“I am going to do you a great favor, Miss Rivers,” he said. “The Lang family has been an integral part of the Albemarle community for many years, and Frank Middleton is an active and generous alumnus of this institution. I have no wish to inconvenience them with your wild allegations, which I am assured by Mrs. Lang are baseless. I realize that attending Albemarle is a challenge for you, and while you have risen to face it in the past, that is no guarantee you will continue to do so in the future. This goes no further, but I have my eye on you, Miss Rivers.”
Abby couldn’t get enough air. She was stupid to think that she was smarter than Mrs. Lang. Of course she had called the school. Abby wanted to go back and start over, to do this differently, but it was too late. She had blown her chance.
“Get to class,” Major said. “I will not be writing you a late slip, and let us consider that your reprimand. Reflect on how you have repaid Miss Lang’s friendship. Faith and Honor, Miss Rivers. Do you have them?”
For the rest of the morning, Abby was wrapped in cotton, floating through her classes in a daze. Mrs. Erskine called on her and she didn’t know who wrote Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God. In Biology, Mrs. Paul passed out permission slips for the upcoming tour of the medical university’s gross anatomy lab. She took one but didn’t hear a word about what they’d be seeing.
At lunch, she sat on the Lawn with Margaret and Glee out of habit and listened to Wallace Stoney go on about how he had ditched his band the Dukes of Neon (now on their third name change) and how they would never go anywhere without him because he was the glue that held them together. Then he segued seamlessly into a monologue about the gross anatomy field trip, which was a rite of passage for every tenth-grade class.
“It’s rad,” he said. “I wrote a song about it.”
“Is it really full of cadavers?” Glee asked.
“Dude,” he said, “it was gnarly. There’s all this nasty stuff like glass jars with two-headed babies in them, and there was even a pecker in a jar and the water was all green. It looked like pecker-flavored wine cooler.”
“Foul,” Glee said.
“Shut up,” Margaret said, “or I’ll never be able to drink wine coolers again.”
“Aw, sugarbear,” Wallace said, “the green stuff’s nasty. The red stuff is what’s righteous. You can drink ten bottles of that shit and never barf.”
Abby robotically ate her carrot sticks and drank her Snapple. Everyone felt very, very far away. She didn’t come to herself again until she was pulling out of the parking lot after school and found that she was turning left at the stoplight on Folly Road instead of right, headed toward Wadmalaw. She was driven by a powerful conviction: if the Langs didn’t believe her about Gretchen’s rape, if Major didn’t believe her about Gretchen’s rape, she’d make them believe. If something had happened to Gretchen, there might still be evidence at Margaret’s, at that blockhouse buried in the woods.
But forty-five minutes and a quarter tank of gas later, as she stood in front of that rancid outbuilding, Abby saw that it contained nothing but the same stupid garbage—a water-swollen copy of Oui, a charred pair of men’s tightie whities, a pile of Bartles and Jaymes Premium Blush empty bottles. It was covered with the same stupid graffiti—“Eat Fuk Preps” and “Dukes uf Neon world sexxx tour 88.” It was a waste of time.
She walked around the building again. One second she was crawling over the broken slabs of tabby, staring at the graffiti, trying to find a clue like they always did on TV but realizing that she had nothing, and the next second she knew.
Dukes uf Neon. That was the name of Wallace’s band, or it used to be, before they changed it for the third time. He’d just said so on the Lawn. All these empty bottles of Bartles and Jaymes (The Charleston Police Department calls it rape juice). In Abby’s imagination, a picture began to form: Wallace coming to visit Margaret, waiting in the woods, hiding in the blockhouse until she could sneak away from her friends. And instead finding Gretchen in the darkness, lost, afraid, naked.
Wallace Stoney.
“I wouldn’t,” a man’s voice said.
Abby jumped. Standing behind her was a big guy, cigarette burning in one hand, belly hanging out beneath a stained Polo shirt, wearing M. Dumas khakis frayed at the cuffs. His unbrushed blond hair stuck up, his nose was crooked, and his eyes were dull. Riley Middleton.
“I’m a friend of Margaret’s,” Abby said. She didn’t know what drugs he might be on. Then she wanted to laugh. The Langs thought she was some bigtime drug dealer, and here she was, scared of the real thing.
“I know,” he said. “You’re Glee.”
“Abby,” she said. “Glee’s our other friend. What wouldn’t you do?”
He took a step toward her and Abby stepped back. He had drugged girls. He had done things to them in the back of his car and no one knew she was out here. Riley stopped and took a showy drag off his cigarette.
“I wouldn’t go in there,” he said, exhaling a thick blue cloud of smoke. “If I were you.”
Abby tried to glimpse the Bunny through the woods and realized that all she could see was more trees. All she could hear was the sound of frogs. She was alone with Riley. A plug opened behind her belly button and her courage drained away.
“Why not?” she asked, playing for time, trying to keep him talking, looking for an opening.
“Heavy shit went down here,” he said. “Devil worship, slave torture, murder.” He paused and smiled. “Rape.”
Abby took another step backward and stumbled over a chunk of tabby. She could hear the telephone junction box humming in the silence, she could feel it hissing through the ground. Riley smiled again.
“You’ve got a nice body,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Thanks,” she said automatically. She wanted to run, but Gretchen needed her. She packed her panic down tight. “Riley,” she said, “do you know if anyone was out here on Labor Day weekend? Like any guys partying in the woods?”
“Probably,” he said. “Why don’t you ask Margaret?”
“I should do that,” she said. Then, before he could react. “My mom’s waiting for me. Bye.”
She was moving before “bye” had even left her lips, walking as fast as she could, away from the buzzing junction box, away from Riley, around tree trunks and bushes and tangles of undergrowth. She started running when she emerged from the woods and saw the Dust Bunny. She fumbled for her keys, slid in, locked the doors, and slammed into gear, pushing the petal to the floor, flying for Red Top.
When she got home it was almost eight. Abby closed her bedroom door and jammed her pink blanket against the crack at the bottom to keep the sound from leaking out. The last thing she wanted was her mom to hear anything she was about to say. Then she called Glee. It was impossible for her brain to make small talk, so she started in right off the bat.
“Do you remember the night with the acid? When Gretchen got lost?” she asked. “Do you think Wallace was there?”
“Why?” Glee asked.
“Because I need to know,” Abby said. “Do you think it’s possible he was out in the woods?”
“How should I know?” Glee asked.
“Glee,” Abby said. “I have to tell you something and you have to promise not to tell anyone, especially not Margaret. Do you promise?”
“Totally,” Glee said, and Abby could hear the excitement in her voice.
“A boy jumped Gretchen,” Abby said. “Like, he raped her. When we were out at Margaret’s. When Gretchen was lost in the woods.”
A long silence followed.
“And I think it was Wallace,” Abby said.
A shorter silence and then Glee said, “Let me call you right back. My sister’s home.”
Five minutes later Mickey Mouse chirped “I’m Mickey!” Abby snatched the receiver out of his hand.
“What took you so long?” sh
e asked.
“Sorry,” Glee said. “My sister was being a total pig. Can you hear me okay? What were you saying about Wallace?”
Abby told Glee everything. She told her about Gretchen’s confession, Gretchen’s parents freaking out, driving to Wadmalaw when Margaret wasn’t there and finding the wine cooler bottles and the Dukes of Neon graffiti. It was a relief to get it all out, and Glee was a good listener. If Abby hadn’t been able to hear her breathing, she would have assumed Glee had hung up; she was so quiet, but that was Glee. Whenever you had a problem, you could count on her to focus.
Finally, Abby finished. Neither of them said anything for a minute.
“This is why she said those things about Wallace?” Glee asked.
“It’s what happens, right?” Abby said. “You have someone do that to you, and then you kind of go crazy. She’s not thinking right, Glee.”
“But do you really think Wallace did it?” Glee asked. “He told Margaret he’d never cheat on her.”
“I know,” Abby said. “But boys lie all the time. If Margaret believes Wallace, then she’s super naive. Wallace brags about other girls all the time.”
“That’s not nice,” Glee said.
“But he does,” Abby said. “You’ve heard him.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Glee said, and that’s when Abby should have known something was wrong.
“What are you going to do?” Glee continued.
“I have to tell someone,” Abby said. “I thought I’d start with Wallace. See if he admits it. If not, I’ll go to the police. And if they won’t listen to me, I’ll tell everyone at school.”
“What about Margaret?” Glee asked.
“I don’t know,” Abby said. “That’s the tricky part. Maybe I should tell her first?”
“No,” Margaret said. “I don’t think you should tell Margaret first.”
Abby almost dropped the phone. Her stomach and head hollowed out and her hands turned numb. Glee had her on three-way calling.
“Don’t you ever come near us again!” Margaret screamed. “You’re jealous of Wallace, and you want to fuck up everything that’s good in my life!”
Abby was trying to talk at the same time.
“Margaret!” she was yelling. “Margaret! Margaret! Margaret! You have to understand—”
“I don’t have to understand shit, you slut!”
“You have to talk to Gretchen!”
“Fuck you!” Margaret snarled, and then she was screaming directly into the mouthpiece; her voice was louder than Abby’s, blowing out the earpiece speaker. “Stay away from us! Stay the fuck away from us or I will fuck you up! You want to be pals with Gretchen—fine! You tell her your sick little lies. But if you look at us, if you talk to us, if you say anything to anyone near us, I will get my dad to sue the shit out of you!”
Margaret’s line went dead. Abby sat there, her ear ringing, and then realized that Glee was still on the line.
“Glee . . .” she said.
“You’re evil,” Glee said.
And hung up.
Total Eclipse of the Heart
Spirit Week was the school’s annual festival of misrule.
Faculty hated it because they got through less material in class, the administration hated it because handbook violations increased, parents hated it because it threw carpool schedules out of whack—but Spirit Week was impossible to stop. It was Christmas in October. It was the carnival of chaos.
It was the worst week of Abby’s life.
Monday was Twins Day. Last year, Abby and Gretchen showed up in matching outfits. This year Glee and Margaret were dressed alike and they refused to speak to Abby when she tried to apologize. Gretchen didn’t show up at all.
Tuesday was Dress-Down Day, when everyone wore jeans and attended the Battle of the Bands at lunch. Last year, Abby and Gretchen had sat on the Lawn and watched Parish Helms play, bending over his bass, the sun burning his blond hair white. This year, Gretchen wasn’t in school and Abby was wandering through the auditorium garden, looking for a place to have lunch, when a carton of milk exploded on the sidewalk at her feet. She looked up. Standing in front of her was Wallace Stoney, wearing his football jersey, face blank, breathing hard through his nose.
“You want to get stomped?” Wallace asked.
Abby looked around to see if anyone was nearby, but everyone was on the other side of the Lawn watching a Wallace-less Dukes of Neon play “Brown-Eyed Girl.” She looked back at Wallace. His pupils were pinpricks, his nostrils were flaring.
She tried to walk around him. Wallace blocked her way.
“You think I would piss on Gretchen Lang if she was on fire?” he asked. “You think I’d stick my dick in that cooze if she begged me?”
Abby held very, very still. When she spoke, she chose her words carefully.
“I don’t think anything, Wallace,” she said, making sure to keep her eyes down.
Because she wasn’t watching, she didn’t see his hand swing until it was too late. He didn’t hit her hard, but it took her by surprise and she stumbled to one side, dropping her books.
“No one spreads lies about me, bitch,” he said, stepping up close.
Abby flinched and Wallace smiled, then he shoulder-checked her and walked away.
Abby needed to speak to Gretchen so bad. It wasn’t just Wallace, it was everything. All the pent-up things she had to say clouded her brain, made her drunk, slowed her thinking, thickened her tongue. She said them to herself when she drove home from school, she tried to write them down, she told them to Geoffrey the Giraffe. Finally her fingers picked up the phone and dialed Gretchen’s number by themselves.
“Hello?” Mr. Lang said. “Hello?”
Abby slammed down the receiver. It buzzed beneath her hand.
“Hi, I’m Mickey!” the phone said. “Hi, I’m Mickey!”
Slowly, Abby lifted the receiver.
“Abby,” Mr. Lang said, “if you call our house one more time, I’m telephoning the police. You are not wanted here.”
That night, she snuck out her window and drove to the Old Village and parked at Alhambra Hall. She walked the block down Middle Street to Pierates Cruze, and in the darkness she stood beneath Gretchen’s bedroom window and threw rocks at the glass. They were tiny, but the sound echoed around the block.
“Gretchen!” Abby hissed. “Gretchen!”
When she finally gave up and turned to go, something swooped down out of the darkness. Abby threw herself to the ground, skinning her palms on the dirt road, barely holding back a scream. Looking up, she saw a great horned owl glaring at her from the branch of a live oak across the street. Abby picked herself up and got the hell out of there.
Wednesday was Nerd Day, when everyone pulled their pants up high, wore rainbow suspenders, and buttoned their top buttons. Everyone except Abby. She just kept her head down.
Thursday was Slave Day.
Five years later, Slave Day was gone as if it had never existed, but in 1988 no one dreamed that it could possibly be offensive. It was a tradition.
A clot of students was clustered around the front office window, where the Slave Market was posted. It was a giant piece of white butcher’s paper, and the idea was that students could buy a slave for a set price. If the slave didn’t beat the bid by one dollar, then they were “owned” by their master, who would make them do whatever she wanted during the lunchtime Slave Parade. The master might make the slave wear an ugly sweatshirt, or if she was feeling really evil, the slave would have to wear her bra on the outside of her clothes. Some guys would make a girl wear a leash and walk the Lawn on all fours like a dog. All the money raised went to the Alumni Fund, so that made it okay.
Miss Toné was out front with a marker writing down names of slaves and owners. Abby gave the list a glance and then froze. It was right there in Miss Toné’s
rushed block letters.
owner: Gretchen Lang
slave: Abigail Rivers
Gretchen was at school. She had to be to participate. It used to be that Abby always knew where Gretchen was and vice versa. They had memorized each other’s class schedules; they each knew which bathroom the other preferred, which hidey-holes they’d retreat to when stressed (Abby: behind the chapel; Gretchen: rear carrel at the library). They planned what they were doing the next day on the phone every night. But all that was gone now. Mrs. Lang had insisted that Abby’s class schedule be swapped so that she and Gretchen didn’t share any classes, and Gretchen no longer talked to Abby on the phone. The part of her brain that kept track of Gretchen was broken.
But now she knew. Gretchen was here and all Abby had to do was find her.
“Hey, slave,” Gretchen said.
Abby spun around. Gretchen was standing right behind her wearing the same sweat-stained clothes, her hair all wire bristle, her face a greasy mess, stinking of perfume.
“Where have you been?” Abby asked. “Are you okay?”
Gretchen giggled to herself.
“A slave doesn’t get to ask questions,” she said.
“Screw that,” Abby said. “I’m really worried. No one—”
Gretchen put a filthy finger to Abby’s lips, and Abby was torn between pulling away and being comforted that Gretchen was touching her again.
“Let’s talk in the bathroom,” Gretchen said. “Come on.”
She turned and headed down the breezeway, and Abby followed as fast as she could. Gretchen preferred the bathroom in the fine arts building. Abby figured they had just enough time to get there and back before the first bell. She wasn’t worried about being Gretchen’s slave. They were friends. Gretchen wouldn’t make her do anything bad.
“Wipe off your makeup,” Gretchen said.
Abby kept smiling like an idiot, her back against the bathroom door. Gretchen was standing by the sink, her face so pasty it matched the tile walls behind her. The cold room reeked of United Colors of Benetton.
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