Do you know who was there?
I stare at my feet as I walk, trying to avoid looking at the camera.
Did you see what happened?
I have to glance up to see if I am even headed in the right direction. I shield my face with my hand for a quick peek, but the camera is two feet away, practically up my nose, and anyone watching in Coral Sands will recognize me. If Sloane can run iPhone video on the air, god only knows what she’ll do with this. Now everyone will know I was here. How will I explain this?
As I get to the truck, I fumble through my pockets for the keys. The cameraman is shooting my profile as the key ring spills from my fingers and falls to the ground. Sloane’s hand is on my arm now, a warm, firm current. I jerk away, grab the keys from the ground, and turn on her.
“Leave me alone!”
Even as I say the words, I realize it’s too late. I’ve handed her a victory. I see it flash across the whites of her eyes: contact.
“I just want to get the whole story from someone who was there.”
The sincerity in her voice startles me as I scramble to find the button on the key fob to click open the locks. I stare back at her for a split second, and Sloane holds a hand up to her cameraman. The light clicks off. He slides the evidence of my visit off his shoulder. Black holes float in front of my eyes, and I wish for a moment they would suck me into a different dimension.
“You were there, weren’t you?”
My father’s voice rings in my ears: As far as this family is concerned, you don’t even know where that Doone boy lives.
I give my head a single shake, but Sloane doesn’t buy it. My thumb hovers over the button to pop the locks. She reaches out again, tentative, with the gentle stealth of an expert defusing a bomb. She senses that at any moment I might blow. Her glossy manicure flashes across my sleeve, and once more her hand is on my arm.
There is no trace of the tough-as-nails reporter on Sloane’s face now, no hint of the pleased-as-punch smile she gave Coach Sanders earlier today as she fled the gym. Here, in the shadows, Sloane appears oddly human. Without the harsh light from the cameras filling in every contour, her eyes look puffy underneath, and there are dark circles seeping through her concealer. Her lipstick has worn off. Her smile is sad. I can tell she’s tired. For the first time ever, she looks like a real person. Even her voice is different, now. When she speaks to me, she’s friendly, not official. “I’m only trying to find out what really happened that night.”
That’s why I’m here, too. I was there when Deputy Jennings read Dooney the charges: sexual assault. I’ve heard Sloane say the word rape over and over this week.
But what do those words mean? What really happened?
I came here to ask Stacey face-to-face. The only information I have is secondhand: Sloane’s news reports and gossip at school. No hard evidence at all. Sure, there are formal charges, but right now, it’s Stacey’s word against Dooney’s. Is Sloane as confused as I am? Or does she have more information than I do? If she does, do I really want to know what it is?
My thumb plunges down on the button. The locks on the truck slide and click like the bolt of a shotgun. In a flash, I slip out of Sloane’s reach and into the cab, one fluid motion that causes her shoulders to slump in failure, and her voice to rise over the roar of the engine as it growls to life.
“She was raped. At least three different basketball players assaulted her that night. She was unconscious. She spent all day Sunday at the hospital.”
I flip on the headlights and see Sloane make a move to race around the front of the truck. I spin the wheel to cut her off, then hit the gas and take Dad’s advice:
Steer clear.
twenty
“PERMISSION SLIPS TODAY for the big field trip in a couple weeks!”
Mr. Johnston passes a stack of canary-yellow pages to the person at the first desk in each row. Hand over hand, they flutter toward the back of the room until everybody has one.
I hereby give my consent . . .
It’s the second time this word has pinged against my brain today. It filtered up to my bedroom this morning from the TV in the kitchen while Mom and Dad had coffee. Today in Iowa was on Channel Thirteen. I wondered briefly if Sloane might air the footage of me at the trailer park, but there was no gasp of recognition from Mom, so I hit snooze and rolled over to grab another ten minutes.
Instead, all I could hear was that word, over and over:
. . . an ongoing conversation about consent. Whether the alleged sexual contact was consensual. Whether the victim was lucid enough to give her consent . . .
Mr. Johnston is stoked about this field trip. “The Devonian Flood Plain is about an hour and a half from here. We’ll leave during first period and get back about the time school ends for the day.”
Excitement buzzes around the room. The general consensus appears to be that a bus ride to look at fossils and fast food on the way back is more desirable than a full day of regular classes.
Rachel raises her hand. “Mr. Johnston, what if my mom won’t let me go?”
“Why wouldn’t she let you go?”
Rachel smirks. “Because she doesn’t trust TV stars like you?”
Mr. Johnston smiles and shakes his head. “Not a star,” he says. “More like collateral damage.”
“No way, you were on all three newscasts last night,” Christy says.
There are hoots and whistles of affirmation. One of the guys behind me shouts, “Lookin’ good, Mr. J.”
Phoebe’s voice cuts through the noise. “How come you let that reporter film for so long?” Her question hangs in the air like a heavy fog.
Mr. Johnston waves it away. “Didn’t know she was standing there,” he says. “She wasn’t authorized to be in the building.”
“Shoulda gotten a permission slip,” Ben says.
“Exactly.” Mr. Johnston frowns. “That’s the trick about permission. You don’t have it unless it’s been given.”
“You and Coach still wound up on the news,” says Rachel, “even without your permission.”
He pauses for a moment, thinking. “You’re right. Ms. Keating took what she wanted without asking. Does that make people around here trust her? Think anybody’s gonna want to talk to her now?”
“No.”
The word slips out louder than I intend it to. Everybody turns to stare at me. Mr. Johnston nods. “Acting first and worrying about consequences later is a dangerous way to do things.” He holds up the stack of leftover yellow. “Get ’em signed, you guys. One week. Due back to me next Friday.”
At lunch, the Tracies announce that they’ve decided not to attend Spring Fling tonight.
“Too much of a downer,” Tracy says.
Tracie agrees with a shudder. “Have you noticed? There are even more cameras around today. They creep me out.”
Phoebe’s calls to Dooney’s house and texts to his cell phone have gone unreturned. The radio silence has her terrified. She may be dateless, but she is bound and determined that she will not be abandoned.
“You have to be there.” Her voice leaves no room for denial. “If you don’t come, Stacey Stallard wins.” She spits Stacey’s name from the tip of her tongue like spoiled milk. There is hemming and hawing. The Tracies waver and whine. As much as Phoebe would like to, there’s no denying it: Something is missing.
Usually, on the day of a dance, there’s a sort of zing in the air—a current humming beneath our feet, a hallway that nearly pitches and rolls with excitement.
Tiny seismic shifts.
But, today, no one seems to care about the dance. Our brains are too full of the one thing no one can mention.
So much is so different.
Tomorrow will only be one week since the party. It seems like a hundred years have passed since then—and also no time at all. It’s as if the Devonian Era flashed by only yesterday, and we are now gulping air into newly formed lungs that used to be gills, taking first steps on our flippers-turned-feet.
&n
bsp; In one short week, we have become different creatures.
When Ben rings the doorbell on Friday evening, I walk down the stairs in recycled silk, a light breeze of sauce-free organza fluttering around me. Mom has tears in her eyes, as if I am leaving forever instead of attending a two-hour dance in a thrift-store dress.
The shaky video of Coach Sanders threatening Sloane Keating ricocheted across the cable news channels again today, and as Ben steps through the front door with a plastic shell of red roses for my wrist, a graphic the color of bruises flies in beneath the cleft chin of a national evening anchor: CRISIS IN CORAL SANDS.
Dad turns off the TV while Mom snaps several pictures on the digital point-and-shoot she still insists on using. It’s another one of the single-function gadgets my parents refuse to retire. Will tries to explain that his smartphone camera has more megapixels, but Mom says that he can take his pictures and she’ll take hers.
Ben jokes with my dad. Will stands on the back of the couch to “get a cool angle.” As Mom clicks and clucks and coos, I know that one of these shots will wind up in a gallery frame on the wall upstairs. Long after the continuing saga of Kate and Ben reaches its next chapter, I will find her in the hallway, gazing at the glass with shiny eyes and a full heart. These will be her fossils in bedrock, her coral clues to a bygone era. A strange lump forms in my throat as Mom gently tucks a strand of my loose updo behind my ear.
I was once your little girl.
Iowa was once an ocean.
Will tries to follow us outside. I think he’d have climbed into Ben’s truck and come with us if I hadn’t grabbed him by the shoulders and given him my get lost look.
He may have a bigger crush on Ben than I do.
The number of news vans in the parking lot has doubled to six, with affiliates from as far away as Kansas City, St. Louis, and Chicago. Sloane Keating is still front and center, but joined now by three women and two men, lined up with their camera guys at the front entrance. Sloane’s blond hair is up in a tight French twist like Grace Kelly’s in an old movie. It appears she had her hair done for the dance.
“Gotta be kidding me,” Ben says as we park.
I stare at the gauntlet of cameras and hairdos, lips poised to question, microphones at the ready, bronzer so thick it glows orange. “Can you believe it was only a week ago Saturday?”
Ben frowns. “You mean a week ago Sunday.”
I smile. “The party was Saturday, remember?”
“Oh. That.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?”
He smiles a little shyly. “Sunday afternoon. When you walked over all brave and cute and hungover as hell.”
“I wasn’t that bad.”
“Uh, you were green.”
We both laugh for a second, then he reaches over and grabs my hand. He does it quickly as if he might lose his nerve, as if I might escape into the woods along the parking lot. He gently runs a finger along the roses on my wrist, then looks into my eyes. “When you tried to shoot over my head? I was a goner.”
We kiss for a long time. I have to reapply my lipstick.
I don’t care.
When I close my purse and announce my readiness, Ben looks over at Sloane and her minions crowding the front doors.
“Last chance,” he says. “We can just go drive around. Get some tequila. Go back to my place.”
“And waste the plaid jacket from Mars?” I ask. “Connie Bonine would never forgive us.”
As he opens my door and helps me out of his truck, he flashes me that extra-juice-box grin. “Hang on tight.”
I’m glad Ben is so tall. As I take his arm, I feel like nothing can touch me. I keep my head down and match his long, sure steps. As we approach the entrance, the reporters crowd our way, shouting over one another, just like they do on TV shows.
I’ve never understood that. As if the reason we’re not answering is that we can’t hear them. Even if I wanted to stop and answer a question, who wants to be yelled at? Where would I begin? How could I get a word in edgewise?
Ben pulls me closer, leaning forward with his shoulder, his arm around me, shielding me from the crowd, the lights, the noise.
The one thing he cannot block are the words.
Were you at the party?
Do you know the victim?
Is Coach Sanders trying to cover up what really happened?
Were you in the room that night?
Have you read the hospital report?
Did you see the alleged assault?
Have you heard about the rape kit results?
Do you know who else was involved?
I know we are close to the front entrance. When I glance up to check our progress, Sloane Keating is staring directly into my eyes. Silent as a statue, she’s letting all the other reporters shout questions. She only smiles in greeting as we walk past her. Ben swings the front door open. I can see the check-in table by the gym entrance, and just when I think we’re home free, Sloane speaks.
“Ben Cody, have you spoken with John Doone since he was released from police custody Wednesday?”
Ben jerks to a stop beside me. I can feel him turn when Sloane calls him by name. I know it’s a reflex. I also know it’s a trap.
“What?”
The other reporters rush to greet a group of students arriving in our wake. Sloane Keating holds the mic up near Ben’s mouth. “Are you glad your friend is home?”
“Of course . . . yeah. I just—” Ben struggles to finish his sentence. “I haven’t talked to him. I don’t . . .” His voice trails off, and I see Sloane Keating’s face soften as she waits for him to finish.
“You don’t what?” she asks.
I grab her arm, pulling the microphone to my mouth. “Have any further comment.”
I take Ben’s hand and somehow manage to propel all six feet four inches of him into the hallway. The door swings closed behind us, but not before Sloane calls out one last thing:
“Great seeing you last night, Kate.”
twenty-one
THE TROPHY CASE just inside the school’s front doors is jammed with brass statues, plaques, and pictures. The “spirit stick” our cheer squad brought home from regionals last year catches my eye, and I imagine knocking it over Sloane Keating’s head as Ben and I catch our breath.
“How does she know our names?” he asks me. “And what the hell did she mean? ‘Great seeing you last night’?”
I have no way to explain this except the truth, but the words are slow to form on my tongue, and before I can say them, the doors swing open again. Rachel, Lindsey, and Christy stumble inside, the latest victors to make it past the reporters.
“Holy hell.” Christy flips her wild curls out of her face.
Rachel tugs at the triangular top of her shiny dress. “Now I know how Taylor Swift feels.” She grabs my shoulder for balance, and pulls off one of her towering heels, shaking it upside down. “Got a rock in my shoe.” Her hair has been hot-rolled into a giant fluffy pile on top of her head.
Once her shoe is back on, Rachel turns to face the group. “Okay. Let’s go dance,” she commands. Instead, we all stand there, sort of shell-shocked. “Oh, c’mon!”
There’s a spark in Rachel’s eye. It’s one of those things no one else sees, but I know her. I know what’s coming. Sure enough, she revs up her favorite dog and pony show.
“Am I going to have to do Rachel’s Ray of Sunshine to get this party started?”
Assuming her Sunday-School-teacher smile, Rachel turns to face me and speaks in a cheery, breathless tone, often reserved for the elderly and children under the age of three. It’s silly, but somehow completely sincere.
“Boys and girls, I want you to know that each one of you is special and beautiful! Kate Weston, your dress is magnificent. You are just a glamorous angel straight from heaven. And you, Mr. Cody, are the luckiest man in the kingdom.”
Christy groans and rolls her eyes. Lindsey lets out a laugh, and even Ben cracks a smile.
&nb
sp; “Miss Lindsey, your dress has such pretty feathers! And it’s the color of my favorite ice cream bar. You’re quite simply a Creamsicle swan of loveliness.”
By this point, even Christy is laughing, and Rachel drops her wide-eyed act. “Are we good?” she asks.
“What?” purrs Christy. “I don’t get a ray of sunshine?”
“I’ll tell you what you get,” Rachel says flatly. “You get us to the front of that check-in line.” She smacks Christy on the rear. Christy whoops her assent, tugging at the knotted belt of her polyester pantsuit and herding us all to the check-in station at the other end of the front hallway.
Deputy Jennings stands on one side of the table, chatting with Principal Hargrove. Ms. Speck and Mr. Johnston are ticking people off a master list. There are a couple of sophomores ahead of us and as we reach the table, Coach Sanders barrels through the gym doors with a red bullhorn.
“Ready?” He tosses this over his shoulder at Principal Hargrove and Mr. Jennings, who nod and follow him to the front doors of the school. “Let’s do this.”
Coach Sanders throws his shoulder into the door, and instantly the lights and questions erupt into the front hallway. He raises the bullhorn to his mouth and shouts through a squeal from the speaker:
“All non-school personnel are considered trespassers and are hereby compelled to maintain a distance of at least fifty feet by order of the county sheriff. I repeat: All journalists must immediately retreat to a minimum of fifty feet from the front door of this property or you will be arrested for trespassing.”
“Can they do that?” Lindsey stands at my elbow watching as Coach shouts down Sloane Keating’s protests.
“Whether they can or not, they just did.” Christy is smiling. “Good riddance.”
One by one the lights on the cameras begin to bob across the parking lot. Eventually, even Sloane Keating hoofs it toward the Channel 13 van. I realize now how far away fifty feet actually is.
Coach Sanders struts back through the hallway, a satisfied smile on his face. When he sees Ben his face lights up. “You kids look terrific,” he says with a wink. “For god’s sake, everybody stay off the Twitter tonight.”
What We Saw Page 11