Honor Code

by Kiersi Burkhart

  “You mean, it’s all circumstantial,” Mom says, using whatever she’s acquired from binge-watching Law & Order. She always acts like a know-it-all when she has no clue.

  “Um, sure,” says Melissa. “It’s Sam’s word against his.”

  “Right.” Mom glances at me. “So what were you wearing, Sam?”

  “A shirt, skirt, and leggings,” I say. The blue shirt and black, high-waisted skirt, my favorite black leggings, and matching blue shoes.

  “Where are they?” asks Melissa.

  “I threw them away.”

  It hangs there for a second. Threw them away.

  “Why?” asks Melissa.

  “Because they were all ripped up.”

  Mom goes stiff. She turns wide, disbelieving eyes on me, as if this is the first time she’s understood that I was raped.

  “Ripped?” she repeats, her voice hoarse.

  “I didn’t want anyone to ask questions, and I was never going to wear them again, so I threw them away.” I also never, ever wanted to see them again and have to remember what happened.

  Mom’s eyes are glossy. She blinks them rapidly, turning her head away, then back. Suddenly she flings her arms around me.

  “Oh, Samantha!”

  She starts to cry.

  It comes in slow, gentle waves at first, just her hands gripping my arms, but then it grows into a storm. She’s sobbing, repeating, “Samantha. Oh, Samantha. My Samantha.”

  I wrap my arms around the woman who has suddenly become small, the same size as me. Or have we been the same size for a while now and Mom just always seemed bigger before?

  “I’m sorry,” she says between gasping breaths. “I’m so sorry.”

  After a time Mom sits up, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. I have wet splotches on my shirt in the shape of her face. I don’t want to let her go.

  “The next thing you should do, Sam,” says Melissa, leaning forward over the table, “is report this to the school. Take it through the Title IX complaint procedure. The government requires every school to have one for students in your position. I can walk you through it. It’s important that Edwards investigate how this could happen on their watch. It’s a boarding school—they’re tasked with protecting you 24/7. Whatever they find will be critical to our investigation.”

  Melissa looks at me expectantly, waiting for an answer. If she wants an agreement, she should have asked Mom. I don’t need this right in the middle of finals.

  “And I want to get you in to see our assault counselor,” Melissa adds. “Then we’re going to set up a call between you and Scully, and see if we can get him to admit anything. This is a routine tactic we use to try to coax him into an admission.”

  What? Like . . . a setup? As if anyone would be stupid enough to admit guilt over the phone. Dread fills my ears like water.

  “He’d be suspicious right away,” I say. “I haven’t tried to contact him since—”

  “Don’t worry.” Melissa gives me a reassuring smile. I am not reassured. “I’ll help you prepare. We’ll come up with a good reason why you’ve called. There are people here on staff who do this for a living.”

  “Fine,” I say. I’m done with all this. All I want is to climb into my bed and pass out forever. “Now can I go home?”

  Melissa glances at my mom. “I think you all could use some rest. We’ll be in touch with you to organize the call.”

  As we leave the precinct, Mom slips on my jacket for me, as if I’m a toddler again. Then, like I’m a tiny baby bird she’s rescued and has to feed every two hours, she even opens the car door for me.

  On the drive back home, I am almost asleep in the back seat when I hear Mom talking about how she’s going to have to enroll me in the public high school.

  “She really wants to go back to Edwards,” Dad says quietly. “She doesn’t want this to get in the way of her Harvard Law dream.”

  “She’s not safe there, Darryl.”

  “Melissa says if we file that complaint with the school, they’ll issue a No Contact order. She won’t have to see him.”

  “Yeah, sure, if they do what they’re supposed to,” Mom says bitterly.

  “We have to trust Sam. If she thinks she can handle going back, let her try. And she can come home if she can’t handle it anymore. We don’t want it to seem like we’re punishing her.”

  I open one eye and catch Mom slowly nodding her head.

  “Fine. But I get to pull her out if things get too bad. Okay?”

  “All right.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  HARPER

  Sam could react a million different ways, and none of them good.

  She probably felt betrayed. Definitely pissed. Maybe she won’t even talk to Harper again.

  No use obsessing. For now it’s expedient to act like everything is moving forward.

  Harper digs up the phone number for Sam’s House Mother, Jean DuBois, on a school webpage. Jean should have something useful to say. After four rings, a woman answers the phone breathlessly.

  “Hello? Who’s this?”

  “Hello. Harper Brooks, from The New York Inspector. How are you this evening?”

  “Busy,” Jean says in a clipped voice. “Trying to get fifty girls sorted for the night.”

  “I’ll make it fast, then. I’m researching an article about Edwards Academy—‘a scholarship student finding her place in private school.’ My subject is Sam Barker, who I believe is one of your students? A glowing quote from you would cast Edwards in a good light.”

  “I’ll have to run it past the provost first.” Suddenly the speaker is muffled and Harper hears Jean yelling, “Molly! Why are you running in the hall?”

  “I only need to confirm a few details,” Harper says when Jean comes back on the line. “We can do it right now over the phone so you don’t have to spend any more time on me.”

  “All right. Real quick.”

  “Sam and I have talked at length about how difficult Edwards is academically,” Harper says. “She’s expressed to me that she struggles a lot in school, and I just want to confirm this with a faculty member before it goes in the article.”

  Jean clams up.

  “I can’t share anything like that,” she finally says. “Sam is absolutely a great student. Her teachers have no complaints. And that’s all I’ll say to you.”

  The phone bleeps. Harper blinks down at the screen. Jean hung up.

  A great student? That doesn’t jive with what Harper has gathered from the Tumblr blog—she’d seemed to be really struggling. Worried about her grades.

  Not a big deal. Who hasn’t misrepresented themselves a little in a diary to make their drama even more . . . dramatic? Especially for an online audience.

  Harper searches for contact information for everyone else she’ll need to interview—Hayden, Bex, Scully’s House Dad. Waldo Wilson. Most of them are high school students, so finding phone numbers for them online will be difficult without Sam’s help.

  And if the honor code is as pervasive as Sam says, will they be willing to share anything?

  So Harper tackles her ever-evolving draft of the article instead. It’s nearly one in the morning when an email pops up.

  TO: Harper Brooks (hbrooks@nyinspector.com)

  FROM: Sam Barker (sbterrier@shmail.com)

  SUBJECT: No Subject

  I spent my whole night at the precinct. And by the way, my parents okayed your story.

  That’s all it says.

  She doesn’t sound as mad as Harper had expected. Not even on the same spectrum as mad.

  So Sam isn’t going to cut her off from the story. Not at all, actually.

  Harper writes back immediately so Sam doesn’t have time to change her mind.

  I’m really sorry. I just wanted to protect you.

  Can I make it up to you? A coffee at Java Jitters? Maybe I could meet your mom, make sure we’re all on the same page?

  The reply comes in less than a minute:

  Mom doesn�
��t need to know. This is between us. You’ll have to come to school, and we’ll meet at the Juice Bar.

  Your treat.

  Harper reads the message twice and lets out a breath. She got off the hook easy. Maybe after meeting with the police, Sam understood Harper’s reasons?

  She calls up Mark’s office number and leaves a voicemail explaining that she won’t be in tomorrow because she has to follow up on her story in person.

  -----------------------

  SAM

  The drive back to campus makes me late to class, but it doesn’t matter anyway. Mom’s already excused me so we can go to Provost Portsmouth’s office together.

  The entire walk there I’m sweating, even though it’s below freezing. People stare at me as I go by with my mom holding my hand. Why are my parents suddenly so into hand-holding? But I feel too guilty about everything to take it back.

  Melissa thinks it will help for Edwards to conduct an independent investigation. They may learn things the police can’t.

  Yeah, right. As if Provost Portsmouth will help them. I’ve seen fliers for the big annual auction all over school—the one where I’ve heard Mike Chapman donates a few hundred thousand dollars every year. Edwards Academy needs him.

  We reach the administrative office and Mom asks the receptionist for the Title IX paperwork. It’s tedious to fill out. I have to write everything that happened, and then we deliver it the provost’s office.

  Mom doesn’t even check in with his receptionist. She walks right in the door.

  “Let me do the talking,” she says.

  Provost Portsmouth glances up from his computer when we enter. He looks like he vaguely remembers me. Maybe from that day at the polo game, when Scully grabbed my hand.

  Mom hands him the forms we’ve filled out.

  “Mr. Portsmouth,” she says, “we pay a lot for Sam to go here. We trusted your school’s reputation. And then your faculty let this happen?”

  “Pardon me?” he says, eyebrows drawing in confusion. He skims the document. As he reads, his face grows paler and paler.

  “This . . .” He stutters for a second. “But, Scully is a good student—”

  “That’s what you’ve got to say?” Mom snaps instantly, like a cobra. “You’re going to defend him?”

  “N-no, I mean . . .” The provost has to stop and close his eyes for a moment before he can respond. “I wish I’d been told about this before you went to the police.”

  “Why, so you could stop us?” Mom asks.

  The provost seems so pathetic over there, sweating in his chair. Trying to please an angry parent and not incriminate the school at the same time. I wish I could laugh at him.

  “We would have addressed it internally,” he says, with patience, “then sought a resolution that suited everyone—without all the publicity.”

  “Sam’s House Mom left an entire dorm of students alone together for this ‘body survey,’” Mom says, crossing her arms. “You and your faculty have completely failed to keep my child safe. Why should I trust you to handle anything?”

  “Mrs. Barker, I know this is easy to say in hindsight, but perhaps if your daughter had told us about this . . .” He swallows. “. . . this body survey months ago, when it happened, we could have—”

  Mom looks like she is about to explode. I push past her before she can burst, and put my hand on the provost’s desk.

  “So, what?” I say. “It’s my job to report my own House Mother hanging me out to dry? The person who can give me a demerit for talking back?”

  Provost Portsmouth’s mouth flaps, but Mom interrupts him. “Maybe this ‘publicity’ you’re so afraid of is what it will take to make a change around here,” she says, giving me an approving nod. “We expect to see you fully cooperate.”

  The provost’s face slackens. Control over this situation is slipping through his fingers like water.

  “Of course we’ll cooperate,” he says, sinking back into his chair.

  I was certain that Provost Portsmouth would try to derail us, to protect his old friend’s son. But he’s spineless. I wonder where his vertebrae have walked off to without him.

  “And you’ll turn over anything you find to the police, right?” Mom asks, insistent.

  His voice is defeated. “We’ll contact you as soon as we schedule a hearing.”

  “Good.” Mom turns to me. “Let’s go, honey. You have studying to do.”

  “Yeah,” I say, just to say something. “I do.”

  This time when we leave the building, it’s me holding Mom’s hand because, holy shit, my mom is a badass.

  -----------------------

  HARPER

  Harper parks in the lot located behind Thomas House—the dorm closest to the Juice Bar.

  It’s lunchtime, so Edwards is awash with people running from one place to another. Good. While it’s still the most overwhelmingly white crowd she’s seen since her time at Columbia, it’s chaotic enough that nobody will notice her.

  She beats Sam to the little shop with the tiki sign that says JUICE BAR over the top, and orders a coffee and an apple turnover.

  When Sam arrives, she gets in line to order and waves Harper over. Sam picks out a sandwich, a smoothie, and a brownie, and steps aside to make it clear who’s supposed to pay.

  “How are you doing?” Harper asks, once they’re seated at a small table they were lucky to get.

  “Finals,” Sam says. She calmly sips her smoothie.

  “You surviving?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Her gaze bores into Harper. “Not that you made it any easier for me, talking to my dad. That was smart, going for the protective dad.”

  She’s so casual about it. She didn’t seem like the type during their interview to let something like this slide quite so . . . easily.

  It’s a relief. Harper did what needed to be done. At least Sam’s parents can support her, no matter how the legal system treats her.

  “What are the police going to do?” Harper asks to divert the conversation.

  “I have to make a recorded call to Scully.” Sam clenches her plastic smoothie cup. “Try to get him to admit to what he did on the phone, if we can.”

  “If you can’t?”

  “They told us the DA will decide if they want to press charges. The Chapmans might accept a plea bargain, just to kill publicity. But if they don’t, we go to court.”

  Harper nods. Sam is so calm. It’s weird.

  “I hope he takes it,” Harper says. “And the school investigation?”

  “They’re starting today. Mom and I filed an official complaint with the school this morning.”

  Harper raises both eyebrows. “How’d it go?”

  “Mom kicked ass. It was amazing. You should have seen the way she talked to Frank Portsmouth. Complete KO.”

  Good. Sam’s parents remind Harper of her own—fierce and loving. Sam will need them if they go to court.

  “I called your House Mother, Jean, last night,” Harper says. “But I can’t get a hold of anyone else.”

  “Here’s everything.” Sam pulls a piece of paper out of her bag and shoves it across the table. “Names, phone numbers, whatever.”

  Wow. She’s prepared. It’s almost as if she made the list weeks ago.

  -----------------------

  SAM

  That reporter is persistent, I’ll give her that. I knew she was the right person for this.

  She’ll get it done.

  I gave her everything she needs: Bex’s phone number. Hayden’s phone number. The Second Year prefect who I’m pretty sure checked me in and back out again on the night I went to Scully’s dorm room. Barry, the House Dad of Thomas House. Waldo.

  “What about your roommate?” Harper asks, scanning over the list of names. “I’d like to talk to her, too—since she interacted with you daily. It would be really helpful to interview her.”

  Great. I tried to leave Gracie out of the interview as much as possible, because I knew this would h
appen. If Harper thinks we were close, it will bother her that Gracie is totally unresponsive now. And it’s too complicated to explain.

  “I didn’t tell her anything about what happened. Anyway, she hasn’t answered a single call from me since we left for Christmas break,” I say. “Trust me, I’ve tried. But it’s not like we were that close, so I just gave up when she blocked me.”

  That hurt the most. Like the guillotine falling, permanently severing our relationship at the neck.

  Gracie’s not about to answer a call from some reporter. Especially if she knows it’s about me.

  But I give Harper the number anyway, and Gracie’s personal email address for good measure. I don’t mention that Gracie will avoid her, the same way she avoids me.

  Harper will figure it out. The story will just have to survive without her.

  -----------------------

  HARPER

  Sam said Waldo would probably appear at the Juice Bar sometime before dinner. “He’s here all the time.”

  So Harper waits. And waits.

  “Just a regular banana-strawberry,” somebody says with a strangely deep voice. “None of that protein powder crap you put in everything.”

  Harper keeps her phone in front of her face as she peers up at the counter. He’s six feet, two inches at least, with shaggy orange hair, a pimpled face, and legs like scraggly aspen trees. Based on Sam’s description, this is him.

  While he’s waiting for his order, Harper sidles up to the counter. “Waldo Wilson?”

  The barista serves up his drink. He doesn’t look at her as he pops a straw into the lid and says, “Yup, that’s me.”

  “I have a question for you about Scully Chapman.”

  “Again?” He sucks on his drink. “Who are you?”

  “Harper. Harper Brooks.” She holds out her hand and gives Waldo her most winning smile. He tilts his head, evaluating her, and doesn’t take her hand. “With The New York Inspector.”

  The look of surprise barely has time to register before Waldo squirrels it away again, shifting back to impassive.

  “Cool, The Inspector. What’re you doing at Edwards?” He points to her chest. “You don’t have a visitor’s pass.”