Honor Code

by Kiersi Burkhart

  “I’m not a visitor,” says Harper coolly. “You and Chapman grew up together, right? Your dads are friends?”

  “Yeah,” says Waldo, his voice betraying some of the suspicion that his face won’t.

  “You told someone that Scully has a habit of forcing himself on women,” says Harper. “Can we talk about that?”

  “Are you asking me to incriminate Scully Chapman to a reporter from The New York Inspector?”

  Hmm, she hasn’t given Waldo enough credit. Maybe another tack would work better, approach it less aggressively—

  “If I tell you,” he says, “are you going to print it in the newspaper?”

  What Sam had told her about Waldo hadn’t really prepared her for this.

  “Maybe,” Harper says. “If it’s good.”

  “Cool.” Waldo takes a sip of his drink. “What do you want to know?”

  -----------------------

  Harper decides to drive straight home, because it’ll be impossible to locate any of the other students she needs with after-school activities going on—and she’ll be less conspicuous if she calls.

  Posting up at her kitchen table with a frozen pizza and her laptop, she rereads her notes.

  Waldo gave her everything.

  “Scully preys on the Firsties every year,” he’d said. “He goes through their pictures on Instagram and picks the best ones, then coordinates with his prefect buddies. That’s why I was surprised when I saw him with Sam at the polo game.” He had sunk back into his chair then, sucking the straw of his drink thoughtfully. “Grabbing her hand in front of Frank and everything, even though she’s so frumpy, I thought he liked her. Guess not.”

  “She’s a person, not a thing,” Harper had said, trying not to sound as irritated as she felt. “And she didn’t deserve to be assaulted in a senior’s room.”

  “Yeah, that part’s weird. He usually doesn’t take them to his room.” Waldo had looked pensive. “Usually he picks some other spot around campus where he can get away fast, like Cath.”

  “How do you know this?” asked Harper. “If you aren’t friends anymore?”

  “We were friends. I like to think we still are, in our own way. But Scully’s been at this for a long time. Since eighth grade, probably.”

  “Why did you never do anything?”

  “I did. I stopped hanging out with him. That’s doing something. But sometimes Scully just tells me about it straight up because he knows it pisses me off.”

  Waldo had taken a big bite of his lemon bar. Then he looked at her and said, “Personally, I like to make a girl fall in love with me before I fuck her. I’d rather she enjoy taking off her panties than me having to rip them off of her. There’s no fun in a girl who doesn’t want to be there.”

  Adolescent boys can be so gross. And yet Waldo still grasped basic ethics better than Scully Chapman.

  “It’s not like I enjoy going to Edwards,” he’d then said. “But I have to graduate from here if I have any hope of taking over my dad’s spot at Blue Crescent someday. And that’s all I want. As much as I loathe the idea of sharing my dad’s company with a rapist piece of shit like Scully Chapman, the Crescent is still my responsibility. It belongs to my family.”

  Then he’d decided he was done talking.

  “Look forward to reading it,” he’d said, scribbling his phone number on a piece of paper and handing it to Harper. “Call me if there’s anything else you need.” Then he waltzed out. “Toodles!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  HARPER

  If only she could spend her evening doing anything else. Harper had gotten a message on OKCupid from a cute guy wanting to meet up for a drink—but she has more phone calls to make.

  Bex answers after three tries. Harper introduces herself as a reporter writing a story about Edwards Academy. A student had recommended Bex as an interview subject—someone who regularly reached out to younger students and helped get them involved.

  “You must mean those Firstie girls,” Bex says. “Sam and Gracie. Yeah, they’re good kids. A little weird, though.”

  Under the pretext of writing about “Edwards’s culture of scholarship and excellence,” Harper asks her more about the Firsties she’s mentored. Eventually, Bex mentions that Sam and Scully went to the Mixer together—and later, she heard, they went on a date.

  “Never found out how it went, but I assume good,” Bex says with a giggle. “I like to see that. Someone who struggled at first figuring it out—getting it, you know?”

  But Harper can’t get through to Hayden as easily. And the girl who Sam said was running check-out that night refuses to help her at all with confirming Sam’s check-out and check-in times. “That’s confidential,” is all she says, before referring Harper to the administrative office.

  Barry, Scully’s House Dad, picks up on the first ring. Same story: an article about “Edwards Academy and the culture of mentorship at private schools.”

  “Scully Chapman,” Harper says. “I hear he tutors a lot of younger students?”

  “Often,” the House Dad says proudly. “He’s my best student. Always helping others succeed. Takes a lot of pride in it.”

  “I spoke with one student, Sam Barker, who says he’s the only reason she’s passing her math class. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Let me look at my check-in forms. Sounds familiar.” She hears some papers rustling. “Yep, Sam came in pretty late just before winter break. I was surprised by that one. Chapman really put his own work on the back burner to help her out.” He rustles some more paper. “And another girl, the night after. A lot of last-minute folks needing help, and he’s always happy to help.”

  Another girl? Harper’s chest constricts, imagining Scully doing the same thing he did to Sam to another girl one night later.

  “Who was it?” Harper asks.

  “I can’t give you her name, but it should suffice that there was more than one student who came for last-minute help, and Chapman is just the kind of student who gives it.”

  He’s clearly done talking to her after that, so Harper thanks him for his time and hangs up.

  Then it’s time for the last one: Gracie. Sam’s roommate when it all happened.

  Gracie’s phone goes immediately to an automated voicemail message, so Harper writes her an email.

  This story’s so close, she can feel it. Just a few more loose ends to wrap up.

  It can wait. She needs a good night’s sleep for once.

  -----------------------

  SAM

  I wake up the next morning in my bed at Edwards to my alarm beeping urgently. My eyes feel like they have sand in them. I obsessed about the call with Scully all day and night yesterday, going again and again over the script that Melissa had written for me.

  They gave me a counselor to talk me through the assault and manage my “emotional fallout.” We walked through the call together. I’ll ask about math—something familiar, and find out whether he has tutoring hours available.

  “Bring up your last ‘session’ and we’ll try to get him reminiscing about it,” Melissa had said.

  It’s Sunday, and tomorrow is the first day of finals. I should be studying, but instead I’m making my way down to the pick-up area to wait for Dad.

  At the station, Melissa’s wearing a pair of headphones so she can hear what Scully says. They’ve rigged up my phone to a speaker, and I’m supposed to wear another pair of headphones with a built-in microphone so I can talk while their machine records me. Melissa sits across from me with cue cards, prepared to scribble out assurances to help me when I get Scully talking.

  “We’ve got your back,” she says as we sit down with two officers. We go over the script and what kinds of things Scully might say. Then she taps the top of my hand. “Ready?”

  As I possibly can be. I put on my headphones and read through the script one last time.

  “Ready.”

  Scully’s number is still saved in my phone. It just takes tapping his n
ame to dial him. For a second it feels like a mistake, and my whole chest lights on fire.

  It rings. Four rings, then Melissa hangs up before it goes to voicemail.

  “Shit,” I mutter. Luckily my parents aren’t in the room.

  Now what?

  The table buzzes.

  It’s my phone ringing. The name SCULLY CHAPMAN pops up on the screen.

  It feels like the temperature has dropped twenty degrees. Melissa holds up one finger, gesturing for me to wait.

  We let the phone buzz again to let the setup connect, then she nods and I tap the green phone icon to accept the call.

  Fuzz swells in the headphones.

  “Hello?” I say. It sounds like a squeak to me.

  “Hey.”

  Scully’s voice fills up my ears, my head, my body, and I want nothing more than to vomit it out all over the floor. The red hang-up button’s right there on the screen. I could reach out and touch it, give up this ridiculous thing, and not exchange even one more word with him.

  “H-how are you?” I say, choking a little.

  “Fine,” says Scully. It’s clear he doesn’t want to waste time talking to me right now—during finals. Why did he call back? After a moment he says, “And you?”

  It feels like Spanish class. ¿Cómo estás? Bien, ¿y tú?

  “I’m not so great,” I say, remembering the script is there. I glance over it. “I’m actually really screwed in Trig.”

  “Kind of late to be calling for help, isn’t it?” says Scully, his voice taking on a note of good-spirited ribbing.

  “Yeah.” I emphasize the pause with a deep breath, for feeling. “It’s pretty late. But I’m fucked if I don’t get some help.”

  “Is it the same stuff we covered before?” Scully asks. Now he sounds more neutral than ever. Does he know he’s being recorded?

  I’m being paranoid.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Still having trouble with sine and cosine.”

  The line goes silent for so long that I check the phone to make sure the call is still connected.

  “I don’t know what I can do for you,” says Scully, his tone careful. “Finals start soon. I’m busy myself. I don’t have any more tutoring slots available until next semester.”

  “Oh.” I let that one word hang, filling it with as much disappointment as I can, inflating it to hot-air-balloon size. He has to say something damning on the phone or we’ve got nothing, and the DA won’t pick up my case.

  “Still,” I venture, “I think you should free up some time to work with me. That’s almost a fair trade for what you did.”

  Melissa’s head shoots up. I was supposed to stroke him, play into his belief that I wanted it—not fire accusations. But I have to get him to say something fast, before he has too much time to think about it. I’ll take anything. I figure I’ve got less than a minute before he stops being interested.

  Scully doesn’t speak for a few seconds. “Yeah,” Scully says finally, sounding almost . . . sympathetic? Regretful? No, that’s not it.

  I lean into the phone.

  “You could at least apologize.”

  I don’t know what to expect when I say it. Melissa has written a cue card that says BACK OFF. She wants me to play nice.

  I won’t.

  “Sam,” Scully says, voice dropping so low I can only hear him because the headphones amplify him directly into my eardrums. “I don’t know what you think I should apologize for.” Then he continues, “But I’ll still help you with your Trig if you really need it. You’re my friend.”

  Melissa is waving at me. I know I’m letting this conversation spin off the tracks, but I can’t seem to straighten the wheel or take my foot off the gas.

  “I have never had a friend who’d do what you did to me.”

  Melissa scribbles on another cue card.

  “I’ve never done anything that wasn’t asked for,” snaps Scully, his voice rising. The creature finally emerges. “I’ve never touched anyone who didn’t want it.”

  “Really?” I ask. Melissa holds up a card that says STOP, DON’T ANTAGONIZE HIM and shakes it. I ignore her. “Never? You would never make someone tea and—”

  Melissa is angry and waving another cue card. It just says STOP.

  STOP.

  STOP.

  “What is this call about?” asks Scully. He is pulling away. He reverts back to sarcastic, distant, cold. “Getting revenge?”

  “No.” I try to sound sincere. “I called because I am ruined if I don’t pass this class.” My voice breaks and I hope it sounds like tears. “I’m terrified that I’ll get kicked out of Edwards, and you’re the only person I could think to call, because I am hopeless.”

  Melissa lowers the cue card. She pulls out another one and starts writing.

  The other end of the line is silent again.

  “What grade do you have?” Scully asks. He sounds almost interested. Like he wants to know how far I’ve fallen from grace so he can help dig me back out.

  He’d relish that.

  “A C-plus,” I say. That’s a big stretch. I’d have to bomb this final to get that grade.

  “That’s bad,” he says. “A C-plus will look bad on your transcript.”

  “I know. It’s been a hard quarter.”

  “You can do this,” he says.

  Then it hits me. He’ll never admit to anything, because he doesn’t believe he’s done anything wrong.

  Melissa’s writing another suggestion on a cue card, but there’s no point to this. Only a judge and jury will ever wring a confession from Scully Chapman, and even then, he might still be too convinced of his own innocence.

  “Fine,” I spit, glaring at his name on the phone screen. “You’re right. I can do this on my own. See you in hell, Scully.”

  Melissa is waving a cue card, but I don’t care what it says. I press the red button and the line goes dead.

  On the other side of the table, Melissa drops the cue card. She shakes her head.

  “He was never going to give me anything,” I say. “No matter what I said.”

  Not while he thinks he’s blameless.

  “Yeah,” Melissa says, sighing. I think she’s finally grasped the same thing. “I know.”

  -----------------------

  HARPER

  Sunday night. Harper’s butt’s glued to her chair, a steaming cup of tea beside her computer. All weekend she waited to get an email from Gracie, but nothing. She called again yesterday—and it rang twice before going to voicemail.

  Gracie had deliberately ignored the call.

  Sure, Gracie’s account would be great for fleshing out the degrading “body survey.” But this story needs someone who shared space with Sam, who could describe her withdrawing, shutting down, after the rape. No matter what Sam says about her not telling Gracie, there’s no knowing what Gracie might have suspected.

  That’s good journalism. That’s what will sell this to the public, before the trial starts and the public turns on Sam instead.

  Harper calls once more. This time it rings once before the computerized voice says, “This caller is unavailable.”

  Blocked.

  Oh, high school. Where arguments at dances about boys could feel like the end of the world. You could hold a grudge for eons.

  Minutes later, an email appears.

  I know why you’re calling, and I don’t want to talk to you. I have nothing to say. Sam and I were friends once, but not anymore. We lived together and that was it. I know nothing about her life after we stopped talking. I dropped out of Edwards because I hated it. I hated all the drama, the hero worship, that idiotic honor code.

  So please, for the love of god, leave me alone.

  Sam was right. Gracie doesn’t have the stomach for it. Everyone has people like that, who bounce out of your life as soon as things get messy because they can’t deal.

  Fine. The story will happen anyway. Bex and Waldo have given her plenty to work with. On a second call to Hayden, the bubbly Head
Girl picks up.

  Hayden willingly dishes about all her success with First Year mentees, like Sam Barker. “I single-handedly helped her out of social obscurity” is just one of many quotes.

  It’s perfect. Now Harper can write.

  The article starts off with Sam’s mom, just to set the mood.

  “It’s the most horrific thing a parent can imagine happening to a child who’s away at boarding school,” Mrs. Barker had told Harper. “You trust these schools. You believe they’ll keep your children safe. But what you don’t realize is the enemy might not be on the outside, but inside the school itself.”

  An honor code that hovers over everyone.

  Hazing rituals. The body survey, designed to annihilate the new girls’ self-esteem.

  Rich boy, polo captain, King—who gets whatever he wants. Whom the administration protects.

  A victimized girl too scared to tell.

  A call for justice.

  When she’s finished, Harper addresses it to Mark and hits the SEND button.

  Chapter Seventeen

  SAM

  “There’s no need to be nervous,” Melissa says as Mom, Dad, and I follow her down a long hallway. We’re running late for our appointment with the Assistant District Attorney. Melissa pushes open a door at the end of the windowless hall.

  Inside, an older, wiry woman with a mountain of snow-white hair piled on top of her head sits at a long conference table. Her nose is hawklike and her bone structure severe.

  The woman gazes only at me as we all take our seats. What have I gotten myself into? The room is large, silent, lighted with fluorescents, and smelling faintly like cleaning solution.

  “Anastasia Weber, assistant to the District Attorney,” the woman says, standing up and offering her hand. My heart roars as I shake it. “Call me Tasia. I’m glad you’ve come around and decided to work with us. I heard it was a tough choice for you.”

  I came around, huh? How far could they have gotten without me?

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Rape is severely underreported,” says Anastasia. “We need people like you to come forward in order to encourage others to do the same.”