“I think maybe Erika is right. Maybe we should tell Ms. Jensen that something happened, that we don’t know what exactly, and then she can call Melanie into her office and talk about it. Melanie will be upset, but she maybe would thank you someday, Erika, for watching out for her.” Binky was agreeing with Erika, but she looked all twisted-up and uncertain, whereas Morris sounded sure of himself, and seemed angry.
“I think it was just a bad scene at that party, and we should let the two of them work it out and mind our own business, assuming that’s the dude in question,” Morris said. “Seriously.” He shook his head and turned his attention back to his game, seemingly setting the matter to rest, although he tapped his foot nervously, like he was still angry about the whole topic.
Erika stood up and began walking around Morris’s room, causing the birds to all chirp and flutter. She had her hair pulled back and wrapped up on top of her head, which made her feel even taller than usual. She looked out Morris’s window at the river. It had stopped raining and the sun played off the whitecaps. She wished she really believed in signs, like if the sun went back behind a cloud, emailing Ms. Jensen was a bad idea, and if the sun brightened again, it was the right thing. She wished there were always right answers, and signs out the window. She wished she knew what it meant that a girl had kissed her and she’d thought about it nearly a hundred times since—thought about kissing that girl back, and about the freckles on her nose. Did that mean she, Erika, was a lesbian? If she was one, what should she do about it? She wished she knew the answers to these questions, so she could stop thinking about them once and for all.
She was so good at arriving at right answers, but people had been telling her all her life that with some things, there were no absolutes. That’s what her fifth grade teacher, Elizabeth, had told her about reading, that what the author was saying was meant to be unclear sometimes, ambiguous. But it didn’t really matter in books if things were unclear. No one hated the author forever for leaving everything up in the air, or for keeping something shameful a secret.
Melanie had told Erika she’d kill her if she breathed a word of what happened at the party, and a part of Erika still believed her—not that she would kill her, but she would harm her in some way—seek revenge. But her initial panic of that day had subsided. Mel had refused to share a bed with her in Providence. She’d been standoffish to everyone on the visit, except maybe Eliza.
How could she, Erika, know the truth and do nothing? How could Gerald, who’d been hanging around with Melanie since third grade, hurt her and not pay for it? Maybe Melanie needed someone to help her, even if it made her angry. It was clear Melanie was confused. She needed someone other than Eliza to talk to. Someone who didn’t go writing on people’s heads. Someone who knew all about these things, and could explain them the right way—an adult, a counselor, someone who’d read books and had gotten degrees in things like psychology that explained people to themselves, and who knew what to do when things went wrong and how to make them right again.
“I don’t know, Morris,” Erika said. “You know that time you said I was ignorant because I’m white? I’m thinking maybe now you’re not getting this because you’re a guy. You keep defending him.” Erika was surprised by the sound of her own voice. She was calm, but when she spoke there was no concealing her anger. Morris straightened up, pushed his chair back from his desk, and let out a deep sigh. He looked at Erika gravely and shook his head.
“Girl,” he said, “you’ve known me a long, long time. Since grade school. Don’t you have any idea when I’m talking shit?”
Erika shook her head. “No,” she said. “I guess I don’t. So, what are you saying? White people aren’t really ignorant? Or guys aren’t?”
“What I’m saying is you and me both, Erika. We don’t know jack shit.”
16
Jan was without a boyfriend for the first time in three years. She had no obligation to anyone but herself. The Adam she loved—the calm boy who’d strolled around New York City holding her hand, the boy who never pushed her into sex, but waited, intensely, watchfully, until she was ready—that calm, sweet boy had been transformed into a self-absorbed college guy who was too neurotic to really care how she felt anymore. She couldn’t recreate the old Adam.
For the first time since middle school, Jan felt kind of boy crazy. One night at the Rock, she’d seen Roberto. At first, she hadn’t recognized him. He was with another guy, a short boy with blond hair. He’d said hello in the drafty glass entranceway, and asked her what her name was. He reintroduced himself, muttered something about knowing he knew her from somewhere, and then he’d walked away.
She knew almost nothing about Roberto, but every time he looked at her, every time she saw him somewhere unexpected, it made her day. Andy mocked her for not going up to him and starting a conversation. She couldn’t, though. She told herself it was too soon after Adam, but really she was too nervous.
Jan was so jumpy and pathetic these days whenever she went anywhere on campus, it was reassuring to be sitting in her dorm room reading and munching oven-baked vegan black-bean chips with Eliza, who, finally, had stopped wearing fishnets and put on an actual pair of pants—slouchy black pinstripe trousers with suspenders, but pants nonetheless. It was like after the high drama of the anti-frat slut walk, Eliza had mellowed out and put less energy into appearing radical. Jan was reading a novel for her Neglected Woman Novelists class, but Eliza kept interrupting.
“I can’t believe it’s fucking November,” Eliza said. “I mean, I have been here almost two months and I have been laid—do you want to know how many times I have been laid?”
Jan shook her head. She wasn’t sure what even counted with Eliza as “getting laid.” She was pretty sure she had been with both guys and girls at various different times, but it was hard to tell with Eliza. She always seemed to be doing something illicit—drugs, sex, over-the-top protests—but you never knew. The girl had actually been sitting in the room as long as she had—at least four hours—so maybe some of those nights when she disappeared to some girl’s or guy’s dorm room, they’d really only been hitting the books.
“Well, it’s freaking sad. Because the truth is zero. Zero fucking times laid since I have been here at Brown! I cannot believe myself.”
Jan looked up. “Really?”
“Yep. I know you always figured I was some slutty Montana bitch, but I have not taken my panties off except to pee since I got here. These Brown guys are all either predators or monks. There are all these hot guys, but they never leave the research stacks in the Rock and are probably jerking off in there because they’re scared to death of the sight of an actual vagina. This whole place is like divided in two—half are these monastic cells where people beat their hard-ons down with copies of the Oxford English Dictionary, and the other half are these dens of total iniquity where everyone is like a walking, talking boner. You can’t converse with a penis. It’s just impossible. It’s definitely getting on my nerves.”
Eliza paused, but Jan only shook her head, speechless as usual. She wondered where it was that Eliza actually hung out. It was like she occupied a parallel universe in which everyone was engaged in some sort of bizarre sex act.
“There was only this one time that was even slightly close, with this guy from Dialectics. Dark curly hair. Really pale skin. He wears tan cords practically every fucking day. It’s like a pants fetish. But he’s got amazing eyes. You know that green-blue color in the crayon box? With girly-long lashes. And just enough stubble so you know you’re not sucking face with a chick. He is so insanely attractive, I am completely willing to overlook the pants for his undying devotion, or at least a night’s devotion. An hour’s devotion. Fifteen ecstatic minutes, maybe. His name is Roberto. Wait—I think you met him? He’s kind of chubby? Well, I saw him at a party down near Wickenden and we were both wasted, and we ended up back at his room, totally in the moment. Heat of and shit. Getting almost beyond the point of no return.
“But t
hen I could tell he was hesitating, you know, not sure if I was okay with it. At least that’s what I was hoping, and not that he was totally repulsed by me or something. So I froze. Asking myself all kinds of questions. Getting all in my head. And, wanting-it-bad babe that I am, I could not think, in that critical moment, of the freaking word for yes. And then the moment was gone. Amazing, really, how small the moment can be. Now I can’t bring myself to ask the hottie for coffee even though I see him three friggin’ hours a week.” Eliza was lying on her bed with her feet resting against the dorm-room wall, scuffing the paint with her dirty socks.
Jan’s heart sank in her chest. A chip felt lodged in her throat. Why did it have to be Roberto? She shook her head, then forced a laugh. “That is a really sad story, Eliza.” She hesitated for a moment, torn between thinking it was fortunate for her Eliza hadn’t gone further with Roberto, and feeling selfish for thinking so. After all, she didn’t really know the guy. Jan’s crush was pure fantasy, while Eliza was confiding an actual experience. “You can’t ask him out for coffee? What’s with that?” she asked, recovering enough to appear sympathetic. Jan had been thinking almost obsessively about Roberto for the last week. But alas, Eliza was claiming him first.
“I dunno,” Eliza said. “I am completely insecure with guys I actually like. So that could be a small factor, my total inability to speak to him.”
“Well, then,” Jan asked, redirecting the conversation, “what about the Brown girls?” She’d always thought Eliza preferred girls, and now that she thought they might be in some direct competition, she hoped she was right.
“I got over that lesbo shit in high school—not that I care who wants to go all dykey here, but, I mean, there’s just no challenge there for me. You know, like the sight of a vagina does not excite me anymore. I guess it’s the kind of thing that matters when it’s your first? First joint, first fuck, first dildo—but, seriously? I cannot get it up for that shit.”
She wasn’t sure what she had done to prompt this confession from Eliza, but there it was. She laughed. It was entertaining to have Eliza for a roommate. It kept Jan from having to think too much about her actual problems, and now that Eliza was being so blatantly honest, Jan felt grateful for her company. The flicker of jealousy she’d felt was truly idiotic. Eliza was a real person in her life. Roberto was someone she was hot for for no real reason.
“So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Jan asked. “Are you going back to Montana or what?”
“Are you kidding? My parents would have to kill a hog to fly me home. I’ll probably have to pay my own way if I even go home in the summer, which I probably won’t. I want to get one of those internships in New York—at some magazine maybe.”
“I bet my mom could help you with that,” Jan said.
Suddenly, the idea of going home for Thanksgiving with only her mother and her bickering sisters seemed claustrophobic. Adam had always been around on holidays—and this year he wouldn’t be. Andy Berg had her own family to go to. And it didn’t seem like Dad was going to make it back from Hong Kong. Anyway, where would he be staying if he did? Dad had no current home in the city, in the country, even. She definitely needed some buffer between herself and her family. Suddenly, the idea of inviting Eliza to spend Thanksgiving with her and her mother and sisters in New York seemed like an excellent idea—they’d all need some comic relief, some distraction.
Then there was the issue of Melanie. Jan hadn’t had a chance to talk privately with Melanie during Family Weekend. She hadn’t been sure what to say to her. She only knew what Erika had told her, and Erika wasn’t exactly reliable. But maybe if she and Eliza were both there, Melanie would speak up? Melanie had seemed to like Eliza. If something really had happened to Melanie at that party, well, who better to have around than someone like Eliza—someone who actually had training at the Women’s Crisis Center? Someone who was a well-known campus feminist?
“So, Eliza, I was thinking about Thanksgiving. Maybe you want to come to our house? We could talk to my mom about that internship idea? She and Dad both know people at all kinds of magazines, not only fashion. We could hang with my sisters. Consume everything in sight?” Eliza had intimidated Jan for months. But now that Jan knew her, she appreciated her outgoingness. It was a wild ride hanging out with Eliza sometimes. But what else was college supposed to be?
Eliza gave Jan a surprisingly bright and girlish smile. “Dude. I have been waiting all my life for just such an invitation. New Yawk City,” she said, “is this cowgirl’s dream town. Maybe I’ll even teach you Russell gals a thing or two about roasting the Turducken.”
“Oh no, no, no,” Jan said, laughing. “You’re the guest. Mom’ll put you on pie duty.”
“That’s all right,” Eliza said. “I loves to gets my fingers in all sorts a pies.”
Jan laughed, even though she wasn’t sure exactly what Eliza meant by this. It sounded dirty, and Jan had a twinge of regret. Maybe her family wasn’t ready for a visit from Eliza. But it was too late. She’d already invited her. Eliza was practically beaming as she texted her mother to tell her the news. “My moms was feeling kinda guilty for not sending me a plane ticket. Now I can tell her she can rest easy. She doesn’t need to kill ol’ Betty Blue to finance my turkey day.”
17
Dear Ms. Jensen,
I am writing to ask for a meeting with you because there has been an incident involving an RD girl at a party. Please, can this be a completely confidential conversation? This incident involves drinking and a sexual encounter. Someone close to me needs help.
Sincerely,
Erika Russell
“Erika, why don’t you tell your mom what you told me on Tuesday?” Ms. Jensen tilted her head and looked expectantly at Erika. Ms. Jensen was perky, with her short blond curls and bright brown eyes—probably still only in her twenties. Erika had been having weekly counseling sessions with Ms. Jensen since the fall of her freshman year. Before that, she saw Mr. Katz, in the lower school. For as long as she’d been in school, she’d been pulled out of class once a week for a session with a guidance counselor. Sometimes, there were monthly meetings where kids with “low social cognition” met in groups and discussed various difficulties they had at school, and how they had dealt with them.
Now, Erika was in the awkward situation of having to explain to Mom about what she had said to Ms. Jensen. Ms. Jensen said in this case she had no choice, what Erika was describing could have been an assault—a crime—and the guidance counselor had a professional obligation to report it. She could be fired if she failed to at least discuss the matter with a parent.
“Well, it was at that party, at James Jamison’s on Halloween.” Erika looked at Ms. Jensen, and Ms. Jensen leaned forward slightly, staring at Erika with her wide, watery eyes. “Everything was fine with us—I mean with Binky and Morris and me. None of that old crowd that wasn’t nice to Binky from uptown was invited to the party. It was mostly really nice people. But, there was punch, and some people were smoking and I don’t know. Other stuff. Everyone had some punch. You couldn’t even taste the alcohol in it. It made it hard to concentrate. We were playing cards, and I stopped after only a couple sips, because it was poker, and I had to stay focused.” Erika stopped and looked from her mother to Ms. Jensen. Neither of them seemed particularly surprised by the fact that she was admitting to having tasted the punch. She’d felt guilty the couple of times she’d had more than a sip or two of Morris’s beer at a party. She knew her mom didn’t want her to drink. Girls like her, her mother had warned, could get themselves in trouble. She was too pretty, her mom had cautioned, and too “inexperienced.” Erika thought what her mom meant was that she was too stupid, too stupid when it came to things like boys and parties to complicate matters by drinking. She had been inclined to agree. The feeling of even a little alcohol made everything so confusing. It was confusing thinking back on that night at the party. Erika hadn’t been drunk—far from it. But still, there had been a pleasant, almost musical f
low to everything—until the moment she had opened the door to that room.
Ms. Jensen said nothing. She waited in that unnervingly patient way that therapists had. It reminded Erika of the way animals often froze when they heard a sound, staring at nothing, waiting for it to become something.
“Melanie was very drunk. We couldn’t find her. Then, when we did, it was, well, she was undressed. She was undressed but only the lower part of her.” Erika looked away.
She took a deep breath. There it was, the truth. Or at least, a part of the truth. You had to see a person like that—naked, unconscious, on a bear rug, in a strange house—for the feeling to descend like the worst sort of weather, like a tiny tornado in your brain. A black nothingness that sucked its own meaning right out of your head before you knew what to do. You could call it a name, though. Erika knew that now. That’s what the slut walk had been about. You called it by its name and the dark nothingness, the tornado, could be stopped.
“She was raped. Melanie was raped at James Jamison’s party.” Erika exhaled. She glanced at her mother. Her mother’s face was pale and still. Then her mother dropped her head and pressed her fingers into her forehead, as though rubbing away the words she had just heard.
“Did Melanie talk to you about what happened?” Ms. Jensen asked. “Did she say anything about a boy, about anything she remembered?”
“No. She really couldn’t speak at all that night, and then whenever I said anything to her—well, I only tried to say something once—she was really angry.”
“What did she do?” Julia asked.
“She said if I told anyone anything she’d kill me.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Julia said. “I guess she wouldn’t be worried about you saying anything if she wasn’t pretty sure something happened. She’s just trying to push whatever it was out of her mind, Erika. It’s not about you.”
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