and line up, waiting for their turn to sign a Raise the BAR pledge form. Tara grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze, but I all I can do is nod. Emotions I hardly recognize flood me. I think they’re relief and pride and gratitude, but who cares? It’s working. My video is working.

  I watch the line to sign the pledge get longer, and suddenly, I’m standing. I walk across the gym to Sebastian. He’s behind the table, answering questions, pointing to the website link on a brochure that he set up with the principal’s blessing to explain the Raise the BAR idea. He stops in the middle of a sentence when he sees me and swallows hard.

  I walk around the table, his eyes following me the entire time until I stop directly in front of him. Then I put my arms around him and hug him hard. So hard. For a minute, he does nothing but stand there, stiff and still. Then he hugs me back, but his hands shake just a little bit.

  “Um,” he says, clearing his throat. “Wow. This…this is okay? Me hugging back?”

  “Yeah. It’s okay.” Sebastian smells really nice. Laundry soap. Maybe shampoo. I don’t know, and I don’t care. All that matters is he doesn’t smell like him.

  “So does this mean you liked it?”

  “Yeah. I did. I really, really did.”

  “Uh.” Another throat clear. “That’s good. Right?”

  “Yeah.” I laugh.

  Oh my God, I’m laughing. It actually hurts my cheeks a little because it’s been so long since I did this. We pull away from each other. There’s no panic. No anxiety. No flashbacks. No pain. There’s just us.

  Us.

  Holy crap on a cracker, this is it. A moment. The moment. A normal teenager kind of moment. I want to trap it, cage it, keep it forever so I can take it out and use to recharge the next time the darkness closes in and makes me feel like a freak.

  “Ashley?” he says. He’s still sort of hugging me.

  “Hmm?”

  “Would you, maybe, like to, you know, go out sometime? Um. With me, I mean?”

  My heart floats, and it’s not an anxiety attack this time. I look right into those pretty tea-colored eyes half hidden by his Nike swoosh hair and say, “Yeah. I would. Totally.”

  He grins and hugs me again, and for the first time in two years, I think I’m happy.

  I should have known it wouldn’t last long.

  The next day is game day.

  And I’m in bed, shaking and shivering. Mom checks on me a bunch of times, wondering if I have a fever or flu, but I don’t.

  I have memories. Bad ones.

  Today was the day. Two years ago on this day.

  But it’s not Vic that I can’t get out of my stupid
head.

  Derek. My Leo. I miss him. God, I really miss him.

  16

  Derek

  NOW

  LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK

  I wait for Brittany outside her dorm building, frowning at my phone. There are no fewer than a dozen messages from Mom.

  Mom: I know Thanksgiving isn’t for weeks yet, but I miss my baby boy.

  Mom: If you can be home the day before, I think it’ll help me convince Dad to close the garage early.

  Mom: How did your game go? I’m sorry we couldn’t make it there. Dad didn’t want to leave Ashley home alone.

  Mom: I love you. Please remember that.

  Mom: I can’t wait to have all three of my babies in the same house again! I’m making all your favorite dishes.

  “Hey,” Brittany says, pressing a kiss to my lips when she joins me. She lets me go, but I hold on for a few more seconds because I need to. “Oh. This is nice,” she whispers.

  Yeah, it is. Her hair smells like sunshine so I kiss her head, too.

  “You look so pretty.” The words sound seriously lame to my ears, but not to hers.

  “Thank you.” She lowers her eyes and grins.

  God, I love when she does that. She always gets embarrassed by a compliment.

  “Derek.” She rises up on her tiptoes to whisper in my ear. “We don’t have to go to the rally. We could go back to my dorm. My roommates are out.”

  The blood leaves my head, and my stomach does a long, slow roll. I tighten my arms around her and kiss her deep. I want to take her up on that offer like I want to breathe. It’s all I want to do. I kiss her again, and with a couple million regrets, let her go. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but yeah. Yeah, we do. I’m meeting somebody there.”

  I take her hand, and we start walking. She gives me a look that I can’t decipher. “Okay. So who are you meeting? Julian?”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s this guy. Ian. His girlfriend is one of the speakers tonight. We talked a couple of times. He wants to help me.”