Same line I get from everyone. I’m the leader, the inspiration, whatever. But I don’t want to be an inspiration. I just want Scully punished.
“Philosophically,” Tasia says, sitting back in her high-backed office chair, “my job is to ensure the safety of the public.”
I’m one of the public.
“We’re not representing you specifically, Sam. The DA doesn’t press charges on behalf of a victim, but on behalf of everyone. The point is to keep dangerous people off the street—to ensure that someone who presents a clear and present danger to the public is properly prosecuted, punished, and rehabilitated.”
Rehabilitated. As if.
“It’s hard to win rape cases, so my office doesn’t often take them. But the police department has interviewed a number of witnesses at Edwards Academy, and everything you’ve said holds water.” Tasia narrows her eyes. “If there’s a serial rapist walking around that high school, it’s within both the purview and duty of my job title to do something about it. So I’m launching an investigation into Mr. Chapman.”
They’re taking it. My case will move forward. I glance at Melissa, and she gives me a tiny thumbs-up.
Tasia leans forward. “But right now, it’s just your word against his. Is there anything else you have that could help us?”
“Yes,” I say slowly. “There is.”
Melissa is watching me, her eyes saying, You could have told me.
I gesture for Tasia’s notepad and pen, and she slides it across. I scribble down the address of the Tumblr blog.
“It’s the address of a blog I was keeping,” I say, handing back the notepad. “Each post is time stamped. I couldn’t fake it. It has details in it about what happened.”
Tasia reaches into the briefcase on the floor by her chair, takes out a tablet, and enters in the address. She scans the page.
“Yes,” she says, lowering her glasses to look at me. Her blue eyes are peeling me, exposing me. “We’ll check the email address linked to this account to verify it’s yours.”
“I used an anonymous email address to register the blog,” I say. “I deleted it after.”
She hmms. “Still, this is very helpful. Thank you.” Tasia bookmarks the page. “A timeline helps. I can ask Scully about specific events, and his answers will give me—and the judge—clues about how much he’s willing to lie.” She offers the smallest of smiles. “I’ll have my secretary make a copy for us and the opposing counsel, and then you’ll have to take the blog down.”
“Take it down?” I’m genuinely not sure if I can do that.
“Once this story is out there, that blog will be discovered in a second, if it hasn’t been already. I don’t want this leaking to the public during an ongoing investigation.”
Next to me, Mom and Dad are both nodding.
“What can we expect will happen?” asks Mom. “We’ve never . . . we’ve never gone to court before.”
“Your daughter will only be called as a witness,” Tasia says. “Not a plaintiff. Though I’m hoping we don’t even have to get to that stage and the Chapmans’ lawyers will take a plea bargain to keep him out of the papers.”
I almost laugh out loud. After my call with Scully, I wouldn’t bet a penny on him admitting guilt.
Tasia looks right at me, as if she can read my mind. “But I won’t depend on that. Mike Chapman has access to a lot of good lawyers, and they’ll come up with some ridiculous stuff to use against us. Against you.” Her gaze turns to steel. “I want you to know, Sam, that you don’t have to come to the courtroom if you don’t want, unless it’s your turn to testify. This is about me and Chapman now.”
I don’t know what to say. I just hope she can bury him.
“Thank you.”
“I should be the one saying thank you,” Tasia says. “Thank you for telling us. And for helping other girls stay safe.”
I’m doing this.
And there will be a reckoning.
-----------------------
HARPER
Mark should have read the piece by now. Harper’s about to slide into his office and make sure he got it when someone taps her.
“Hey, look,” her co-worker Josh says. “It’s your girl’s school on TV.”
He points to one of the giant televisions hanging on The Inspector walls playing a silent, closed-captioned broadcast. The camera sweeps the gorgeous Edwards Academy campus. The closed captioning starts scrolling across the screen.
A freshman student at the prestigious Pennsylvania private school, Edwards Academy, has alleged sexual assault by a senior student.
The senior denies it, accusing the prosecution of trying to sabotage his well-known New England family. He is the son of a prominent Wall Street hedge fund manager.
The text is replaced by some smartphone footage. The wobbly, vertical screen shows what looks like the front door of a dorm. Police lights flash.
Harper runs over to the filing cabinet where the remote is sitting and un-mutes the TV. The anchor’s voice fills up the space.
“The footage was taken by a student and put on social media last night. Police arrived at the school and arrested Scully Chapman, the school’s star water polo player and captain of the team. He was gearing up for a state championship. Now his acceptance to Berkeley might be in jeopardy.”
The fuzzy footage shows two cops leading a boy with wavy blond hair away. Other boys are clamoring behind him. He looks defiant as the cops open the back door of the squad car.
Harper turns to Josh, who’s watching next to her.
“ ‘Berkeley might be in jeopardy’?” she asks with air quotes. “Good Lord. Poor boy, being a rapist got in the way of his college education.”
“What do you want from TV news journalism?” Josh asks.
The news throws an image of Scully, grinning, up on the screen. It’s his senior photo. So that’s what people see in him. Not quite tan, with a chiseled jaw. Playful, sandy hair, and a wide mouth. A young Channing Tatum.
“They never use the mug shots,” Harper growls. “Bet he looks like shit in his mug shot.”
She is about to head into Mark’s office, when she turns around and finds him standing right behind her.
“Let’s talk,” Mark says. He’s glowing.
She’s treaded some wobbly lines to get here, but now that she stands on the precipice . . . they both have a right to glow a little. This story’s going to put Scully Chapman up to the light for everyone to see—and reporter Harper Brooks will be the one standing with the spotlight on him.
-----------------------
SAM
I barely slept after the commotion over at Thomas House last night. I didn’t leave to go see the arrest, like most of the Isabel House girls did—just watched from my window.
People are shouting in the hall the next morning before I’m even out of bed.
“He could never do something like this,” a girl says.
“Whoever this person is, she’s a lying sack of trash.”
What are they even complaining about? Scully posted bail immediately. I could sock them.
This fury I feel is getting familiar. I like it. It’s better than the guilt, the bitterness.
I wish Gracie were here. She’d love to make fun of them all, tittering over this new scandal. I write her an email on my way to Morning Prayer.
I did it. The police know now, about everything. He was arrested last night. The blog has to come down. There’s probably going to be a trial.
The arraignment is happening in one hour.
In Cath, I sit down in the back pews, with the rest of the lowly First Years. Reminded of our place as Jesus watches us from the stained glass window—as he stares down at me accusingly, the way everyone else will soon.
Gracie’s seat is empty. That’s okay for now. Once Scully’s gone, once Edwards is safe for her again, she’ll be in that seat again. Maybe she doesn’t support what I’m doing; maybe she wants me to bury the whole thing. But when it’s all over, s
he’ll see why I did it.
As the heavy doors of the cathedral close behind us, Hughes isn’t playing his organ intro like he usually does. Provost Portsmouth goes up to the podium and clears his throat.
“I want to address what happened at Thomas House last night,” he begins. “Rest assured, the administrative staff and I are managing it. This is a good time to reiterate that any time we receive information about an incident or a complaint, we have a process in place to handle it. Trained investigators look into these situations carefully. I will not go into details, but if you would like to know more about this process—” he leans into the microphone and casts a meaningful look around the assembled student body—“please contact me or the dean.”
He sighs so quietly it’s almost imperceptible to the microphone. This must be his obligatory response. Provost Portsmouth then gestures to Hughes.
“Take us into it, would you please, Mr. Hughes?”
The organ starts. As the music takes over, the provost steps down from the podium. I don’t want to make eye contact with him. Instead, I keep my gaze on the old organist’s fried-egg head so no one will have any reason to guess that it was me.
-----------------------
HARPER
Sam’s actually upbeat when she answers the call. “Finals are over soon!”
“That’s great!” Harper says. “Then you get a little break, right?”
“Yep. Philly Weekend. They take us into the city for a few days for a vacation.” Sam sighs into the phone. “I could use it.”
“I hope that’s not a bad idea,” Harper says. “With the article coming out.”
“Whatever,” says Sam. “If they find out, they find out.”
That’s a switch. What about Keep this community sacred?
But it’s good that Sam’s gotten her sea legs.
“I’m sorry this has been so hard,” Harper says.
“Thanks.”
“Just so you know,” Harper says, “I finished the piece. My editor really likes it. We’re set to publish tomorrow.”
“Will anyone care now, though?” Sam asks. “Now that Scully’s been arrested?”
“This article’s not about that. It’s about your side of the story, Sam. This is what Scully doesn’t want people to hear. Everyone who saw that clip on the news, or read about it in the paper, wants to know the whole story. Why would someone accuse that hot guy of this? This story humanizes you, speaks your truth. Now we control this narrative.” She’s using that word again—we. As if they’re a team. A team dedicated to spreading truth. “Your struggle and your pain will be the first thing that people hear about, instead of crybaby rich boy losing his state championship. You’ll get better access to the public’s sympathy if you can get there first.”
She’ll need it. Everyone will have a hot take once this goes wide—and the court of public opinion is cruel.
“This story will let you control the mood out there,” Harper says. “It’ll go live with the article online tomorrow right after the paper edition.”
“I can’t wait,” Sam says. She sounds like fire. “We did it.”
We did it.
Harper likes Sam’s new enthusiasm. But it has only just begun.
-----------------------
SAM
I get a text message on the way to my first exam. Melissa’s supposed to let me know what happened at the arraignment—if the Chapmans will take the plea bargain or fight. But I’m running late, and I get into my desk just as the exam is about to start. I can’t check it for another three hours.
The contents of that message are all I can think about as I turn over my paper, open the blue test booklet, and start to read. The questions blur together.
I wonder what Scully thinks. Does he imagine crushing me the way I imagine crushing him?
See you in hell.
If Scully decides to fight this fight, I’ll take him there.
No. Focus. I need to get through this government test. Three hours to write out all the names and dates I’ve been cramming into my skull the last few weeks.
Half of my answers are bullshit, but bullshit I can do. Somehow I finish and hand in my test early.
Mr. Jordan nods and says, “Nice work this term. Really good work. I’ve enjoyed having you as a student, Miss Barker.”
I don’t even have the energy to be excited that beautiful Mr. Jordan decided to pay me a compliment. I tell him thank you and hurry out of the building. Once I’m standing outside, I rip the phone from my pocket and check the text message from Melissa.
It’s done. His plea is in.
Not guilty.
So he’s going to fight.
For a moment, I doubt myself. Did I do something really catastrophically stupid by taking this on?
I decided this battle was mine. I called Harper. I started this.
And now the tidal wave I’ve made is bearing down.
Act Three
Chapter Eighteen
SAM
It’s not my alarm that wakes me up the next morning. It’s the girls screeching out in the hallway.
Is there a fire?
I scramble out of bed and throw open the door. My neighbor runs by in her pajamas, waving a newspaper over her head. “Katie! You have to see this!”
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes with the heel of my palm, I blink a few times and peer the other way down the hall. Half-dressed girls have crowded around the bulletin board.
The article.
I am instantly awake. Everything in my body is pumping at maximum speed, all the tubes and pistons spitting out steam.
Shaking, I walk up behind the cluster of girls and hope no one can hear my heartbeat. Like that Edgar Allen Poe poem, right? The telltale heart that gives your guilt away?
But nobody even looks at me as I wiggle in close enough to get a look. Someone has posted the front page of The New York Inspector, dated today. At the top it reads:
Freshman Student at Prestigious Private School Alleges Rape by Senior Classmate
Stretched across the top of the article is a grimy, black-and-white photo of the Edwards Academy clock tower. It’s supposed to look beautiful and epic, but the trees all look like skeletal zombie arms coming out of the ground. The arrangement of the hands on the clock makes the face seem angry.
Down below, embedded in the text, is a photo of him.
The TV news had played that stupid senior photo a bunch of times—the one where he’s got that big charming grin that everyone around here loves. I hate that photo. The word rape looks like a joke next to it.
But The Inspector uses a photo I haven’t seen before. Scully’s hair is mussed from sleep. His lips are parted, mouth tipped up on one side as if he’s trying to smile, but doesn’t have it in him.
He looks like the word: rapist. It must be his mug shot.
“I just cannot believe this,” says one of the girls from the room next to mine.
“Me neither. Who would do this to Scully?”
“Someone with an axe to grind,” Manda says. “Probably got turned down and couldn’t take the rejection.” She raises a copy of the paper high up in front of her, then attempts to symbolically rip it in half. But the paper is fifty pages thick and she ends up just struggling with it.
Someone has set out extra copies of the paper in the lounge, so I nick one for myself and head back to my room before anybody notices. Best stay as inconspicuous as possible while I still can.
In the dining hall, I skim the article through again as I scarf down my breakfast. Harper has chosen to refer to me as “Jen.”
It’s disembodying to read someone else’s account of me. It’s like watching those horrible moments unfolding again, but through a periscope, and from a safe distance.
The article’s long—half of the front page and a quarter of page 3A.
Eliza, Bex, and Lilian are uncharacteristically quiet during breakfast. They’re absorbed in reading, too.
Every minute or two, Bex raises her
eyes and looks right at me. And each time, a shiver runs from my ear, through my jaw, into my neck, and down to my feet. I feel my entire face turn red, and it stays that way until the bell. But she doesn’t do anything more than stare.
I gaze back down at the article. Harper did a good job. She captured everything I’d hoped she would, played up what I wanted, completely avoided the things I didn’t—like my argument with Gracie.
I thought seeing this in print would salvage me. That the guilt and regret that sleeps on the edge of my dreams, that hounds me every moment I’m awake, would finally make themselves scarce.
But they don’t. The wrong is still like a stain that won’t come off, especially now that this is out there. I want that anger again—that hot, life-sustaining stuff I felt when I thought about bringing Scully down.
But reading about it again, all I feel is guilt and disgust. I keep coming back to the mug shot of Scully, sleepy and pissed off. What is he thinking about me right now? Does he want to hurt me, again, even worse? He and his dad are probably sitting over a fancy breakfast in their fancy house, made by their fancy chef. They’re talking about the pre-trial hearing. Laughing as they discuss how they threw away the plea bargain because they know they can crush me in court.
Harper calls right as I’m leaving the dining hall to make sure I’ve seen the article. I duck into the dark corner of a nearby building.
“Do you like it?” she asks, and I think it’s the first time she’s ever sounded insecure.
Like is not really the word I would use to describe it. Evocative, maybe. Powerful.
“I do,” I end up saying. “It’s fantastic, Harper.”
“Wonderful. I’m so glad. We’re getting a big response on the website. Let’s go out to lunch soon, okay? And I’ll take you to dinner when I win the Pulitzer.”
-----------------------
When the evening news comes on that night, every girl in Isabel House crowds into the second-floor lounge to watch the segment we’ve all heard is going to be about Edwards and Scully.
The story opens with a wide, panoramic shot of the campus. Then a face appears: Scully Chapman with that big, vapid, water polo captain grin. The TV blares at maximum volume.
Honor Code Page 17