Ben leads me over to the sofa and we sit down as I wipe my nose and eyes with the heels of my hands. “So, you haven’t seen it?” I ask.
“Didn’t want to.”
I let out a long deep breath. “Well, it’s gone now, so you can’t.”
A look of relief softens his face, and he sinks back on the couch. “Good.”
“It’s not good,” I tell him. “We could’ve helped Stacey. They asked us to come forward with any information about what happened that night.”
“I don’t know what happened that night,” he says. “I didn’t see the video. I didn’t go looking for it. I’m sorry you put yourself through that.”
“Ben, we can’t just do nothing. Do you understand what they did to her?”
“No.” He says this so firmly that the word almost pins me against the couch. “I don’t want to know. Kate, I can’t know.” He stands up and runs a hand through his wet hair. “If I know, then I have to come forward, and if I come forward, I’ll get messed up in this whole . . . thing.”
He kneels on the floor in front of me, leaning across my lap, his arms sliding around my waist, pulling me into him. I bury my nose in his damp hair and breathe, inhaling his sporty boy-shampoo smell, one of those forcefully FRESH! fragrances they label with rock ’n’ roll fonts in dark gray bottles: FOR MEN.
“I went to talk to Ms. Speck today.” Ben sits up. Our eyes meet, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “I had to. I was going to show her the video.”
“That’s when you saw it was gone?”
I nod. “I can’t do nothing. I can’t let Dooney just . . . get away with this.”
He takes both of my hands in his. “I get it, Kate.”
“Do you?” I ask. “Why does it feels like I’m the only who cares about this?”
“I care. But I haven’t seen that video,” he says. “And I don’t want to. I have to play on Friday and Saturday. I have to show the scouts what I can do.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses it. “I have to get out of here.”
thirty-five
THE HAWK IN the trees at the edge of the back parking lot is standing guard on Thursday morning as I walk back to my truck after first period. I’m hoping my French workbook fell out of my bag behind the seat this morning and isn’t still lying on my desk at home. My homework is folded up inside it.
The bird above me screeches in the direction of the news vans still clogging the drive. Sloane Keating has been reporting nightly, hounding the police and the prosecutor for details. Last night it was news about John Doone’s text messages with Stacey the day after the party—no specifics, but apparently he was trying to get her to keep quiet.
The hawk takes off, and I wish I could follow her up into the blue. Is it just my imagination, or is everyone giving me side-eye in the hallways? Is there a monster behind that bush, or do I just think there’s a monster behind that bush?
Either way, the answer to this question seems to be yes. Whether it’s real or all in my head, I feel like everyone is looking at me differently. Ben and Lindsey are the only people who know I talked to Ms. Speck about the video. I’m sure neither of them would tell anyone else.
Would they?
I find my book wedged against the floor behind the seat. I close the door and turn to see Ms. Speck walking across the parking lot with a cardboard box. I wave when she sees me, and hold up my French book. “See you inside,” I say.
“Not today, I’m afraid.” She stops as she says this and waits as I walk over to her. I can see more clearly that her box is full of binders and folders. A couple of picture frames and a purple quartz from her desk are nestled on top.
“Oh . . . are we having a substitute?” I ask.
She smiles grimly. “I’m not sure,” she replies. “I don’t work here anymore.”
The ground is shifting again. My insides start to slide in different directions. “But . . . why?”
“I filed a report with Principal Hargrove after we chatted yesterday. This morning, he was waiting in my office, and when I refused to give him your name as my source, he dismissed me.”
“But . . . can he do that?”
She gives me a rueful smile and shifts the box onto her hip. “Well, he did. Because I can’t show him the video you saw, he’s convinced the report is all hearsay.”
“It was there. I saw it. It exists.” I feel numb all over. Is this really happening?
Ms. Speck looks over my shoulder, and sighs. “As if on cue . . .”
I glance the same direction and see Sloane Keating marching toward us. “Walk with me,” says Ms. Speck.
I follow her to a car as sleek and black as her high heels. She opens the trunk and deposits the box inside, then opens the driver-side door and turns to me. “Wendall Hargrove is an ass. What you did is important. You’re the first student to come forward with actual names.”
She slides behind the wheel and rolls down the window, swinging the door closed. “Don’t back down, Kate.”
“What about you?” I ask. “What will you do?”
She slides on dark sunglasses. “My mother is gone. It’s high time I got back to New York. I’ll be fine.” She smiles and reaches through the window, laying a hand on my arm. “And so will you, Kate. I know it may not feel like it now, but you’ll come through this. I promise.”
“Leaving early today?” Sloane Keating’s voice is right behind me. She steps up to the car just as Ms. Speck’s hand comes back through the window, a thick white business card extended between two fingers.
“Not in the parking lot, Sloane. Happy to meet you for a drink later.” Sloane takes the card as the grating tone sounds to start second period. Ms. Speck smiles at me. “Goddamn, I won’t miss that stupid bell.”
I smile in spite of the situation. “Guess I’m late.”
“Guarantee no one will notice.” Ms. Speck turns on the car and addresses Sloane Keating over my shoulder. “Call me. And leave Kate alone.”
As the black sedan drives away, Sloane raises her hand to me in farewell and heads back across the parking lot. “See you around,” she says.
I hear another screech from the hawk above our heads, and turn in time to see her soar out of sight. I stare up at the place where the green reaches the sky.
If Principal Hargrove can silence anyone who disagrees with him, how will the truth ever be seen? How will anyone get to the bottom of this?
There are no longer two sides to what is happening. The thought sends a tremor of fear down to my toes, and I remember what Ben said all those years ago in his monkey swim trunks when I asked him if you could see the other side of the ocean:
There’s only one side. The waves go on forever.
thirty-six
TEACHER FIRED IN WAKE OF REPORTING ALLEGED RAPE VIDEO
By Sloane Keating
Published: March 26
CORAL SANDS, Iowa—A teacher at Coral Sands High School was fired this morning in what appears to be a reprisal for speaking out about the ongoing rape investigation that has rocked this small town. Charlotte Speck was released from her position as a guidance counselor and French teacher by Principal Wendall Hargrove. Speck said that the firing was the result of a standard report she had filed in the role of guidance counselor after speaking with a student.
The unnamed student had reported to Speck the existence of a video of the alleged rape that took place at a party twelve days ago. “If evidence of a crime is made known, I am bound by state law to report that evidence to proper authorities,” Speck said. “I am under no compunction to reveal the identity of the student source,” she continued. “That information falls under client-privilege laws for the protection of those who come forward with information.” Speck maintains she was terminated when she refused to reveal the name of the student who had come to see her.
Reached for comment at his office, Hargrove would say only that Ms. Speck’s report was filled with “inaccuracies and speculation. She acted impulsively and irresponsibly, filing
a public report based on hearsay.”
The rumored video of the alleged rape was viewed on a sub-Reddit by the student who reported it, but subsequent searches for the video have yielded no result, leading authorities to believe that either the video or the account it was posted from has since been removed.
When asked whether she would pursue a wrongful termination suit, Speck said only that she was “keeping all options on the table.”
UPDATE
Since this story was first posted earlier today, members of UltraFEM, the anonymous hacker protest collective dedicated to full prosecution of crimes against women, has reaffirmed its statement from last week. In a new post at their website, they confirm once more that they are in possession of the video in question, and demand those charged in the Coral Sands rape case change their pleas to guilty by Monday, or risk exposure online.
In part, the statement reads:
“Those of you who were present during this horrific act of violence against a defenseless female must become witnesses and give statements to investigating authorities. Otherwise, you will be identified and exposed as accessories to the crime.”
Coach Raymond Sanders and high school Principal Wendall Hargrove are also named in the statement from UltraFEM. Both are called upon to “stop hindering the investigation, misleading police, and deleting evidence.”
Sanders and Hargrove could not be reached for further comment.
thirty-seven
SAY WHAT YOU will about Sloane Keating, she works fast.
Her post went up on the Channel 13 website around four on Thursday afternoon. By five o’clock, she was on with Jeremy Gordon out of Des Moines, filling in all of Iowa. Thirty minutes later, she was talking on NBC Nightly News, explaining the situation to all of America. By six, I was curled into a ball on the couch trying not to hyperventilate.
“There’s a video? Of what?” Mom shouts from the kitchen as she drains pasta into a colander. “I thought that girl made the whole thing up.”
“Maybe Ms. Speck made it up,” Will says, putting a bowl of shredded Parmesan on the table per Mom’s direction. “Nobody knows if she’s for real or not.”
“Well, that girl-power computer group sounds pretty ‘for real’ to me,” Mom says, and calls Dad and me to the table.
Will scoffs at this. “The feminazis? They’re just bluffing.”
“Enough! Where did you learn that word?” Dad shoots daggers at Will with his eyeballs, and my brother slides gingerly into his chair as if it were made of dynamite.
“This is what I was talking about last week when I told you both to stay out of it,” Dad says. “It’s national news now. No one even knew this town existed last week.”
I can barely breathe as we pass around the pasta, making small talk as we eat. Will drones on about the tournament this weekend, and whether Ben and the guys can pull off a win without Dooney and Deacon. Mom is taking off work tomorrow afternoon to drive us up to Des Moines for the first game of the tournament. Coach Lewis is letting us out of practice early so we can get there on time. Dad will still be working tomorrow night, but he’ll watch the game on TV.
“It won’t matter who wins,” says Dad, cutting through Will’s chatter. “The only thing anyone will remember when the Buccs are mentioned now is the Coral Sands rape case.” He shakes his head and carries his plate to the sink before grabbing a beer from the fridge and settling onto the couch in the living room.
I stay in the kitchen for as long as I can, helping Mom with the dishes and putting the leftovers away. When everything is finished, I stand by the little desk near the island pretending to fiddle with the printer, waiting until Dad has fast-forwarded through a commercial break on the buddy-cop drama he watches. One of the two is a robot. Or an alien? I can’t remember. They have a problem understanding each other every week that leads to a life-or-death moment. They always survive by learning something new about the other one.
As soon as I hear a high-tech shootout happening, I slip through the living room as quickly and quietly as I can, dodging Dad’s eyes.
When I get to my room I close the door behind me with a quiet click and lean against it for a few minutes. I wish there were a way I could explain to Dad why I had to go against his advice, why I had to steer directly toward the collision.
Sometimes, I think Dad and I are standing at the edge of different continents, so far apart that we can’t even see each other. He felt so close on Monday morning. How does this happen?
How do we drift so far, so fast?
Ben is waiting for us in the parking lot on Friday morning. Will whoops and high-fives him about the big game tonight. The varsity team leaves right after lunch today to get to Des Moines, check into their hotel, and get warmed up at Wells Fargo Arena.
“Brought my rally socks.” Will grins, pulling up his jeans to show the black tube socks he’s wearing.
“You guys are coming up tonight?” Ben asks.
“This might be the last game of your junior year,” I say. “Of course we’ll be there.”
“Shut up!” Will shouts, alarmed. “They’re going to the championship tomorrow. Don’t junk it up.”
Ben laughs. “That’s the spirit.”
Will bumps his fist and bounds off to class.
“Do we have to go in there?” I ask.
“Any other day I’d say no”—Ben puts his arms around my waist and pulls me in to him—“but I can’t miss class, or I can’t play.”
I put my arms around his neck. I needed this. I’m terrified of walking inside. Ben must sense this without my saying so. “Nobody knows,” he whispers. “There’s no way they could.”
“What if somebody saw me in the parking lot yesterday,” I ask, “talking to Ms. Speck?”
“Coincidence,” he says.
I laugh nervously in an attempt to keep the fear at bay. He takes my hand and I walk inside with Ben, the honorable Buccaneer.
When I step into the geology room, Rachel is mid-screech, telling Reggie and Kyle to shut up. “You’re both freaking morons,” she hisses.
Christy jumps in, too. “Shut this crap down now.”
Reggie winds up to pitch more of whatever he’s slinging, but sees Ben coming toward him and leans back in his seat. Ben gives him and Kyle a chin flip and a ’sup, sliding into the desk behind me.
Reggie and Kyle glare at me, their eyes drilling into the back of my head. Hostile curiosity is heavy, and hot. I glance over at Lindsey. “What is going on?” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “Just forget it,” she says. Her smile is sincere, but short.
As soon as the tone sounds, Mr. Johnston collects our permission slips for the field trip next week. Counting through the growing pile of crumpled yellow paper, he stops at Reggie’s row and looks up.
“Missing one here,” he says.
“Can’t go.” Reggie’s arms are crossed.
“How come?” asks Mr. Johnston. “It’s part of your grade for the class.”
“Can’t risk it.”
“What?”
“Don’t wanna get accused of raping somebody on the bus.”
The air is sucked out of the room. Mr. Johnston stares Reggie down. “You’re out of line.”
“Am I?” Reggie says, all swagger. “Can’t be too careful these days. Never know when some girl’s gonna get wasted and throw herself at you. If I can’t help myself, I don’t wanna wind up arrested.”
Mr. Johnston tosses the pile of permission slips on his desk, then whips off his glasses. “You done?” he asks Reggie.
“Just sayin.’” Reggie slouches in his seat, a smug bandit pleased with derailing the train.
“What exactly are you ‘just saying,’ Mr. Grant? That if a drunk girl approached you on a school bus, you’d take advantage of her?”
If the room was silent before, it’s a sterile vacuum now. I dare a quick glance behind me. Reggie squirms, then shrugs. I don’t know. I don’t wanna know. I want you off my back.
“A
shrug.” Mr. Johnston’s voice is an arrow making its mark. “Am I to interpret that as ‘you don’t know’ or ‘you don’t care’?”
“Jeez. Let’s just drop it,” Reggie says quietly, buckling.
“No, no.” Mr. Johnston doesn’t drift an inch. “You brought it up. You decided geology class was the proper forum for this. So let’s talk about it. It sounds like you’re saying that if a drunk girl approaches you you’d be unable to ‘help yourself.’ Am I to understand this means you’d be unable to stop yourself from having sex with her, whether she consented or not?”
“That’s . . . that’s not what I said.” Reggie’s voice is shaky now.
“But in this scenario, the young woman is drunk, correct? I believe the word you used was ‘wasted.’” Mr. Johnston reaches over and grabs the yellow wad of permission slips, holding them up and addressing the entire class. “If a female student is ‘wasted,’ is she capable of giving her consent?”
“No.” Lindsey says this firmly and loudly. We all gasp for breath as if a hatch has been blown open and oxygen has once more flooded the room.
Mr. Johnston puts his glasses back on. He goes to the whiteboard and picks up a marker. “I have a hypothesis that there may be other choices to make if you come into contact with a young woman who is ‘wasted’ and ‘throwing herself at you,’ Mr. Grant. What else might you do in that situation—besides have sex with her?”
“I dunno.” Reggie mutters this, staring at his desk.
“Oh, c’mon. You’re a bright kid. B average. Doing pretty well in my class. I’ll bet you can think of one other option.” Mr. Johnston waits at the whiteboard, his eyes locked on Reggie. After a moment, he says, “Okay, I’ll open this up. Let’s help Reggie out. What else could you do if you’re at a party, or out somewhere, and you come across a wasted young woman? And for now, I just want to hear from the guys.”
“Get her some water.” Ben says this right behind my head, and his voice makes my whole body relax.
What We Saw Page 19