by Emma Kress
“Here’s what we know. The school told the police that, at the start of the year, Dylan threatened Kups—”
“What!?” we shout, and all start talking at once.
Mr. Walker pats the air with his hands. “Okay, okay. One at a time. Tell me what happened.”
We tell him how Kups assaulted her, and she defended herself. How we did the right thing, and went to the dean, but she didn’t believe us—or care. Kups continued to harass her. He chased her with his truck onto sidewalks, forced her into ditches.
We don’t tell him about parkour. We don’t tell him about our evening activities. We don’t tell him about the guns.
His face is grave. “Girls, I can’t tell you how this breaks my heart—the way she was treated and the way you tried to support her. But I’m afraid this won’t help her case. It only makes it seem more likely that she’d want revenge.”
We did want revenge. And I wonder why the world lets that happen. Lets all the words and touches and abuse pile up on one another, pile up on us, until we can’t breathe and we have to push our way out, break our way free. Of course there’s an avalanche. Of course people get hurt.
“But why do they even think she did it?” Michaela asks. “What evidence do they have? Is there DNA?”
There isn’t enough air in my chest.
“Of course there’s no DNA!” Kiara glares at Michaela. “Why would there be any DNA?”
I count my breaths. In. Out. I see my bloody knee. In. Out. I feel the sweat on my skin in that hot, hot truck. In. Out. My DNA on a jagged branch. On Kups’s dirty truck floor.
Breathe. I am not suffocating.
“No one’s talking DNA.” Mr. Walker sighs. “But when the police followed up with Dylan’s foster parents, they told the officers that she’s often out at all hours of the night without explanation. And it doesn’t help that she’s been in trouble before. Nothing major, more wrong place wrong time. But her foster parents brought up her late nights and previous record.”
I think of my own mom, sucking up all my shittyness and never saying a word.
I don’t understand how the world gets away with being so unfair.
“But she was with us.” Bella’s voice is firm.
“Are you sure?” Mr. Walker asks. “Are you absolutely sure? Where were you that night?” He looks down at his notes. “It was just last Friday. What were you doing? Can you remember?”
We all remember.
I don’t look at Nikki across the circle. I don’t notice that her cheeks are an ugly pink—like someone hit her.
“Isn’t it enough that we were together?” Quinn asks. “We’ve been pretty much inseparable since tryouts.”
He shakes his head. “I’m afraid ‘pretty much inseparable’ doesn’t cut it.”
“Dad?” Kiara asks.
“Yes?”
“I think we’re too hungry to think. Would you and Mom order us some pizza? Please?”
He pats his knees and stands up. “Of course. You must be starved after that incredible game.” He walks to the door, then pauses. “You girls should be so proud of yourselves. You made it to States, after all.”
Proud is me and Dylan and everyone together on the mountaintop planting our flag, claiming our win, looking back over the steep upward climb that got us here. This isn’t proud.
Kiara tiptoes over to the door and closes it, sealing us off from the rest of the house.
“Michaela,” Kiara whispers, “what the hell was that about DNA?”
“I’m sorry.” Michaela runs her hands down her kilt. “It just came out.”
“Well, don’t let anything else ‘just come out,’ okay?”
“We should’ve told someone,” Sasha says. “We should’ve—”
“Then we’d all be in jail,” Bella says. “Or half of us would.” She eyeballs the ones who stayed away, the ones who knew better.
Sasha looks at the lucky five. “You were smart.”
Ava waves her hands. “It doesn’t matter. We stick together. Focus. We’ll all figure out how to get Dylan out of there. Sticks Chicks forever, right?”
Everyone nods, but we’re not in this together. Dylan’s in a hole. Nikki’s in a hole. I’m in a hole.
And those holes are drenched in our DNA.
THIRTY-NINE
EVERYONE “RECONSTRUCTS” THE NIGHT FOR Kiara’s dad. “We” didn’t go to the football game because we were playing Sparta in the Regionals that Saturday morning all the way in Cortland. Instead, “we” went to the fields behind the elementary playground to practice where nobody saw us. Then “we” went to the triplets’ house.
The “we” is a lie that churns and groans inside me while the others talk. It’s flimsy. The others had dates. They were home. They worked. It won’t stand up.
More important, I know they want to help and support Dylan, but this shouldn’t be on them. I remember Kiara’s words that night. It’s not just that she thought we were wrong. She said that as a Black person, she wouldn’t get a do-over. And maybe Dylan won’t and maybe I won’t either, but we were the ones who made that choice. Not her. Not the rest of them.
This is on me.
I look at Nikki. Her cheeks are flushed and she’s focused on her sneakers.
Please, please look at me.
Finally, she does.
After Mr. Walker leaves us with his arms full of lies, and the others claim their spots on the floor to sleep, Nikki and I put on our coats and boots and sneak out to the Walkers’ patio. Their pool is closed for the season, the green cover pulled taut. But two lone plastic lounge chairs remain. We cross to them in silence.
We use our sleeves to brush off the thin layer of snow. The plastic slats are cold through my sweats. I don’t lie down. I don’t think my body even knows how to rest anymore. I rub my fingers. There are holes in the pool cover.
I wonder what would happen if I turned myself in. Would they let Dylan go? Would they leave Nikki alone? Would I be able to breathe again?
Nikki takes her feet out of her boots. Dips them into the snow up and down, until her toes are shiny and red.
Do sixteen-year-olds go to jail? Or juvie?
I think of the UNC girls on my poster. Maybe I was never supposed to see their faces, never supposed to be in that huddle. Maybe I’m supposed to be happy with just having gotten this far. Maybe that’s what a better person would feel.
I think of my stick, my beautiful beat-up stick. If I turn myself in, I’ll never play another game again. Tonight was it. My stick will sit in the mudroom, get moved to the basement, maybe eventually get sold in some garage sale. My hands feel empty.
I wonder how often Dad would feel well enough to visit me in jail. I wonder if not paying for college would mean Mom could work less and take care of him more.
There are holes in the pool cover. What good is a cover with holes?
Tears burn the edges of my eyes. All this time I was disappointing my parents and I had no idea. This time, I know I’d be disappointing them. And it would be worse than ever.
Nikki takes a small bit of snow and rolls it between her fingers, rolls it until it disappears.
I wonder if my existence will be that easy to erase.
At the beginning, I thought Dylan was the one who was going to bring the team down. But really, it was me.
I don’t want to be erasable.
Nikki lifts her legs and leans back against the chair. “You know, I was really looking forward to college. To getting the hell out of here.”
“Me too,” I say.
“I just want a good art program more than two hours away. And junior year in Italy. That’s what I really want. Or wanted.”
I look at her, this girl whose face I wouldn’t even have recognized before this season. Now, after everything, I know what she’s thinking.
The erasables are the ones who don’t speak up.
I lift my feet up and look at the stars, the November night air making me shiver.
“I’m goi
ng to turn myself in,” I finally say.
“Me too,” she says.
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll go to the police station in the morning. Before Mr. Walker.”
I look over at her. She looks back at me and reaches her hand between the chairs. I grab it and squeeze.
“So weird,” she says. “That we ended up here.”
“I know,” I say.
“I thought we were going to change everything.”
“Me too,” I say.
We let our hands go and I pull my coat tighter and realize that even though it’s November and nighttime and there’s snow on the ground, it’s not actually as cold as I thought.
“I regret a lot of things,” I say, “but not becoming friends with you.”
“Absofockinglutely,” she says.
* * *
I wake to the quiet alarm I set for 7:15 a.m. It takes me a second … then I remember.
Nikki’s curled beside me. I shake her shoulder. “Nikki,” I whisper. “Wake up.”
She turns over and squints at me. Her face tightens, then falls, and I know she’s remembering all that we have to do this morning.
We stand and my muscles pop and creak courtesy of last night’s tough game and sleeping arrangements. But it doesn’t matter. I won’t play tonight. Or ever again.
Silently we gather our things, careful not to wake the others. When we sneak through the house to leave, we find Mrs. Walker in the kitchen, sipping coffee.
“Good morning,” she whispers. “You girls are up early. Mr. Walker made coffee before he left so—”
“Mr. Walker left? To see Dylan?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, putting her mug down. “Is something wr—”
“We’re just going to run out real quick,” Nikki says. “Will you tell the girls we’ll talk to them later?”
“Of course. But—”
“We have to go,” I say. “Thanks for everything, Mrs. Walker.”
* * *
The police station is an unassuming one-level building that looks more like a mom-and-pop restaurant than a place to store criminals.
We get out of the car and walk, our feet slow. With every step, I’m picking each foot up out of the deep, dark hole, hefting myself up, and doing it all over again with the next foot.
I am doing the right thing.
But as I look around the lot, I imagine what it would be like if Reilly and Jamison and even Kups were here too, to turn themselves in. Just because I’m not the right person to enact justice doesn’t mean it shouldn’t get enacted.
The windowed door reads VILLAGE OF NORTHRIDGE POLICE DEPARTMENT.
We push open the door.
I am doing the right thing.
FORTY
WE NEARLY SMACK RIGHT INTO Mr. Walker and Dylan.
“Girls!” Mr. Walker says. “What are you doing here?”
“We—I—” I look back at Nikki. I look at Dylan, whose eyes grow watery. “We wanted to be with Dylan.”
Which is exactly, entirely true.
Mr. Walker holds the door and waves us back outside. “Well, now you can. Outside.”
“But—”
He pushes us out the door. “I never like to linger too long after I’ve won. You never want to give the other side time to change their minds.”
“Change their minds?” Nikki repeats.
Mr. Walker smiles, and it is so Kiara’s smile. “They didn’t have a shred of evidence. And even this Lance Kupperton boy says it couldn’t have been Dylan. He says they were definitely big guys.” He leans in. “If you ask me, the Kuppertons wanted someone to blame and saw poor Dylan as an easy target.” He wraps his arm around her. “But that stops today, right, Dyl?”
She’s stiff for a minute, then leans into the hug. “Yeah. I guess it does.”
“In some ways, this was a blessing. It sped everything up.”
The door opens and out steps a woman with salt-and-pepper hair. She comes over and squeezes Mr. Walker’s arm.
“Jesse,” she says, “we did good.”
“Yes. We. Did.” He stretches each word out with a grin.
Dylan blushes.
“Now,” the woman says, looking at Dylan, who has her eyes trained on our feet. “You need to stay out of trouble. There’s only so much magic your fairy godmother and”—she looks at Mr. Walker—“your fairy godfather’s got.”
“Yes, Mrs. Malone,” says Dylan. She looks up. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Malone smiles crooked like she’s trying to plug up the tears. And Mr. Walker does too.
I look at Nikki. What in the actual fock is happening?
Mr. Walker laughs. “I’ll let you fill in your friends. Do you want to catch a ride with them or come home with me?”
“I’ll…” She looks at us. “Can you guys drive me back?”
“Of course,” Nikki says.
“Right.” Dylan turns to Mr. Walker. “After we talk, I’ll come … home.”
Mr. Walker stands a little taller. He sucks in his lips like he’s trying not to cry. “It’s good to hear you say it.” He exhales a quick breath. “Now. Don’t forget we’re going to have a celebration dinner tonight, right? Early before the game. Home by three?”
“See you then.”
Mr. Walker throws out his arms wide like he’s going to give her a big hug and they do this awkward dance and finally he just pats her on the shoulders.
“Right,” he says, and walks toward his car.
“Thank you!” Dylan calls after him.
“What the—” and “What’s happ—” Nikki and I both start but Dylan shushes us.
“Please, let’s get the hell out of here,” Dylan says. “I’ll explain everything.”
* * *
The three of us take our cones and sit at the picnic table at the shuttered Scoop Dreams. Yesterday’s snow didn’t stick, but the tabletop is cold, the 9 a.m. sun barely having had time to warm anything. The shack closed for the season a few weeks back, but Uncle Bob’s waiting until I’m done with fockey to help him move all the remaining tubs of ice cream into the megafreezer at his house. I fix Dylan her s’mores and Nikki her PB and caramel. I get cookie dough. The whole time I’m scooping, I’m thinking of what Dylan told us in the car: She’s getting adopted by the Walkers.
Apparently, the Walkers filed the paperwork months ago, but it takes a long time for the officials to do all the background checks and process the paperwork. Dylan never even believed it would happen. Mrs. Malone, her caseworker, and Mr. Walker were able to argue that the way Dylan’s foster parents offered her up to the police with no evidence not only revealed their bias but also demonstrated that their home was unfit and unsafe—not just for Dylan, but for future foster kids. So even though the adoption isn’t finalized, the Walkers got permission to become Dylan’s new foster parents in the meantime.
Dylan looks at her cone when I hand it to her. “It is hella weird that I’m eating ice cream for breakfast before moving to my dream home, when yesterday I was in jail and thought my life was over.”
“Beyond,” says Nikki.
“So,” Dylan asks, “what was your plan when you showed up?”
I look at Nikki. She shrugs. “We were going to tell Mr. Walker that it was Nikki and me.”
Dylan drops her hand, the scoop tilting dangerously sideways.
“Careful!” I reach out and right the cone.
She grabs my hand. Nikki puts hers on top of ours. And we just sit there for a minute, hands stacked.
A bit of ice cream melts onto my hand and I lick it.
Dylan lets out a burst of a laugh. “Way to break the mood, Cap.”
“It’s Big Bob’s ice cream. It’s here for every mood.”
“Thank you,” Dylan says, her voice fuller than I’ve ever heard it.
“Thank you, too,” I say.
“Is it weird that I feel a little deflated?” Nikki asks. “Like, Zoe and I were gearing up all night to turn ourselves in, to face the consequences. A
nd it feels off somehow that we’re sitting here eating ice cream.”
I nod. “Same.”
“I don’t,” says Dylan. “One night was enough to teach me my lesson. You heard Mrs. Malone. I am not messing up my shot with the Walkers by getting into more trouble.”
“It’s not about never doing it again,” I say. “It’s that I feel … guilty.”
“Maybe that’s our punishment,” Nikki says, looking at the road. “The guilt we don’t get to ditch.”
We’re quiet a moment, eating our ice cream, watching the traffic come and go at the intersection.
Nikki’s phone vibrates. She looks at it. “Are we sure about turning over a new leaf?” she asks sarcastically. “Reilly’s hosting a Day Drink Olympics this afternoon.”
“Of course he is,” I say.
Dylan shakes her head. “I know what we did was wrong, but it sucks to just sit here knowing they’re gonna fuck up and hurt someone else. Because they will.”
“They will,” Nikki says.
“I’m sure they don’t feel any guilt at all.” I wipe my hands with the napkin and ball it up. If I thought they did feel guilty, or even could feel guilt, it would be so much easier to let my anger go. “I still think we were right.” I sigh. “I mean, not the way we did it. We messed up. Big. But our intentions were good. We wanted to change things for other girls.”
“But we didn’t,” Nikki says.
“No,” I say. “We didn’t.” I hold up my phone. “I’m sure in a few hours there will be photographic evidence of all the awful ways nothing’s changed thanks to the Date Rape Olympics.”
Nikki groans. “That would be funny if it weren’t true.”
“I just wish we’d won,” Dylan says.
“Me too,” I say. But then that doesn’t sit right either. “The thing is, the whole time, I was keeping score. Clocking wins. But if I think about it, we were playing their game with their refs. I thought we were inventing something new. But we were just new players on their field.”
“That’s Grand Canyon deep,” Dylan says.