“And you never told anyone at school.”
“Never. Then it came out that Scully had raped Sam, too—”
“Allegedly,” Anastasia says.
“That Scully had allegedly raped Sam. I realized I wasn’t the only one. And I had to come forward to stop this from happening to even more girls.”
Olivia gets it. She understands.
“That’s all, Your Honor,” Tasia says.
Turnquist stands up slowly, like a guard dog who’s just noticed you on his property.
“It seems odd to me that your parents never asked who got you pregnant, Ms. Crosswell,” he says, crossing his arms behind his back. “Maybe it was someone else?”
“I’d never had sex before Scully raped me,” Olivia says. She is steel as she stares back at Turnquist. “And I haven’t since. So, no, it couldn’t have been anyone else.”
“How come you didn’t tell a friend?” Turnquist asks. “Anyone? It sounds like you came forward now because this was a convenient time to get your fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Fame?” asks Olivia. “If I’d come forward three years ago, I’d be the one getting death threats right now. I mean, I had to have my parents’ help getting an abortion. I felt ashamed enough.”
“Do you have any proof of this?” asks Turnquist.
“Look at my medical records. My abortion is on there, and so are the hundred hours of therapy. Ask my therapist. She’d love to tell you all about it, I’m sure.”
Turnquist huffs. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
Olivia is shaking when she gets off the stand. She gives me a tiny nod before she stalks from the courtroom. I wish I could follow her out, hug her, share all our tears together—but it will have to wait.
She did a big thing today. Together, we’re going to get what we came for.
-----------------------
HARPER
When court’s adjourned for the day, Harper stuffs her notes into her bag and rushes outside to check her email on her phone.
A reply from Gracie.
I don’t talk to people on the phone. I don’t like it.
That’s all it says. Harper’s heart starts beating faster as she writes a response.
Something is wrong.
You don’t even need to talk to me, if you don’t want. You could answer the questions over email?
Back at home, Harper waits and waits. She fiddles with the draft of the article she’s written, but it’s not ready to go to Mark yet, not without this last piece about Gracie. Her gut is telling her that something’s off, and she won’t publish anything feeling that way.
Time for bed—there’s more testimony tomorrow. She’ll just check again in the morning. As she’s crawling into her soft, warm bed, her phone lets out a ding.
This was her choice, not mine. I didn’t tell her to do this for me. I want no part in Sam’s revenge quest.
Don’t email me anymore.
What is Sam doing for Gracie?
Harper responds to the email anyway.
If you testified and verified Sam’s claims from that night, she could win. She could put Scully away for everything he’s done.
As expected, there’s no reply.
Another dead end, but a dozen more questions.
-----------------------
SAM
I’ve hardly been at school. My room doesn’t look lived-in—my things always spilling out of my duffel bag onto the floor, desk covered in dusty papers. At least I graduated from Level One after break, so no more inspections. One of my few things to be thankful for right now. But now it feels like not even my room is mine anymore. Like I don’t belong, even among my own things.
Sun spills in my window early, and it’s the only thing that gets me out of bed. I feel like I’m full of water—sniffling, groggy, heavy. I’ve been up past midnight every night this week downloading class PowerPoints and finishing my assignments. Even after I send them in, I’m awake for another few hours obsessing over the trial.
I drag myself to Morning Prayer, then breakfast—to my table where I used to sit with Bex, Eliza, Lilian, and Gracie. I have earbuds in like always, poring over research for my next Art History essay, when a tray lands on the table across from me.
Olivia Lauren has three whole plates full of food, which makes no sense to me, given she’s tall, lanky, and made of all lean muscle.
“Hey,” she says, and starts in on her breakfast immediately. I can’t look away from her shoveling food in her mouth at maximum speed. It’s amazing.
But Olivia Lauren is the ideal Edwards student. Perfect platinum hair, an amazing figure, not a bit of excess body fat on her. How does she look like that and still eat like this?
“Swimming,” she says, not looking up. “I have to gag down five thousand calories a day or else I crap out halfway through practice.”
I forgot how nice it was to eat with someone else. With Olivia sitting across from me, I feel better about the school hearing coming up on Monday. Scully’s at his usual table with Cal, Sloane, Mallory, and everyone else across the cafeteria—for once, they aren’t laughing. Maybe Scully knows it doesn’t look good for him. That no matter what else happened, the honor code was violated when he closed that door and we kissed. I just hope it spells more than a few days of suspension for him.
-----------------------
I spend the weekend at Edwards, catching up on work I missed during the week. I hang out with Olivia at the library, and she helps me study because she took all my classes last year.
Before I can blink, it’s Monday. The school hearing will be in one of the small rooms in the student union, with the low, graphite ceilings. All morning my hands are shaking, so I can’t write straight.
The provost loves Scully. He’ll fight hard for him. What if I’m the one who gets suspended? I went to the cops. I broke the honor code.
I’m the one everybody hates.
As soon as I walk in, I spot Dr. Winegard sitting behind the table on the far side of the room. As much as I want to, I don’t wave at her. I don’t want everyone to know that we have any particular relationship. Mom’s sitting in one of the chairs set up on the other side of the room—confined to just watching and listening, as much as she probably wants to get up and shout on my behalf.
Here there are no bailiffs, clerks, recorders, or judge. Just a panel of teachers and administrators with stacks of paper in front of them in a silent classroom.
When I walk in, Scully’s sitting on the left side of the room. He looks small and weak without his fake court glasses, his fancy court suit. Turnquist’s not here to protect him.
I’m not scared anymore.
Dr. Winegard gestures for me to sit in a chair on the right. Scully stares at me, radiating something ugly and angry. Those stormy eyes that I used to think were so gorgeous are hard and flat. He can think all the bad thoughts he wants.
The questioning starts.
“Where did it happen?” Dr. Winegard asks me. “When?”
They have all the check-in and check-out records. I can see the teachers nod when everything I say matches up.
“What did you say to Mr. Chapman when he touched you?” the provost asks.
As I speak, describing everything I’ve described before, Dr. Winegard’s face grows more and more drawn. Eventually, she stops me and says, “Thank you, that’s enough.”
After that, Scully’s allowed to respond.
“I didn’t touch her,” he says, proud and clear. “It’s a lie.”
Ugh. He’s such a giant asshole.
“What were you doing that night when your House Father let you and Sam go back to your room together, alone?” asks Dr. Winegard. “With the door closed.”
“Studying.”
“You told your House Father it was a one-hour tutoring session,” she says. There is a touch of vindictiveness in her voice. “But Sam was checked out only half an hour later.”
“We covered the material quickly.”
“No.”
He’s a really bad liar. And like that, the hearing is over.
“We’ll call you back in when we’ve made a decision,” Provost Portsmouth tells both of us. “In the meantime, Mr. Chapman—” his face twists as he says this— “you’re off the polo team.”
Scully scowls, and stalks out of the room. No state championship for him and Frank. I could laugh at them.
The staff close the doors behind us, and I find Olivia waiting on a bench in the hall.
“Dinner?” she asks. It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to while the teachers debate—it’ll distract me from obsessing about it while I wait. I say goodbye to Mom, and Olivia and I walk to Hamilton together.
On my way back to Isabel House that night, Dr. Winegard catches me outside the door. She gives me a hug.
“Don’t worry too much,” she says in a whisper. “Olivia gave her testimony to us yesterday, and I think it looks good for you. I want this campus to be a safe place. So do the other teachers.”
“Are you going to fire Jean?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. After that Inspector article, we might have to. Parents are furious that we let this happen. And they’re right to be.”
-----------------------
I thought it would be at least a week before I knew, but then Dr. Winegard stops me after class the very next day to deliver the news: the school ruled to expel Scully.
I have to sit down on a bench by the side of the main path because the bones in my legs have become jelly. Dr. Winegard asks if I’m all right, and I wheeze out, “I’m just surprised, thank you.” She leaves me alone to call Mom and tell her the news.
“At least one good thing,” Mom says over the phone. “I won’t feel so horrible about letting you go to that awful school now that he’s not around.”
Walking back to Isabel House, it’s like the saturation on the world has been turned up to 100. The bright green leaves glow with moisture, the blue sky radiates, the edges of the buildings shimmer.
I can be here again without looking over my shoulder. I can exist without taking alleys and side paths, without guessing where Scully will be.
Gracie needs to know about this.
I curl up in bed and dial her number, but it only rings once before going to an automated message. Still blocked. And she’ll just delete my emails.
How do I get through to her?
I pull out the notebook that Gracie left behind. Inside the front cover is inscribed:
IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO:
Gracie Isabel Caleza
1093 Hudson Ln
Rosland, NY
I get on my laptop and pull up the New York bus system. If I take the school shuttle downtown and pick up a Greyhound to Long Island, I should be able to get on a city bus that will take me pretty close to Gracie’s house. I plot out my course on Google Maps, scribble each step in a notebook, and I’m all set.
But getting to Long Island by myself will take the whole day. I’ll leave tomorrow. The school will think I’m doing a court thing. Which I should be—Waldo will be testifying. But this is more important.
I got Scully expelled. Gracie has to know Edwards Academy is safe again. Then she’ll come back and everything will return to the way it used to be.
She has to. It was the whole reason for everything.
-----------------------
As I’m working on my homework due tomorrow, there’s a commotion outside. It reminds me of the night Scully was arrested and everyone ran to the windows, hoping to get a good look.
I follow the group into the lounge to peer outside. Something is happening over at Thomas House.
“Scully’s leaving!” a girl shouts.
“He got expelled today,” someone else says.
So that’s it. Hayden lets out a cry and makes a run for the stairs, followed by a few other prefects. Everyone else stays looking out the window, muttering.
“I knew that would happen,” my next-door neighbor says.
“About time,” says someone else.
While Hayden sails out the front door, I take the side stairs and run out the heavy back one that nobody uses. It dumps me onto the tiny rear path, overgrown by bushes and small trees. Everything is alive and green, thanks to all the sun and rain we’ve been getting the last few weeks.
I can see Hayden and her posse through the trees, lining up to say goodbye to King Scully. I slide between a tree and a lamppost to get a good view, my shirt catching on the tree bark. I hear it tear but don’t bother to check out the damage.
Scully’s leaving Thomas House, wheeling a suitcase. His dad and Cal walk alongside him, carrying more luggage, heading out to the curb where their enormous, pearly-white Escalade is parked.
Other people have lined up, too—but not everyone seems sad to see Scully go. They look varying shades of disinterested, like his exit is just another spectacle to observe.
Scully exchanges promises to hang out over the summer with Hayden’s small group of loyalists. Hayden herself is openly crying. God, I can’t stand seeing her. After everything she’s done, and she has the nerve to cry?
I can’t let it end like this. I can’t give her the last word.
I want to see Scully’s face now that he’s lost.
I walk out from the trees onto the sidewalk—right in front of everyone. I find myself standing directly between Scully and the parking lot.
Cal goes around me, as if I’m not there. Mike shakes his head and scowls as he waits for his son. No way he’s letting us speak without being in earshot.
But Scully stops in front of me, letting his suitcase stand up.
“If you think this is over, you’re wrong,” he says. “You’re a little liar, and someday, someone’s going to find you out.”
“Scully,” calls Mike, “don’t bother. Don’t give her anything to use against you.”
“Whatever,” Scully says, grabbing his suitcase again and barreling past me. “You were always pathetic, Sam. I can’t believe I ever felt bad for you.”
He’s rattled. That unflappable, cool mask he wears is cracked, falling off.
I don’t need to say anything. He’s the one being expelled from school. The bright, white edge of the clock tower glints in the late afternoon sun as Scully and his dad climb into their SUV and drive away.
People are staring at me, but I’m used to it now. Since I’m already out, I think I’ll go for a walk in the graveyard.
Chapter Twenty-Three
HARPER
It’s back to Pennsylvania again the next day. The drive has become as familiar to Harper as her commute to work in the morning.
Anastasia’s planning to call Waldo, and she doesn’t want to miss what he has to say. But when she gets to court, Sam’s not here. How could she miss this?
On the stand, Waldo acts like he’s about to get on stage for his solo show. He settles into the witness chair, testing the arm rests, wiggling the microphone around so that it sits perfectly at mouth level. He leans in and says, “Test? Test?”
“Everyone can hear you,” the judge says, letting out a sigh.
“Waldo, can you tell me how you know Scully?” Anastasia asks.
Waldo leans back in his chair and explains all about Ron, Mike, and Provost Portsmouth going to Edwards together in high school. Partway through, he stops and says, “By the way, Mr. Judge, as Scully’s childhood BFF, he doesn’t really wear glasses. Those are fake. He’s dressing up for you.”
Harper covers her mouth. Waldo has no fear—or sense of decorum.
“Please address me,” Anastasia says. “Are you and Mr. Chapman still friends?”
Waldo scoffs. He repeats the line he gave Harper: “I’m not friends with rapists.”
“Why do you say that?” Anastasia asks.
“He’s told me many times about his ‘conquests.’ Nonconsensual conquests—I’d like to make that clear, for the r
ecord?” He glances at the court reporter, who gives him a confused look back. “He does it to piss me off. All the upperclassmen at Edwards know that Scully loves to screw Firstie girls. It’s a joke, like, What fresh meat do you think he’s going to take home after tomorrow’s game?”
“Other people know about this?”
“Sure. Just like everyone knows about that body survey. That’s where you find the girls with really shit self-esteem, the new ones who want to fit in. And the best way to do that is to sleep with the hot polo captain, am I right?”
Anastasia ignores the question. “Why didn’t you tell the administration about this practice?”
“Why would I? There will always be some provost’s favorite snooping around for prey. The school would find a way to make it disappear, like they do with everything else.”
She asks him how he knows Samantha, and Waldo rattles off every time he saw her with Scully. It’s a long list. He yawns then, and Harper cannot believe his gumption—to sit in front of all these people, in front of a judge, and yawn. Only a rich white kid could get away with that.
“It’s too bad more girls haven’t come forward,” he says. “I know there are more.”
And then it’s the defense’s turn. Turnquist smiles as he approaches the stand.
“Mr. Wilson,” he says, “you expressed in your deposition an interest in taking over your dad’s half of Blue Crescent, yes?”
Waldo gives the same story as before: He might be young, but he’s ready to step up. Except that the Chapmans seem set on pushing him and his dad out.
“Interesting,” says Turnquist. “If Scully is convicted, that would look bad for the Chapmans. You and Ron might get the whole company for yourselves.”
“There are plenty of criminals on Wall Street.” Waldo laughs in Turnquist’s face. “Having a rapist for a kid won’t make a difference. I just want Scully to pay for what he’s done—that’s all.”
“Why are you so intent on making him, quote, pay? Are you jealous that Mr. Chapman has an easier time with women?”
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