Honor Code

by Kiersi Burkhart

  “I don’t want to do that. Of course I have reservations, but I’m only suggesting you do this because people need to know. I believe Scully should be held accountable.”

  “No, you don’t.” She doesn’t want it as much as I do. She just wants me to parade around in front of a judge or a jury because it will make a good story for her.

  “Yes,” snaps Harper, “I do.”

  “If it means so much to you, you should be willing to go to bat for it!” I could break this phone in my hand. Smash it against the desk. That’d get my message across.

  “I have gone to bat for it!” Harper’s voice roars in my ear. “I drove out to interview you, read your blog, advocated to my editor for you. Because I want The Inspector to stand up to that guy.”

  “Then all you need to do is write the article.”

  “I have limitations, Sam. And you know what, I do want him put away. That’s what’s right.”

  Harper breathes hard on the other end of the line. But it doesn’t matter how much she argues. I need this to happen my way.

  “I can’t do it,” I tell her. “But I’ll get you Waldo’s phone number.”

  I press the END button on my phone, my heart going wild inside my chest. I’ve never talked to an adult like that before. But something inside me started speaking that I’ve never heard speak before—something that wasn’t going to accept the bullshit any longer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  HARPER

  Harper puts her phone down on her kitchen table, only barely managing not to slam it.

  Fine. No point waiting for Sam to come around. The sooner this is done, the sooner Harper can get back to writing less stressful stories, like that profile of the old ladies in Jersey who have played bingo together for twenty years.

  It’s easy to find Sam’s father on LinkedIn. Darryl Barker’s a banker, and balding, from the looks of his picture. Forty-five—maybe fifty. Sam has his nose and stubborn, petulant pout.

  Harper takes down the name of his company and looks up the office number.

  When she gets to work the next morning, Harper calls.

  “Castlewood Mortgage,” answers a man who sounds like he’s probably writing an email while he talks. “This is Darryl Barker.”

  “Hello, Mr. Barker?”

  “Can I help you?” he asks in an easygoing tone, like he’s not too concerned about his fading hairline. “If it’s about our new low-APR refinancing program . . .”

  “No, no. My name is Harper Brooks, with The New York Inspector.”

  “The . . . Inspector?” he asks, dropping the salesman act. “What can I help you with, Ms. Brooks?”

  “I’m calling about your daughter, Samantha. Do you have a moment?”

  Harper hears him suck in a breath.

  “Sam?” he asks. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Sam asked me to meet with her a few days ago about something that happened at Edwards.”

  His voice takes a sharp edge. “What’s happened to my daughter? If this is some kind of prank, lady—” His voice rises.

  “It’s not, I promise you. If you don’t believe me, look me up. You can find most of my bylines online.”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Brooks. Harper Brooks.”

  She hears a mouse click, then some typing. A scroll wheel whirs.

  “You do a lot of student stories,” he says, not as a question. Like he hopes that’s what this is about.

  “Yes,” she says. “I’m working to shed light on the rise in reported campus sexual assaults.”

  “Sam,” he whispers. Then his tone turns businesslike. “Tell me what this is about.”

  “Mr. Barker,” Harper says, “it was an incredibly difficult decision for me to breach Sam’s confidence like this. But she’s only fifteen, and—”

  “Tell me what happened!” His voice ratchets up, making the line crackle.

  Harper takes a deep breath. “Sam alleges that she was raped. By a boy at her school.”

  On the other end, she hears labored breathing.

  “How do you know this?” he says, his voice a growl. “And why didn’t I know first?”

  “She wanted to tell you, I know she did. She’s just terrified of the consequences if the person in question seeks retaliation. He’s a big shot at her school. That’s why she came to me—”

  “Who?” he demands. “Who did this?”

  “Let me explain something first,” says Harper. “Sam has no physical evidence. Her word against his. And this boy’s dad is incredibly well connected. She was afraid of—”

  “Who. Was. It.”

  “She alleges that it was a Fourth Year boy named Scully Chapman.”

  “A senior.” His voice is the voice of the Grim Reaper. “That’s who did this to her? You’re sure?”

  “That’s what she told me in the interview.”

  “Interview?”

  “Sam reached out to me because she wants me to write a story for The Inspector,” Harper says slowly. “She wants to get her story out there without having to come forward herself and risk . . . well, everything.”

  There’s a huffing on the other end of the line, like he’s starting to cry. A middle-aged man is crying over her phone. This is just getting messier with each passing minute.

  “What did I do to make her think she couldn’t tell me?” Mr. Barker says between breaths. “W-where did I go wrong?”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, Mr. Barker. She didn’t want to involve you and she doesn’t want to violate that school’s ridiculous honor code by coming forward. She’s scared to tell anyone about it.”

  “That thing? I remember thinking what a good idea that was when we read the brochures—like just the sort of education I wanted my daughter to get. Honor, respect, integrity . . .”

  He dissolves on the other end. Harper stays quiet while he puts himself back together.

  “Thank you for calling me,” Mr. Barker says suddenly, his voice clipped and ragged but trying to sound firm. “You’re running a story on this? On a fifteen-year-old girl without asking her parents’ consent?”

  “Mr. Barker,” Harper says, “I’m calling you. Right now. And I think it’s a good time to get the police involved, or the school, at least. I don’t want to tell you what to do, Mr. Barker, but a criminal charge would force Edwards to act.”

  “Sam . . .” His voice collapses. “My baby . . . How could anyone . . . ?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He clears his throat. “Sam’s mother and I have a lot to talk about before I can give you any kind of answer,” he says, his tone suddenly hard.

  “Mr. Barker—”

  “We’ll be in touch,” he says, and the line goes dead.

  Harper’s hands are shaking as she hangs up. She knew she’d gone against Sam’s wishes. Broken confidence. But if she’d done nothing, the silence would have lingered forever.

  -----------------------

  SAM

  I’m trying to cram as much American Government into my brain as I can when Jean’s three-tap signature knock comes at my door. My heart flings itself into my throat. She never comes to talk to me unless she has a reason.

  What could she want?

  “Sam?” Jean says when I open it. “Your dad is here to pick you up. Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving campus?”

  My throat closes up. “My dad?” I squeak out.

  “He signed you out for the weekend and is waiting downstairs. Something going on? Normally we don’t let students just go whenever they want, but he made it sound like there was some family emergency . . .”

  “I don’t know why he’s here,” I say. “Sorry.”

  “Not your fault. Pack up, and I’ll tell him you’re coming down.”

  -----------------------

  Dad shoots up from his chair in the lounge the moment I appear, duffel bag over my shoulder. His eyes are red, his face even more. He rushes to my side and takes the bag, only then pausing
to wrap his arms around me.

  Gently, I push him away.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi, baby.”

  Oh, no. He never calls me that anymore.

  He leads me by the hand the whole way out of the building and to the car. I don’t even take it back because I don’t want to upset the balance. I’m eight years old again, and I’ve just gotten in trouble in class.

  Dad tosses my bag in the back seat as I climb in the passenger side, my hands trembling.

  Once we’re inside the car, Dad suddenly begins to . . . sob.

  “Dad?” I ask, hearing the horror in my own voice. He’s only cried in front of me one other time, when Grandma passed away. “Dad, what is it?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing his eyes with his closed fists. “I’m so sorry, Sam, that I let this happen to you.”

  Happen to me. So he knows. Harper must have told him.

  He reaches across the center console and wraps his arms around me, tugging me awkwardly over the emergency brake. It digs into my hip bone.

  He didn’t do anything. Why would he think he caused this? What exactly did Harper say?

  “Dad . . .” I awkwardly pat the back of his head and he lets me go, wiping his eyes. “It wasn’t your fault—”

  “I pushed you to go to Edwards,” he says. “I’m the one who made it so important that you seize the opportunity, get a free pass into a great college. I didn’t think about—”

  “I chose to go,” I say. He’s sure taking a lot of responsibility for choices that were purely mine. “I’m the one who went with Scully up to—”

  “Sam!” He grips the steering wheel. “I’m concerned by how calm you are.”

  Of course I’m calm. I’ve had weeks—almost a whole month now—to stop freaking out about it.

  “Dad,” I say, exhaustion settling over me, “it’s been a long semester. And I’m kind of right in the middle of finals, by the way.”

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I’m not letting you within five hundred yards of that guy again until he’s behind bars.”

  This is not at all how this was supposed to go.

  “Dad, you can’t. Finals are—”

  “Yes, I can!” My dad is not the kind of guy to have a temper—that’s Mom’s forte. But he’s angrier now than I have ever seen him.

  We are spinning out of orbit, and I’m hanging on by one finger. “But then what was the point of it all?” I ask, pushing tears down. “I’ve worked so hard. I busted my ass all semester to get good grades. And you’re just going to force me to quit?”

  His shoulders hunch toward the steering wheel.

  “Sam,” he starts, “do you really want to stay at Edwards after what happened?”

  “I’ve worked so much,” I say. “How can I throw it all away? There goes my chance of getting into Harvard, of getting that lawyer job I’ve always wanted.”

  Dad stares at me, the whites of his eyes spidered with red. Finally, he says, “I’m going to tell your mom that I think we should press charges.”

  I bring my knees up onto the seat. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s going to make my life at school even harder.”

  “Then don’t go back.”

  We’re going in a circle. But I need him to understand what finishing at Edwards means to me.

  Dad beats me to it. “It’s brave of you, but Mom won’t like it.”

  “Have you told her?”

  “No. I wanted her to hear it from you first. But I know your mom will agree with me.”

  Once Mom has set her mind on something, there’s no changing it.

  I nod. “Do I really have to come home for the next few days? I have this group project due, and study groups for finals.”

  Dad tilts his head, studying me. Then he turns back to the windshield.

  “We’re going home for tonight,” he says. “We’ll have a talk with your mom and decide together. Then we’ll see.”

  -----------------------

  The clock on the wall of the police station reads eight thirty. Long past dinner. Mom had made a roast for my unexpected return home, but as soon as I told her about Scully Chapman, she turned the oven off and left the roast in it while she hurried us all to the police station.

  Now my empty guts are grinding and growling. I am stretched so tight and thin, any small thing could break me.

  “Mom, can’t we get some Wendy’s while we wait?” I ask her. “I’m starved.”

  Mom shoots me a demon look. I had anticipated some waterworks, sorrys, hugs. Instead, Mom is pure fury. And it has not melted off at all in the last hour and a half.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” she’d demanded. “I can’t believe this!”

  No crying, just anger. Within seconds Mom had gotten up out of her chair, grabbed her purse, and said, “We’re going to the police station. Now.”

  I didn’t understand why it had to be now. It had happened a month ago, and it’s not like I’m pregnant or something, so why couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?

  But Mom’s in action mode.

  A young cop talks with an older one behind the desk as the three of us wait in the precinct office. I made it clear to them when we first arrived that I didn’t want to be here, but Mom quickly shut me up.

  Soon the cop comes for us—but not me. Only my parents. The three of them disappear into a back room.

  Because I wouldn’t cooperate, they’re cutting me out.

  I fiddle with my phone, ignoring the small pile of text messages that have accumulated since I left school, asking me why I’m missing this or that.

  My chest burns the longer I think about how people at school will react when this all comes out—that is, if Mom and Dad let me go back. The place where my panic lives is aching and raw, as if someone has drilled a hole through me and the open wound drips out.

  Eventually Mom, Dad, and the cop return.

  “It’ll be up to the DA’s assistant to press charges, but we’ll present the case to her,” the cop says to my parents. He crouches down in front of me like I’m a little kid and looks right in my eyes. “It’ll be a lot easier with your help, Samantha.”

  “It’s Sam,” I snap.

  “Sam,” the cop amends. “Will you talk to us? We have an expert coming to interview to you. She handles a lot of cases like yours.”

  I don’t bother saying no, because it’s clear I don’t have a choice. Just adults doing adult things. Refusing to listen. Going over my head.

  Thanks, Harper.

  -----------------------

  The “expert” arrives a half hour later, and I still haven’t eaten. She appears at the reception desk in a green cowl-neck tucked into black pants, cinched by a big black belt, her blonde hair pulled to one side with a tiny barrette. Her name tag reads MELISSA. She meets with my parents in another room, leaving me alone, again. Then she returns with a muted, soothing smile.

  She introduces herself to me, saying, “I’m a victim advocate for Castlewood PD.” She looks me over. “You look hungry. Are you hungry? Should I order something for us?”

  “Order what?” Mom asks before I can answer.

  Melissa doesn’t even look at her as she asks me, “Do you like Chinese food?” Then she takes out her phone.

  “Uh, I guess so.” I haven’t had takeout in weeks, maybe months.

  “I’ll place an order.”

  She makes a quick call, orders some chicken, noodles, beef, and rice, and then leads me into a separate room. The walls are cinder block and gray. It feels like an interrogation room, with a giant mirror on one wall that’s obviously two-way. She notices me staring at it.

  “Are my parents over there?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “Just a detective.” She takes out a notebook and sets up a recorder. “I want to hear it all, Sam,” she says. “From the beginning.”

  I clench my lips and slide deeper into my
chair, as if I could just spill right into the drain tile in the floor and disappear.

  “I heard you didn’t support this move to press charges,” Melissa says. “And I respect that. It’s incredibly difficult to confront the idea that someone has done something so wrong to us that the police need to get involved. But they do. What this boy did to you is not only morally reprehensible, it’s illegal.”

  This all feels like a nightmare, the kind where you try to run and your legs are gelatin, where you speak but your words come out muddled and wrong, and no one listens or cares about what you want. But I know that my only way out of this room is to talk.

  “He’s just a guy I go to school with,” I begin.

  -----------------------

  The food arrives right before I get to the really bad stuff, and we take a breather long enough for me to inhale an entire order of orange chicken. Melissa’s all right. Even though her barrette’s super-dorky, she seems like the kind of person who took this job because she cares.

  As I talk, I can feel his hands again, squeezing my flesh the same way Hayden did that first day of school. The sshhht as fragile underwear tear.

  I can’t stop before I get to the gruesome part the way I did in my interview with Harper. I have to go where the blog goes. And as I talk about how he said Isn’t this what you wanted?, I can feel the claustrophobic fear surge inside me again.

  I force myself to describe how he penetrated. I can almost feel the scathing fire spidering across my body. The faceless creature over it, pumping like a robot, the foul sound of its monstrous grunts.

  By the time the story is all out, I am empty. It must be midnight by now. My eyes and face ache. I want to go to bed and never have to wake up.

  “Can we be done?” I ask. “I need to be done.”

  “Sure,” says Melissa. She stands up and goes to the door, where Mom and Dad are waiting, and invites them back in. Their eyes are rimmed with red as they sit down next to me. Seeing my tired face, Dad wraps me up in a hug.

  “Before we call it a night, I just need to know if you still have anything from that night.” Melissa says. “Like what you were wearing when you went out?”

  Mom gasps. “What do Sam’s clothes have to do with this?”

  Melissa shakes her head. “That’s not what I mean to imply. I’m asking if there’s any physical evidence Sam can provide—something that Scully might have touched on the night it happened. There’s not much for us to go on besides your testimony.”