by Nancy Ohlin
My life would be so much easier if I dated guys like Braden . . . guys my own age.
“So what’s the plan?” Braden prompts me.
“Um, so . . . if anyone asks, like the police or Principal Oberdorfer or whoever, can you tell him that we’re together? That we’ve been in a relationship since, like, the beginning of summer?”
“Is this to make them believe you’re hooking up with me and not Mr. R?”
I blush. “Yeah, that’s the idea.”
“Have we said ‘I love you’ to each other, or have we not gotten there yet?”
“Um, sure.”
“I’ll need some more details about us. I’ll start a notebook so I can keep track. Oh, and we should definitely go to the homecoming dance together.”
“Um, I guess?”
“Roses or orchids?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your corsage. Would you prefer roses or orchids?”
I wish he didn’t sound so enthusiastic about all this.
THIRTY-EIGHT
When I get home, I find Dad sitting on the couch, nursing a scotch in the dark.
I flick on the overhead light. “Dad?”
As soon as he turns to look at me, I know that he knows.
Oh my God, I am in So. Much. Trouble.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of you, Bea. Your principal called me,” he says in a steely voice.
“Oh.”
I take off my jacket and hang it up in the closet, biding my time. I can hear Cream Puff in the kitchen, meowing and batting her bowl around.
“I think Cream Puff needs her dinner—,” I begin.
“Later. Sit down, please.”
“Okay.” I perch on the far end of the couch and don’t meet his eyes. A long, terrible silence hangs between us. I stare at the wood floor and notice a big, jagged scratch. How long has it been there?
Dad finally speaks. “Beatrice, I need you to tell me about this Mr. Rossi.” He calls me by my full name only when he’s angry.
“W-what about him?”
“Did he . . .” He falters. “Did this man molest you?”
The word “molest” cuts like a knife. “God, no!”
“Then what?”
“Really, this is all just a big misunderstanding.”
“Explain it to me, then.”
“Yes, okay.”
I decide to recycle the story I told Braden earlier and add in the detail about Lianna, even though it’s probably false. “This girl at school . . . I think she may have lied and said some stuff about me and Mr. Rossi. None of it’s true. I told Principal Oberdorfer that, and the policeman, too.”
“You mean Detective Torres?”
“Wait, how do you know his name?”
“I called up a buddy of mine at the DA’s office, and he filled me in.”
I twist my hands in my lap. This whole situation is swirling out of control. “The police will drop this, right? They’ll realize it’s a mistake?” I say hopefully.
“I’m not sure. They’ll be wanting to conduct an investigation first, to determine if this is a case of statutory rape.”
“What? But D—Mr. Rossi didn’t rape me. He didn’t do anything to me.”
“But if he did . . . if the two of you had sex, which is what this witness said she saw . . .” Dad hesitates. “The age of consent in this state is eighteen. Which means that you, Bea, aren’t able to consent to sex because you’re only seventeen. Even if you think you consented, even if you said ‘yes’ a dozen times, even if you’re the one who initiated . . . you didn’t consent. You can’t. Therefore, if someone eighteen or over has sex with you, they are guilty of statutory rape and could go to jail for up to ten years.”
“Ten years? You have got to be joking.”
“I’m afraid not. In addition, because we don’t have what’s commonly called a ‘Romeo and Juliet provision’ in this state, basically no one under eighteen can consent to sex with anyone, regardless of age. The DA could, for example, prosecute two sixteen-year-olds for having sex with each other.”
“Are you serious? Dad, tons of people in my school are having sex. Everyone everywhere is having sex. Are you saying they’re all breaking the law?”
“If they’re under the age of consent, then, yes.”
“God, you sound like a lawyer!”
“I am a lawyer. And right now you need to listen to me. Very carefully. This is an extremely serious matter.”
I cross my arms over my chest. How can this be happening? I knew Dane and I weren’t technically allowed to have sex until I was eighteen and he was no longer a teacher at my school. That’s why we’d planned to wait until December.
Still, I didn’t think he could go to jail. And for ten years?
“Bea?”
“What?”
“I need to know. Did you have sex with this man?”
“No!”
“Did he come on to you in any way? Say anything? Touch you?”
“No!”
“Then what is this about?”
“God!”
I bend down and put my head in my hands. It’s an effort not to start crying or throwing things or whatever. Last night in the music history room was a huge mistake, but it’s not like Dane and I did anything immoral. I wanted him, and he wanted me. He’s not some sleazy child molester.
“Honey?” Dad says.
“What?”
“Talk to me. Please.”
I sniffle and flop back against the couch, wondering what equation of truth and lies I should tell him. Obviously, I can’t say as much as I said to Plum. Dad needs to know some of it, though—about the private lessons and maybe the trip to New York City, too.
I brace myself. “Dad.”
“Yes, honey?”
“Mr. Rossi . . . he’s more than just a teacher to me. He heard me play the piano and said I was a prodigy. He arranged for me to meet with his former teacher at Juilliard, who’s a famous concert pianist. He drove me to New York City on Columbus Day weekend, and—”
“Excuse me, he did what?” Dad erupts.
I hold up my hands. “I’m sorry. I lied about being in Boston with Plum. But I was worried that if I told you where I was really going, you would say no.”
He stares at me in astonishment.
“When you and I went out for pizza a few weeks ago, I told you I wanted to study music at college, right? The thing is, I don’t want to go to a regular old college. I want to go to a conservatory. And my first choice is . . . it’s Juilliard,” I continue.
His face blanches.
“I really want to become a professional musician, like Mom,” I rush on. “But I couldn’t tell you before because, well . . . it made you so miserable every time I even touched the piano. And Mr. Rossi . . . he changed all that, encouraged me to pursue my dreams. He spent hours and hours of his own time teaching me and coaching me and preparing me for my appointment at Juilliard. He believes in me. Why is that so wrong?”
Dad picks up his scotch, twirls the glass in his hand, and sets it down again. A million emotions cross his face, and I don’t understand any of them.
“I am so sorry, honey,” Dad says finally.
“You’re sorry? What for?”
“I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping your mom out of your life. I see now that I made a terrible mistake.”
“It’s okay, Dad.”
“No, it’s not okay. I’m a rotten father. I knew I couldn’t do this without your mom. I’ve already ruined your brother’s life, and—” Tears stream down his cheeks as he turns away from me.
I scoot over and hug him. “It’s okay. We’ll fix this. We’ll fix Theo, too, somehow. Just be our dad, okay?”
He bends his head to my shoulder, crying, and I start crying too.
The grief, the years, have finally caught up to us.
THIRTY-NINE
I can’t sleep.
It’s the middle of the night, and I’m lying in bed, my mind churni
ng restlessly. Cream Puff is a warm, snoring puddle at my feet. Moonlight slants through the window and illuminates the spines of the books on my blue sea horse shelves. I wish I could call Dane, but I can’t because of what the solicitor guy said. I can’t call Plum, either, because it’s the middle of the night.
Finally, at around three a.m., I get out of bed, walk over to my desk, and boot up my computer. When the screen flickers to life, I type—what was the phrase Dad used?—age of consent.
Dozens of links pop up. I open each one and read about the different ages of consent in different places. In Georgia it’s sixteen. In Texas it’s seventeen. In some states it is as low as thirteen under certain circumstances.
Great. So if I lived in one of these other states, I could legally consent to sex. But because I happen to live here, I can’t. That makes zero sense.
I then Google “student” and “teacher” and “affair.” My eyes widen when I see the number of news headlines from just the past few months alone. The ages of the students and teachers are all over the place. Fourteen and thirty-three—that’s too big of an age difference; plus, fourteen is so young. Fifteen and forty—definitely too big. Sixteen and twenty-seven—a little better. Seventeen and twenty-two—much better. Both male and female teachers are represented, as are male and female students. Some of the teachers were arrested and sent to jail; some were simply fired from their jobs.
I click on the stories so I can read them more carefully. That’s when I start to feel a bit queasy. A high school freshman commits suicide over her broken relationship with her soccer coach. A thirty-five-year-old teacher becomes pregnant by her seventh-grade student. Another thirty-five-year-old teacher makes sex tapes of threesomes with her pupils and shares them with her friends. A tenth grader tries to kill her best friend in a rivalry over their mutual “boyfriend,” who is also their history teacher. A twelve-year old-girl tells her parents that her teacher has been “touching” her for months and that they’re going to get married someday.
Lives ruined by . . .
Depression and drug abuse . . .
Molestation . . .
Sex offenders . . .
Preying on the innocent and vulnerable . . .
I shut down my computer. None of this applies to Dane and me. I’m not a child. He’s not a predator. We want to be together.
Still, I do have to admit that these other situations seem creepy and very, very wrong.
I wonder if the kids at A-Jax are even aware of these consent laws. I wasn’t joking with Dad when I said that everyone is having sex. Which means that in theory, 90 percent of our student population could be arrested. Including Braden and me, if we had gone through with it last summer. It’s ludicrous.
Ten years in jail. No wonder Dane was so freaked out when we spoke on the phone.
I have to protect him, no matter what it takes.
FORTY
Thanksgiving. Theo doesn’t come home, which he sometimes does, but instead texts Dad last minute and tells him he’s going snowboarding in Vermont with some friends.
So it’s just Dad and me and Cream Puff. Dad actually made a turkey, which he’s never done before; usually, we just go to a restaurant. My contributions are cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and gravy from some recipes I found online.
As we eat, Dad asks me about my Juilliard application. He can finally say the word “Juilliard” without tearing up. “When is it due?”
“In a few days. I have to finish my essay and also upload my recordings.”
“What about your other applications?”
“Peabody and the Manhattan School of Music and NEC are the same as Juilliard. Curtis is the middle of December.”
“Neck?”
“New England Conservatory of Music.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Your mom—” He pauses and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“What about Mom?”
“She thought about going there for a graduate degree. But then she got pregnant with Theo.”
“Oh. Wow.”
We eat our turkey in silence. A football game is on the TV on mute, but neither of us is paying attention. I keep thinking that Dane might call or text me, since it’s a holiday, but I realize how absurd that is. I actually haven’t heard from him since our strategy session that day when all hell broke loose.
I miss Dane so much, and I am so worried, that I have begun to feel numb. The police have called me in for multiple interviews, but I can’t tell if they went well or not. A few times I was tempted to go over to Dane’s house and peek in a window, just to make sure he was still there and not in jail. But, lawyer’s orders. Besides, I’m supposed to be Braden’s girlfriend these days, so I’ve been hanging out with him a lot after school and pretending to like him that way.
I think Braden is starting to take this whole thing way too seriously, though. Yesterday he left a bouquet of flowers on my porch with a note: Happy Five-Month Anniversary! Love forever, Braden.
Love forever? Five-month anniversary? Boy, he’s really committing to our cover story.
He and Lianna and I have dissolved our trio—or put it on hold, anyway. It just doesn’t feel right, under the circumstances. Lianna continues to insist that she didn’t turn Dane and me in, contrary to Braden’s theory. I’m actually beginning to believe her; she seems sincere for once in her life. But if it wasn’t her, who was it?
Dad’s phone buzzes with a call. He swipes at his mouth with a paper napkin, glances at the screen, and hits Talk. “Hello?”
He listens intently to someone on the other end. After a few minutes he thanks the person and hangs up.
“Who was that?” I ask curiously.
“Antonio, my friend at the DA’s office. He’s been keeping me posted on the police investigation, on his own time.”
I put my fork down. “And? Dad, tell me.”
“They’ve apparently interviewed a lot of people—people at your school, people at a private school where your . . . where Mr. Rossi used to teach,” Dad explains. “They can’t find anything on him. And without witnesses or evidence, they can’t charge him with a crime.”
Relief courses through me. “That’s good, right? That’s really good! So he won’t be arrested?”
“Not so fast. Antonio said that as of Monday or so, the police were still waiting to hear back from some of the New York City folks. That woman—you know, Mr. Rossi’s Juilliard teacher. Also a few others. It’s possible the police have wrapped up these interviews already, but Antonio wasn’t a hundred percent.”
New York City. My mind races through the possibilities: random Juilliard students, the waiter at that French restaurant, the clerk at the motel on Whiterock Beach. The Eden Grove police wouldn’t know to track them down. Would they?
And what about Dane’s and my alibis? I told Detective Torres that I’d stayed in a youth hostel. Dane told them he’d stayed with friends. Did Dane speak to these “friends” and ask them to cover for him? Did the police contact all the hostels in New York City and inquire about me?
I push away my plate; I’ve totally lost my appetite.
What if the police manage—managed?—to locate a witness who contradicts my testimony and Dane’s?
• • •
Early that evening I go over to Plum’s house for pumpkin pie. This is another tradition—dessert after our respective Thanksgiving dinners at home, followed by a binge session of old Christmas movies, to transition—but somehow, this year, today, it doesn’t feel very festive.
If only the Eden Grove police would fall off the face of the earth.
When I get to the Sorensons’, Plum is waiting for me on the front porch. She is bundled up in a ski parka that is several sizes too big for her and thick white Swedish mittens. Next to her is a huge clay pot of orange chrysanthemums and a couple of doggy chew toys.
She smiles and jumps to her feet when she sees me. Then she studies my face, and her smile disappears. “Bea! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing
. Everything. I don’t know,” I reply with a shrug.
“Tell me!”
We sit down on the porch together. I recount what Dad’s friend at the DA’s office told him.
“What if the police found out the truth about New York City and . . .” I shake my head. “They’ll arrest him. Dad says he could go to jail for ten years!”
“That’s not going to happen,” Plum reassures me. “But . . . Bea? There’s something else.”
“What?”
“I’m sure it’s not true, but . . .”
“What’s not true?”
Plum pulls her knees into her chest swipes at her nose with the back of her mitten. “Do you remember when I told you about Lakshmi? My neighbor?”
“Who?”
“The one who goes to the Greenley Academy?”
That prep school where Dane used to teach. “Oh, right. What about her?”
“So she’s home for Thanksgiving, right? I ran into her this morning, and we got to talking, and I asked her if she knew Kit Harrington—I mean, Mr. Rossi.”
“And?”
She drops her gaze to the ground. A cold, sick feeling washes over me.
“Plum? What did Lakshmi say?” I demand.
“She said . . . that her friend at school told her that she and Mr. Rossi had an affair,” Plum blurts out.
I flinch as though someone slapped me. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“It’s probably made up,” Plum rushes on. “Lakshmi said her friend was drunk when she told her, and when Lakshmi asked her about it later, she denied it.”
“Yeah, it sounds made up,” I manage at last, although my voice sounds far away and hollow.
“The girl’s name was Porter something. Porter Caulden. No, Caldwell.”
Porter Caldwell.
I gaze up at the sky. The moon looks almost exactly like the one Dane and I saw at Whiterock Beach, a shimmering white wedge. Was that only last month? We made love, we discussed the future.
It can’t all have been a lie.
“There’s no way Dane did that,” I finally say.
“Of course not,” Plum agrees, but she won’t look at me.