So, when Deputy Jennings marches down the hall with Principal Hargrove, it isn’t odd that he nods in recognition and says, “Kate,” before rounding the corner to the cafeteria. You “know” him. It’s only odd that he’s here in your school, in the middle of the day, wearing a gun, followed by his partner, an African American man whom, incidentally, you also “know.” Not his name, actually, but his second-grade son, Frank, who attended the soccer camp you and your friends helped run last July to earn money for the new uniforms you’ll be wearing this season.
So, here are all these people that you “know” without really knowing, but you are familiar with them—only not here. Not in this context. Not with their clenched jaws and their gleaming badges and their guns.
The last thing you see as they round the corner under the senior stairwell is Deputy Jennings reach back to tap at the handcuffs tucked into a little holder strapped to his belt. It’s a gesture that seems to reassure him he’s got everything he needs, like he’s mentally ticking the checklist in his head, getting prepared for whatever happens next.
That’s when you feel the hand of the guy you were kissing moments ago sliding into yours, and without a word, you follow the police and the principal into the cafeteria.
“John Doone?”
Dooney looks up when Deputy Jennings says his name and does the exact opposite of what I would do in that same situation.
He smiles.
This is a shit-eating grin. A cold-as-ice, what-you-gonna-do-about-it type of grin. He leans back in his seat and folds his arms, then flips up his chin in acknowledgment.
“Hey, Barry.”
“Gonna need you to come with us, son.”
Mr. Jennings’s partner steps up to the table. I am close enough now to read that his badge says TRUMBLE. “You, too, Deacon. Also, Greg Watts?” He scans the table. Greg glances at Dooney, then Deacon. Neither one of them meets his eyes, but it’s enough for Officer Trumble to ID him. “And Randy Coontz?”
Randy looks like he might throw up when they say his name. He raises his hand slowly. “Here, sir.”
Deputy Jennings takes a step back from the table indicating they should all get up.
“Dad?” Wyatt has appeared next to us, at his father’s elbow. He looks panicked. “Dad, what’s going on?”
Jennings doesn’t hear Wyatt, or ignores him. He waves his hand in a tight circle, index finger out: Wrap it up. “Bring your things, fellas. Follow me.” Greg and Randy slowly scoot their chairs back and begin to rise. Trumble places his hand on Deacon’s shoulder.
“Aw, c’mon, Dippity-do!” Dooney shouts at Deputy Jennings. Whatever noise is still echoing off lunch trays dies instantly. Those who didn’t see the police upon entry certainly register their presence now, stretching and craning for a glimpse.
It’s so quiet I can hear the rattle of pans being washed in the dish room behind the kitchen. The smell of spaghetti wafts up in all directions, but there is no air to breathe. All eyes are here. All ears are pricked up. Nobody moves—even to lift a fork. The entire room seems ready to implode as Deputy Jennings places both hands on the table and leans across to level his gaze at Dooney.
“We can do this right here in front of everybody, or we can do it in the office. You have three seconds to choose.” His voice is low and calm. There is power in his words. I see Dooney’s jaw twitch as he grits his teeth in defiance.
A tiny seismic shift.
Deacon moves first, standing slowly.
“Don’t, man,” Dooney warns him.
Deacon shakes his head and runs a hand across his close-cropped fade. He glances down at Trumble—nearly a foot shorter now that Deacon is standing. “Where to?” he asks.
The officer steers Deacon toward the door by the elbow, jerking his head at Greg and Randy, who follow, leaving behind the remains of their lunches.
“Either you’re walking or I’m dragging.” Jennings’s eyes don’t leave Dooney’s for a moment. Dooney stares back without a word, but slowly folds his arms across his chest.
Deputy Jennings walks around the table and jerks Dooney’s chair, grabbing the back of his shirt and hauling him forward, scattering lunch trays as one hand reaches for the cuffs on his belt.
“John Doone, you are under arrest for the sexual assault of a minor and dissemination of child pornography.” Right arm back. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney.” Left arm back. “If you cannot afford an attorney one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”
Jennings snaps the cuffs.
“My dad’s gonna have your badge,” Dooney growls, eyes blazing.
The deputy pulls Dooney up and pushes him toward the door. “After today? He’s welcome to it.”
Dooney’s walk between the rows of tables seems endless. Principal Hargrove turns on the top step as Jennings wrestles Dooney into the hall. He stops near the salad bar and raises his hands as if to call for silence, only there is no sound. Even the dishwasher has somehow gone quiet. “We’ll have an assembly. Seventh period. Get to class.”
He turns to leave, but I do not see him go. All I see is an ocean in Iowa. A sea of screens. Camera phones—at least one at every table—recording each moment, with a silent, watchful eye that will never forget.
As the principal disappears down the hall, the held breath of five hundred students is released in a single question:
What the hell just happened?
Ben stares at the door where Dooney was hauled away in handcuffs. His jaw is slack. Rachel, Lindsey, and Christy descend on us. Each shouts three questions at once. Now Will is here, too, pulling on my sleeve, asking what I know, asking what Ben knows. In unison, they all aim their questions at him:
Do you know do you know do you know?
“Do I know what?”
Ben sinks into a chair at the corner of an empty table, stunned. A migration is occurring into the hallway, and beyond. I sit down next to him. My hand finds his shoulder. At my touch, his face snaps toward me, as if he’s forgotten I am here.
“What is going on?” Christy is almost shouting.
“Did they say ‘child pornography’?” Rachel asks, her voice trembling.
“Oh my god, you guys, Phoebe is a wreck.” Lindsey points a couple tables over where Dooney’s girlfriend is sobbing, two seniors, both named Tracy (one spelled “Tracie”), have an arm around her.
“Sexual assault?” Christy is still badgering Ben with questions. “What do they mean? Like rape?”
“What?” Ben holds up both hands, surrendering. “Look, I have no idea what this is about.”
The electronic tone sounds, announcing lunch is at an end. We have five minutes to make it to fifth period. Christy and Lindsey scatter to collect their books. Will raises a tentative hand in farewell. Ben manages to nod at him. “Later, Pistol.”
“You guys coming?” Rachel asks.
I nod. “Right behind you.”
But I don’t move. Instead, I sit with Ben in silence for a few more minutes as two women in hairnets and rubber gloves point an old boom box in our direction. Mariachis sing as they begin to wipe down tables with sponges in little buckets full of warm water and bleach. I don’t get up until Ben does.
“You okay?” I slip my hand into his as we walk back toward our lockers.
He brings my fingers to his lips, kissing them lightly, absently. His mind is in another place.
The second tone sounds. True, we’ll both get tardy slips, but this time the weird electronic beep holds another message, too. Its unsettling pitch lodges deep in my stomach, a warning I can’t quite make out. As it echoes through the hallways, Ben drops my hand and walks to his next class without looking back.
eleven
WE ASSEMBLE IN the gymnasium.
Rachel’s face is buried in her phone. She and Christy point and gasp at their screens. A hashtag has sprung up with pictures and
videos of the lunchroom arrest two hours ago: #buccsincuffs on most, the tag #r&p on some. No one can figure out what that means. I am turning my phone in my hands as we wait, but do not swipe to see. Something in me doesn’t want to know.
Lindsey joins us, sliding onto the bleacher next to me. I left enough space for two people between me and the aisle, knowing she’d join us, and hoping Ben will, too.
“Are you okay?” Lindsey’s eyes narrow. I nod and she follows my gaze to the stage where Wyatt Jennings and Shauna Waring from the drama club ready a microphone and podium. Behind them is the set for the musical that began taking shape last week during spring break. Rydell High is almost fully formed with flats painted to look like hot-pink versions of the lockers we have in the hallway. Grease! opens Saturday night, and runs for a week. The stage is now a school within a school, a hyper-colored backdrop for our drama in real life.
Rachel watches as Shauna uncoils a mic cable. “She’s playing Sandy.”
Christy glances up from her phone. “Wyatt’ll look great in a poodle skirt.” She snorts with laughter at her own joke as Wyatt plugs in the mic and steps to the podium. “Testing, testing, one-two-three.” He gives Principal Hargrove a thumbs-up.
There is a loud whistle—a catcall from behind us. A group of the varsity Buccaneers is filing into the bleachers. Reggie Grant shouts up at Wyatt to “Shake it, baby.” There are jeers and cheers, groans and shouts, taunts of “fag” and “fabulous.”
“Seriously?” Christy snickers. “We’re supposed to believe that he’s in love with Sandy? Wyatt would run off with one of the other T-Birds the first chance he got.”
“Uh-huh, ’cause John Travolta’s just as straight as they come,” says Rachel.
“What?” Christy doesn’t get it.
“Do a search on TMZ,” says Lindsey. “We’ll wait.”
“Look,” says Christy, “I’m just saying that Danny Zuko in that movie was way more butch than Wyatt will ever be.”
“Jesus, Christy,” I say, sighing. “You’re way more butch than Wyatt will ever be.” Her arm shoots across Rachel’s lap, and I narrowly avoid the punch she aims at my shoulder.
“Take that back!”
“If the shoe fits . . .” Rachel giggles.
“. . . buy it.” Lindsey finishes for her.
“This seat taken?” Ben is pointing at the space next to Lindsey.
I shake my head. “All yours.”
Lindsey stands and switches places with me. I don’t even have to ask her. This, I believe, is the true meaning of friendship. Ben puts his arm around me as he sits down and pulls us a little closer as Principal Hargrove takes the stage. Ms. Speck stands next to him.
“We wanted to let you know the facts about what happened today in the cafeteria.” Principal Hargrove is wearing a burgundy blazer made of a fabric that does not contain a single natural fiber. There is enough polyester in this jacket to make it shine beneath the stage lights. The rumor is he bought it in 1991 and has kept it in his office ever since for the sole purpose of these assemblies and impromptu parent meetings. He pauses and runs a hand across his forehead as if patting his bangs into place. He’s bald, but he didn’t used to be, I suppose.
Given enough time, everything changes.
“It is important that when events like this one occur, you get your information directly from the source.” He says this as if it were every day that two policemen storm the cafeteria and arrest four basketball players the week before the state tournament.
“These are the facts: Today, four students were taken into custody by the county sheriff for the alleged sexual assault and rape of a female student.” A buzz rips through the assembly. Shouts and murmurs of “who was it” and “that’s bullshit” rise and fall. Principal Hargrove holds up his hands and waits for things to settle down.
“It’s important to remember that all students are innocent until proven guilty by a court of law. And it is up to me to remind you that the one and only place for that trial to be held is in a courthouse, and not on a blog or a website or in these hallways. We are under strict instructions to protect the victim’s anonymity—”
“Too late,” mutters Christy.
Rachel shushes her as Principal Hargrove brings Ms. Speck to the microphone. She’s more stylish than most of our other teachers, her crisp white blouse tucked into charcoal gabardine slacks. A sweater the color of a Granny Smith apple is draped across her shoulders, and her dark hair falls to her chin, all one length, a silver streak at her forehead. When her husband left her in New York, Ms. Speck moved to Paris with her son. When her son left for college, she moved back here to Iowa to care for her sick mother. When her mother left us all two years ago, Ms. Speck stayed. I guess when you’ve already lived in New York and Paris, there’s no point in trying anywhere else.
“I’d like to remind you,” Ms. Speck begins, “that as the guidance counselor here at Coral Sands High, I am always available to speak with you about anything, and our conversations are absolutely confidential. Sexual violence of any kind can be frightening and unsettling, also confusing. I encourage you to talk about any concerns or feelings you may have with your parents or with me or one of the other teachers here. You can use the school website to sign up for an appointment with me, or stop by the French room. My email and contact information are on the bulletin board.”
Principal Hargrove comes back to the mic to say one more thing. “Remember that this is an ongoing investigation. We will be cooperating with the police, and some of you may be asked to surrender your phones and tablets. Apparently, there were pictures and videos circulating of the event in question. If you have any evidence at all, we urge you to come forward. We will help you make a report to the proper authorities.”
This final announcement bounces across the gym like a stick of dynamite, which rolls to a stop beneath the bleachers. The Coral Sands basketball elite are seated all around me. Every single person I can see was at Dooney’s party, and each one of them had their phone out that night at one point or another.
Rachel and Christy tap at their screens like mad. The principal’s words, “surrender your phone or tablet” have ignited a fuse, and whispers erupt all over the gym.
Bullshit.
Nobody’s taking my phone, I’ll guarantee you that.
Homes, you fucking crazy.
Fascists. They can’t treat us like that.
Who they think is about to win ’em the state tourney?
“Wow,” Lindsey says. “Have you seen this?” She is scrolling through her phone, and I pick mine up to open Twitter.
I immediately regret it:
@B1gBlue32: Wait, the police can take my phone cause U R A SLUT? #buccsincuffs
@BuccsRock: Gonna rape her good for SURE now. #r&p #buccsincuffs
@Pheebus17: White trash ho was so drunk she couldn’t tell a dick from a donut. #buccsincuffs
@j#mpsh0t: JAIL: what u get for inviting a TRAMP to the party #buccsincuffs
@fr0nt¢er: If we lose state cause of this whore she’s gonna get more than raped. #r&p #buccsincuffs
A sudden sickness wells up in my throat. The picture of Stacey draped over Deacon’s shoulder is attached to several tweets, and I realize that she’s the target of every vile word I’m reading. I know we’re not close anymore, but I can’t help picturing the girl who used to play soccer with us. Long before the Stacey with the dark eyeliner, the long bright nails, and the pot hookup, she was just this other girl on the team.
She was our friend.
Stacey came over to my house a couple times back in seventh grade after Saturday morning games. Her mom was waiting tables and wouldn’t be off until later in the afternoon. We were trying to study for a vocabulary quiz one time, and Stacey kept looking out my window at the birdbath, naming the birds. I saw that her vocab worksheet was covered in doodles. A flock of tiny sparrows and blue jays hovered in the margins and corners. She had an old leather-bound field guide in her backpack. She said it was from the
Audubon Society and that she wanted to be an ornithologist. I didn’t even know what that meant.
“It’s a person who studies birds,” she told me.
“Why do you like birds so much?” I asked.
A look of pity flitted over her face, followed by a smile. “Because they can fly, silly.”
I give my head a little shake, trying to clear the images in my mind and the heaviness in my chest, but the picture of Stacey tossed so carelessly over Deacon’s shoulder still glows up from the screen in my hand. I can’t tear my eyes away, even as Principal Hargrove announces the assembly is over and dismisses us to return to class.
Ben pulls me closer, back to this moment. His hand closes over my phone. He gently takes it from me, holds down the power button, and swipes it off.
“Not worth reading that crap. C’mon. Let’s get back to class.”
I know he’s right, but it’s too late. I can never un-see that picture or those words. My stomach jumps and twists like Phoebe Crane flying over the top of a pyramid during a halftime routine. As if summoned by my thoughts, she descends on me and Ben with the Tracies in tow. She is crying and furious.
“You know this is bullshit, right?”
Ben stands up and steps into the packed bleacher stairs leading down to the gym floor. The entire student body is bottlenecked at the doors to the hallway. “It’ll all be . . . okay.” He searches for the words and I see his eyes dart in both directions over Phoebe’s head looking for an alternate escape route. I don’t blame him. If he finds one, I’m following.
“Stacey Stallard is going to ruin Dooney’s entire future.” Phoebe’s words sizzle, water dropped on the hot oil of her anger.
What We Saw Page 6