Something Happened to Ali Greenleaf

by Hayley Krischer

  * * *

  * * *

  We stretch her out in the back seat of the car, pulling and unfolding her limp body. All of us breathing heavy. Checking her pulse like Nurse Chiltarn taught us in health class.

  “This seems like a long time for her to be out, B,” Cate says, panting. “This just seems like a really long time.”

  Suki leans over Donnie’s face and shakes her. Hard. “Wake up, Donnie! Wake up, Donnie, you idiot!” Then right in her face, her mouth so close to hers. “We are taking you to the hospital! Can you hear me!”

  Donnie opens her eyes.

  “You’re not taking me to the hospital,” she says. Coughing, her eyes blinking as if she’s trying to focus but she can’t.

  Suki starts crying. Really crying. Rolls off Donnie and crawls backward out of the car. Sits on a rock.

  My eyes are closed. Listening to the hum of Suki’s cries. She’s in the car now. Up front. Shotgun like she always wants. I’m in the back with Donnie on my lap and I feel us moving. The windows are open. Like it’s any other night. Like it’s the four of us just cruising.

  But everything is different now. We all know this. That none of it’s the same.

  “Take me somewhere easy. I just want to go somewhere easy,” Donnie whispers.

  If only there was such a place.

  I fold over her chest. Surrender to the night. Suki twists her body back to me and reaches her hand out to grab mine.

  “You know when you just have no more left?” Donnie says, licking her dry lips.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “It’s like that.”

  “I know,” I say. “I know.”

  52

  ALI

  It’s on the plane back to New Jersey that I decide to report what happened to me. I don’t know what clicked. I think it was the thought of Sean Nessel getting his Christmas presents and feeling relieved, like the worst part of his life was finally behind him and how did he get so lucky to escape it? I imagine him sitting there like a child who got everything he wanted from Santa and how maybe he’d go off to college and do the same thing to other girls that he did to me. How easy it would be for him.

  That’s when I decided that I didn’t want to make things easy for him. I saw way deep into the future, where one day someone like Sean Nessel would exist as a powerful figure, in charge, making decisions. Where his past would completely escape him. Where rumors would be dismissed as teenage antics because nothing was actually on the record. This doesn’t mean that this is the right choice for everyone. But right now, this feels right to me.

  * * *

  * * *

  That night. Home with my dad. I explain it all to him. My nose wrinkles from the smell of my words. Ever have that happen to you? Your words stink so bad that you can smell it— It’s like that awful rotten-egg stink.

  My father whimpers an awful sound of defeat. He looks around the room. Sits on his hands. Scrubs his hair. He is not ready to process this. I try to hold it together for him. My tears would just make it worse. I’m going to be okay, Daddy, I want to tell him.

  I show him the article. I want him to see how people responded to me, all the supportive comments.

  “You wrote this?”

  “Thank Sheila the She Woman,” I say. “I went Deep Throat.”

  He laughs until he cries. My dad rests his head on my shoulder and leaves it there like that for a minute. “I don’t want to let you go. Ever.”

  Everything is going to change.

  53

  ALI

  Your dad calls the police station, and they say they can come to your house in about a half an hour.

  Two women. One is named Phyllis. Phyllis looks like a mom. She has that mom haircut, short on the sides, slightly longer in the back. Phyllis is from the county’s Rape Crisis Center. The other is Detective Bolero. She’s from the Special Victims Unit, yes, as in SVU, and you almost bust out laughing because it makes you sound like you’re on television.

  These women don’t laugh, and they don’t think your self-deprecating jokes are funny.

  Detective Bolero is nice enough, her voice calm and low, and she asks you questions while you sit there with your dad. You become someone else. Someone else who has to tell your story to strangers. About your crush. About drinking at a party with a boy you don’t even know.

  You have your notepad with you. They ask you what you’re writing, and you say you’re a journalist. That you want to document this. They tell you it’s good to write things down, but they don’t really mean it, do they?

  Now Phyllis talks. That’s when your dad walks out of the room. Phyllis is so sorry this happened to you.

  “Can you help me understand what you’re able to remember about your experience?” Phyllis asks.

  You don’t feel like you’re able to tell her any of it. You don’t want to tell her any of it, ever.

  But you do. That’s why they’re here.

  “Tell me what you need, Ali,” she says.

  Yet you can’t. You keep thinking about what Sean Nessel said to you on the field a few weeks ago.

  So that’s what you tell her. Not about that night. Not about what happened in that room. You tell Phyllis that on the field, in the bleachers, you confronted him.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he was sorry for getting carried away.”

  “That must have been a really traumatic moment for you.”

  You close your eyes. You don’t want to do this. You’re away now. That’s all you want to concentrate on now. Being far away.

  Phyllis hands you a tissue. She wants to know if you feel safe in school. If you feel threatened. But surprisingly, you don’t.

  That’s when you tell her about that night. And Phyllis tells you she believes you.

  Your dad walks the detective and Phyllis to the door and you tremble. It’s a vibration that you only feel from the inside, and you hear a low ringing in your ears. You close your eyes to get it to stop, but it’s still there, humming away across your arms, up at the back of your skull. Your father says something to you, tells you what might happen next, but you don’t hear a word he says. He takes your hand. But you don’t want to hold hands.

  You don’t want anyone to speak to you. To touch you.

  54

  ALI

  The next day. I’m scared to go to school, but I’m also scared to stay home. My dad wants to homeschool me. He wants to lock me in a room and keep me safe forever. I practically have to beg him to let me go.

  At school, Sammi right next to me, I open my locker door and about ten notes topple out. They float to the ground like valentines. I look around the hallway. I guess they’re notes from Blythe and the Core Four, more slut-shaming left over from before I went to T or C.

  But then I open the first one.

  Ali,

  I was raped by a junior at another school just a few months ago. He told me if I would just relax, I would enjoy it. I’ve been walking around holding it in for so long. I’m not sure if your article is real or not, but either way, it doesn’t matter. It gave me the courage to talk about this. Thank you for that. Thank you, thank you, thank you, and I’m sorry that you had to go through your experience just so I could talk about mine.

  —Rachel, a freshman

  I look around the hallway, clutching the note in my hand. There are faces everywhere, people I’ve never even noticed before, who now are staring at me for long periods of time. Like they want to talk to me and bare their soul. Or want to hit me in the face.

  I pick up all the notes. And I don’t know what to do with them. There are too many to read, Sammi says. It’s too overwhelming and not healthy and I don’t need that right now.

  “I have to read them,” I say. “They wrote to me in confidence.”

  “Let me do it, then. I�
�ll read them all. One by one. I promise.”

  * * *

  * * *

  It’s later that night and Sammi calls me. She read through them all. But there’s one that she wants to tell me about. It took her by surprise. It’s from Blythe.

  “I was going to chuck it in the garbage, you understand that, right?”

  “I do.”

  “But I thought it was the right thing to tell you. She sounds sincere. Though who knows with her. I still hate her, you know that, right?”

  “I know,” I say. And then she reads it to me.

  Dear Ali,

  I know you might rip this up once you realize it’s me. I might rip it up too if I were you.

  There’s no forgiving me for what I’ve done. I made some really bad choices. Choices! How absurd for me to use that word, choice. I did awful things. I did things that I can’t excuse.

  I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me, but I’m deeply, deeply sorry.

  You were one of the truest friends I’ve ever had.

  I’m so moved by what you wrote that I think I wanted to lash out at you for it. I was so embarrassed about my part in it. So ashamed that I was manipulated by him too. I lost control, and I never lose control. My therapist says that I was angry at myself for trusting him, for trying to take care of him, and I wanted to take that out on you. (I know it’s ridiculous to mention my therapist in this apology letter, but if I’m going to come clean, I have to give her credit.) I was so jealous of your ability to stand up for yourself. I’ve only been able to do that by pulling other people down. Isn’t that tragic?

  Anyway, I’m writing to tell you my story because I saw that other people were writing you too. I saw them putting notes in your locker. So many girls! And I asked them what they were doing.

  Sharing stories, they told me.

  I have a story too.

  It’s about the Initiation.

  I’d like to go public with it. Maybe something for the Underground? Maybe something that would call attention to it? So it could finally stop. Maybe you could help me figure out how to do that. I’m not much of a writer. I wouldn’t know the first thing to say.

  Maybe we can talk.

  Maybe I can apologize to you. You don’t have to forgive me.

  —B

  55

  BLYTHE

  I know Ali’s schedule, so I sit outside her last period class. Everything feels blurry. The whole thing like a bad dream.

  I keep thinking about what my therapist said. That I wasn’t present in my life. That my ego took over. But mostly it was rage, she said. That I’ve had rage buried for years. About my mom, my dad. About the Initiation. Sean. I have to work on my rage.

  Donnie says Ali’s never going to forgive me, and why should she? Why does she need me as a friend after what I did to her? But I have to see for myself. I have to try at least. I have to at least see Ali’s face. Donnie won’t have much to say for the next three months anyway since after that last incident at the cliffs, her mother sent her to rehab. Who knows if she’ll even come back to school.

  Me, Suki, and Cate decided to quit drinking even if it’s just for a month. I need to get clear. I need to understand myself. To grab hold of my life.

  Ali’s last out the door. And then she sees me.

  Everyone walks past me. Because that’s what people do now. They pass me like I’m a ghost. Like I don’t exist. Maybe I like it. Maybe I don’t want to be the center of attention. I don’t want people to admire me. I don’t want people to bow down to me. I’m not a good person. They all know this about me already. They sneer. And I take it. It’s part of my punishment.

  Ali walks over to me. I don’t even have to chase her.

  “How was Truth or Consequences?” I say.

  “What do you want, Blythe?” she says, sharp and cold.

  “I fucked up,” I say. “I was so mad at you. I was so angry. So jealous of how strong you were. How strong you are. I wanted you to hurt the way I was hurting. I was hurt for irrational reasons. I thought you owed me an explanation. I thought you owed me coverage. I didn’t think about you. I only thought about myself.”

  “It took my neighbor two hours to power-wash that shit off my sidewalk.”

  She hovers over me. Like she may kick me. And I’d deserve it.

  “I understand if you never trust me again. I’m not a good person—and I’m not saying this because I want you to be, like, ‘No, B, you’re a good person. You’re a great person, B—’”

  “For one, I’ve never called you ‘B.’”

  “True. True.”

  “And I would never let you off the hook like that.”

  My face just melts a bit. I can feel it, isn’t that odd? It just falling down, my mouth turning into a deep pout. The corners of my lips tightening.

  “I don’t know what to do.” I cover my face with my hands. “I’m so embarrassed for the way I acted. I’m so ashamed.”

  I can’t even look at Ali. I can’t lift my hands up without all that horror.

  “I can’t make this better for you,” she says.

  “I don’t expect you to.”

  I wipe my wet face. She stares at me carefully. Waiting.

  “I think your story is worth telling if you want to tell it. You mentioned that in your letter. About the Initiation. You can talk to Terrance. Pitch it to him for the Underground. But it’s not going to be easy. Because people are going to look at you.”

  “They already look at me, Ali.” I pause. I want to hold on to this moment. I have so much more to say to her. About Sean. About Donnie. About Dev. About how awful I feel. How low and detached I feel. That maybe they should put me in an institution after this. Maybe they will. “Can I walk with you?”

  Ali’s mouth just opens. She can’t contain the irony. And she finally smiles. Not a real smile. More like a smirk.

  “I have rules to you walking with me.”

  “I’m sure you do,” I say, smiling. The first time in weeks. Smiling because of Ali. She really does make me smile. “I’m sure you do.”

  The hallways after school have this lingering stink of bodies, all of us crammed in here day after day. But if you stay long enough, about an hour after everyone leaves, there’s this fresh breeze that sneaks through as people open and shut the doors.

  The few people who are left stare at the two of us together. I am a pariah.

  I pretend there’s an arrow on the floor, a neon arrow that says start here, and I follow that. Hold my head up. Keep my posture up. That’s all I can do.

  56

  ALI

  It’s right before winter break. A dusting of snow on the ground. Everything so white and crisp. Blythe walks into Ms. Tap’s sexual assault group with me.

  There are about ten girls in the room and they glare at Blythe. They are not happy Blythe is here. Anyone can see that. They don’t care that she did community service for spray-painting my sidewalk. She and Suki and Cate. They don’t care that she spoke to the police about Sean Nessel. That she’s being cooperative in the investigation. That she’s going to testify in front of a grand jury even though he gets to walk around free on bail until the investigation goes in front of a judge. Raj thinks he’s going to have to go to community college because no school will take him now. I say he takes a gap year. Makes it look intentional.

  Blythe has come completely clean. After her article in the Underground went viral, she told the police all about the Initiation. I heard she went into the police station by herself. No parents. No friends. Just her and a lawyer.

  Amanda Shire was charged with endangering the welfare of a child, a sexual hazing ritual, and a conspiracy to commit aggravated criminal sexual contact. But it doesn’t seem fair that a girl, a woman now, should take the fall for all that. Even someone like Amanda Shire. She didn’t do this on he
r own. The Initiation might have been her brainchild, but she needed help implementing it.

  At first, people didn’t even seem outraged about the Initiation. They said, It was so long ago. That girls like Blythe and Donnie agreed to be in that room with those boys. No one held their heads down. No one chained them up. No one sat on top of them. It wasn’t a gang rape. Alex Kramer, the guy Blythe was paired with, saw it as a hookup. That’s what he told people. Nothing more. He’s planning to go to law school now, someone told Blythe. This kind of thing will ruin his life. Someone said that to her without irony.

  But then a reporter at The Star-Ledger who read Blythe’s article in the Underground wrote a front-page story about the Initiation. That fourteen-year-old girls were giving oral sex to eighteen-year-old athletes. That eighteen-year-old girls orchestrated it. There was an emergency school board meeting. Just the other day, I saw an article about it on CNN.com. Dateline is doing a story now. A letter went out from the superintendent.

  Still, people want Blythe to pay. These girls in Ms. Tap’s group watch her carefully. Their eyes heavy, staring at her. They don’t understand how I could even talk to her after what she did. How I could forgive her. And I don’t forgive her. I don’t see it that way.

  “Thanks for letting me sit next to you,” she whispers.

  So much of what she and I have been through feels so far away. Maybe we were different people then. Maybe now, we’re more stripped down. Like we’re meeting each other for the first time.

  I look at her and wonder if I know Blythe. Really know her. I don’t, of course. The Blythe I knew wouldn’t have sat in this room. A room full of girls with stories to tell. A girl whose cousin molested her at six years old. A girl whose boyfriend held her down. A girl who woke up naked not knowing what happened. There’s a girl from last year’s Initiation here too. There will be more girls like Blythe here.