Innocence

by Lucy St. John

Chapter 26

  One of us wasn’t paralyzed by word of the sexual attack on campus. Amanda Livingston became empowered.

  Within the text of that barebones digital report on her smartphone, Amanda had found her calling, her cause, her story. And right there at breakfast, she vowed to tell the story and uncover the truth about this and all the sexual assaults on campus. How the toxic mix of alcohol, testosterone and our sexually-charged culture combined to turn our leafy campus into a sexual assault free-fire zone.

  With her camera and her journalism, Amanda would tell the stories of the heretofore faceless victims. All those college coeds taken advantage of when the words “no” or “stop” just weren’t good enough for the college guys operating on alcohol, testosterone and a license to stick their dick in anything that moved. All the woman’s protestations to the contrary, be damned.

  Amanda would issue a clarion call for all those who suffered in silence to be silent no more. She would stand and speak for the sexual assault victims, whether it be date rape or a cold-blooded, anonymous attack.

  Who were these women behind the stories of campus rape? College women whose only crime had been walking along our small town’s seemingly safe streets or on the leafy sidewalks of Old State, itself. And then from the shadows comes a figure. A powerful hand clenched over a woman’s mouth. Leverage, strength and weight advantages render her powerless. But his sexual organ is the real bludgeon. A battering ram. It transforms the woman’s body into a vision of her attacker’s hate. And he desecrates, befouls and batters her as surely as if he had used a baseball bat.

  “By damned,” I’m doing it!” Amanda declared, our eyes lifting to hers.

  But where our faces still bore the shock of the sexual assault news, Amanda’s was clear, confident and full of purpose.

  “I’ll go down to the college newspaper and talk to the editor,” she said, thinking out loud.

  “And Vic -- I mean, Professor Connelly -- he can advise me on the images,” she raced. “The trick is going to be showing the injury – the physical and psychological scars of sexual assault -- without revealing the victims’ identity.”

  Amanda’s eyes wandered far away, attempting to glimpse the photojournalism that would strike the balance of putting a face on campus sexual assault without violating the privacy rights of victims. She nodded, seeing it, sensing the possibilities.

  “It can be done,” Amanda assured herself. “I’ll frame the women within the larger context of the attack.”

  Amanda’s eyes widened, as her visual, journalistic mind took the final leap.

  “It’s the campus,” she said, returning to the hushed dining hall and searching our faces for acknowledgement. “Don’t you see?” Her enlivened eyes seared into ours.

  “It’s us,” she continued. “All women. All female students. We’re the victims, too. The weapon is fear. It’s sexual subjugation. It’s physical dominance and submission. It’s male entitlement mentality. But above all, it is the thought, the insidious thought, that we – any one of us – could be next.”

  Amanda nodded in agreement with herself.

  “But it will be the victims and their own strength that will reclaim our campus for us,” she concluded. “The light of their stories and the illumination of their images captured on the very spot where their attacks took place amid our idyllic campus. These things, this bravery, will beat back the dark of the crimes against us all.”

  We were all silent then. None of us dared to speak, lest Amanda had more. No one wanted to interrupt her torrent of thought and her plan of action.

  Then, finally, Sonya, exhaled.

  “Jesus, Amanda,” she said in a whisper. “That’s brilliant. Fucking brilliant. I want in.”

  She stared up at our British friend. But before Amanda could answer, Lauren piped up.

  “I do, too,” she added. “I want to help.”

  “Me, too,” Chelsea chimed in. “Whatever I can do to take back our campus.” She nodded, looking around the table. “I’ll do it.”

  Finally, they turned to me. I stared back.

  I thought of my father, then. The police chief who had raised a cautious girl who knew how to keep herself safe. But on this, he would want me to go all in. To lead. And to make our college safe for all. For if one woman could be hurt here, it wasn’t safe for any of us.

  I nodded back.

  “This shit ends with us,” I said. “No more. Our bodies are our own. And no means no.”

  “Fuckin’ eh,” Sonya said, clapping my shoulder.

  In that moment, The Five had sworn a blood oath against sexual assault. But crime, hate and depravity aren’t halted by mere words. If only.

  None of us was prepared for what was coming.

  Nor, how close it would hit home.