“No.” She shakes her head. “Why should I be?”
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
She shrugs but looks a little uneasy.
I glance around to be sure no one is listening, and it looks safe. “Do you know the names of other girls who might’ve gone out with Harris, you know, during those brief breakup times? I remember you mentioned something about it before.”
“Why are you asking me this?”
“Because there’s a concern that I might not have been Harris’s only victim,” I say in a hushed tone.
Her eyes get bigger. “Oh.”
I can tell she knows something. “Maybe we could talk during lunch. Would that be okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Please,” I beg. “At least hear me out. Okay?”
Her gaze darts around, as if she thinks someone might be watching.
“Please,” I say again. “What he did was wrong, Libby, illegal. If he gets away with it … well, then we’ll be to blame for any future victims.”
“Okay,” she says in a tight voice. “Meet me in the library, in the magazine section. Don’t be late.” Then she turns back to her lab and I go back to mine.
After biology I tell Zach about what I’m doing. “Do you think you could sort of watch to be sure no one else sees us? Libby is afraid to be seen talking to me.”
“Sure,” he agrees. “No problem.”
I feel high expectations as Zach and I hurry to the library after fourth period, but when I get there, Libby is nowhere to be seen. “Do you think she chickened out?” Zach asks as we sit in the comfortable easy chairs to wait.
“I hope not.”
Then just as we’re ready to give up, Libby comes in through a back door. She motions to me from behind a bookshelf and I hurry to join her. “I probably shouldn’t be doing this,” she tells me.
“Yes, you should.” Then I explain about the police’s theory that I might not be an isolated case but how the lack of evidence is a concern. “If other girls have been hurt like me, their stories need to come out too. Otherwise, Harris could just keep doing this. Do you want him to get away with it?”
She shakes her head, then hands me a slip of paper. “I made a list.”
“Thanks!”
“And I have no idea if those girls went through what you did. I suspect a lot of them knew exactly what they were getting into. But there’s a couple — I put stars by their names — who might have a story to tell.”
“This is great, Libby.”
“I left one name off the list.”
“One name?” I’m confused.
“Mine.”
I try not to look shocked. “Really?”
“Last summer. I … well … I was the mystery girl Harris was with for a short while.”
“So … did Harris, uh, did he hurt you?” I lower my voice. “I mean, did he rape you?”
She just nods and there are tears in her eyes. “
I’m sorry.”
“I … well, I should’ve known better. I’d heard stories. But somehow I thought I’d be different. I thought he was really done with Emery. And I believed him when he said he loved me.”
“I’m sad to say I know how you feel. Well, except I really didn’t know better.”
“I tried to warn you, Haley.”
I frown. “You never said a word to me.”
“I wrote you a note. Didn’t you get it?”
A wave of regret rushes through me. “Yes, but it was anonymous … and I didn’t believe it.”
She shakes her head sadly. “I know I should’ve told you in person.”
I sigh. “That might’ve made a difference. But that’s exactly why we can’t afford to remain silent now, Libby. Other girls need to be protected and it’s up to us to blow the lid off this thing.”
She still looks uneasy. “Well, you have the list.”
I thank her and tuck the list into my jeans pocket, then we go our separate ways. Zach is still waiting for me and I give him a thumbs-up. We hurry to the cafeteria, where we both grab a quick lunch and I explain that I want to take the list to Mrs. Evanston. “She can get it to the police,” I tell him as we walk toward the office. We just catch her returning from her own lunch and she invites us into her office.
“Here’s a list of names.” I hand her the paper. “I don’t even know who most of these girls are, and some might not have been actual victims, but some probably were. And there’s one name not on the list.” Now I tell her about Libby.
Mrs. Evanston shakes her head, and her eyes grow wide when she reads the list. “This is so wrong … so sad … on so many levels.”
“So you’ll see that the police or the DA or whatever gets it?”
“Of course, but I’d like to do more than just that.” She looks hopefully at me. “It would help if I had your cooperation.”
“My cooperation?” I feel worried now. All I want is for all this to be over and to get a life back with some semblance of normality.
“I’d like to invite a special counselor in. Someone who knows how to help victims of rape. I’d like to set up some group therapy for the girls who suffered.”
“Why do you need my cooperation?”
“I’d like you to help lead the group.”
“Me?” I blink. “Lead a group of rape victims? I don’t think so.”
“I know it probably sounds overwhelming right now, but maybe you could give it some time … just think about it.”
“I’ll think about it, and I might even attend a group like that. But leading it … well, I just can’t imagine doing that.”
She thanks me for the list, and Zach and I hurry off to art, where we are all busily getting things ready for Thursday night’s fall art fair. It feels good to be busy like this. I love that Ms. Flores is comfortable asking me to do things to help — the kinds of things I’m comfortable doing, not leading a group of rape victims!
……….
During the next couple of days, rumors circulate regarding Harris. Mostly I try to ignore them, but it’s impossible not to hear some things. Finally I decide that perhaps it’s better not to be like an ostrich with my head buried, and I ask Zach if he can bring me up to date.
Apparently he’s been paying attention, because according to him, Harris is currently (1) out on bail, (2) claiming he’s innocent, (3) hiring an expensive attorney, and (4) planning a countersuit against me for defamation of character and other things. I don’t even know how to respond to this news. But Zach hugs me and assures me that it will be okay. However, I have my doubts. Lots and lots of doubts.
As Dad drives me to the art fair, I tell him the latest news.
“Don’t let Harris get to you. I’m sure he’s just trying to intimidate you. He’s obviously used to getting his way. But I’m sure no judge will be interested in hearing a countersuit in a case like this.”
“Well, it’s still pretty intimidating,” I confess.
“Even so, you need to stick to your guns, Haley. The truth will eventually come out. I’m sure of it. Just be strong, sweetie. In due time, this will all be behind you.”
I wish I felt as confident as Dad. As we go into the school, where lots of parents are visiting tonight, what little self-assurance I had built up in regard to the art fair is quickly unraveling.
“Hold your head high.” Dad pats me on the back. “You know who you are and it doesn’t matter what others say or think.”
“Right.” I try to make a brave smile, then leave him at our improvised “coffeehouse” while I go to find my pottery station. Since I knew I was doing something messy, throwing pots, I dressed pretty casually tonight. Just jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, plus I put my hair in two braids. At the time it made sense, but now that I’m seeing a lot of the students dressed up and stylish, I’m not so sure. Just the same, I take my place at the potting wheel and, focusing on my work, I get started.
Zach waves to me from the table where he’s doing block p
rinting, as does Poppie from where she’s sitting in front of an easel, working on a canvas. Before long a group of grade school kids come over and start to watch me. I casually tell them what I’m doing, field some of their questions, and am just starting to feel good about this whole thing when I sense someone staring at me.
I pause, wiping my hands on the rag in my lap, and look up to see a middle-aged couple scowling at me. I have no idea how I know this, but I am absolutely certain that these tall and relatively attractive people are Harris’s parents.
I lock eyes with the woman for a moment, but there is so much pure hatred in her expression that I’m forced to turn away. Seriously, if looks could kill, I’d be a goner. As it is, my hands start to shake and I’m worried that I’m going to blow this pot, which I’d hoped to transform into a bowl.
I dip my hands in water. God, please, please, please help me through this uncomfortable moment. It’s not the first time I’ve prayed lately, but it might be the most desperate time. My hands are trembling.
“Why are you getting your hands wet?” a boy with dark curly hair asks me.
“That helps to smooth out the pot.” I carefully hold my hands on the clay. “See how much smoother it’s getting?”
“Can I try it?” he asks.
I’m tempted to say no, worried that he’ll mess it up. But I could just as easily mess it up if my hands don’t stop shaking. “Sure. Come over here and dip your hands in the water, and I’ll let you give it a try. You have to be gentle though.”
With wide eyes he comes over and I instruct him on what to do. “That feels cool,” he says as his hands cup the pot. “It’s so smooth.”
“That’s because of the water.”
Just then he presses too hard and the whole thing goes lopsided and flops over. He jumps back, holding his hands in the air. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do that.”
“It’s okay.”
“But I ruined it,” he says sadly. “I’m really sorry.”
“Really, it’s okay. Clay is totally reusable and very forgiving. If you ruin a pot during this stage, it’s no big deal.” I glance over to see Harris’s parents still standing there, looking like they want to kill me. “It’s after the pottery has been fired in the kiln that it hurts to mess with it.”
I point to my finished pots displayed nearby. “Now, if you dropped and broke one of those, I might not be too happy. That damage would be permanent and unfixable.” I throw the lump of clay into the slop bucket and smile at the boy. “But at this stage, I’ll just start over.” As I wedge a fresh piece of clay, I explain the process of removing the air bubbles and why this is so important.
“You mean it’d really explode in the kiln,” the curly haired boy asks, “like a bomb?”
I nod as I slam the ball of clay onto the wheel — bull’s-eye. “Yes, and the exploding pot wouldn’t be the only one ruined. It would probably damage all the other pottery sitting around it.” I glance back up at the woman. “Kind of like when someone does something bad, like breaking the law, and everyone around him ends up suffering because of it. It’s not fair, but that’s just how it goes.”
The woman blinks in surprise. But the next time I look up, the couple has moved past my station. Meanwhile the kids stay on, talking about everything from exploding bombs to the case of a neighbor’s stolen dog. I am grateful for their friendly company.
Toward the end of the event, Ms. Flores and Dad come over. “I told your dad I’d let you take a break,” she says to me. “So you can show him around a little. Sound good?”
I nod and wipe my hands on a rag. “My shoulders are starting to ache.” As I clean up, Dad and Ms. Flores chat congenially, almost like they’re old friends, and I realize how nice it is to see Dad with a woman who’s not only intelligent and good but also closer to his age. Not that I’m playing matchmaker, but it is reassuring.
I show Dad around and even introduce him to some of my friends like Zach and Poppie. Then as we’re getting a snack at the “coffeehouse,” I tell him about the couple I suspect was Harris’s parents and how they gave me the icy treatment.
“Are they still here?” Dad glances around as if he’d like to have a word with them.
“I don’t see them now.”
“Probably a good thing.”
All in all, the fall art fair turned out to be surprisingly fun. Despite the moment of discomfort with Harris’s parents, I enjoyed myself. And by the time Dad and I are driving home, I feel stronger. Maybe this battle will be won by baby steps — one at a time.
However, I’m learning that recovering from rape is a slow and unpredictable process. Later on, awakened in the middle of the night, I’m so shaken and frightened that hot tears stream down my cheeks and I feel sick to my stomach. I barely remember details of the nightmare — just the very real sensations of suffocation, pure fear, and complete desperation. But I know it was about the rape … and all I can do is pray, begging God to hold me in his arms and comfort me.
……….
Zach turns out to be right about a couple of things. For one, Ben Stiles does turn out be a fantastic quarterback. He joins the varsity team and continues leading them through a nearly perfect season and then on to state, where Mitchell takes third place. Already there is talk of college scholarship possibilities for Ben, and no one disputes the fact that he has far more athletic potential than Harris.
The other thing Zach was mostly right about is that everyone at school really has seemed to move on. Other than Emery and a few of her closest friends, no one is treating me much like poison now. Not that I have any desire to be around those kids anymore. I have my own circle of friends now — a combination of art and music kids — and a place where I can be myself.
Mrs. Evanston, true to her word, did locate a counselor from the women’s crisis center, and so far she’s helped with three group counseling sessions where I actually stepped up to the task and acted as the leader. Fortunately, Bonnie (the counselor) handles the tough stuff. I just organize things, make sure the girls know about it, and get snacks brought in. The first meeting only has three girls, including me, but to my surprise it’s a girl who wasn’t even raped by Harris who opens up.
“It was a neighbor boy who raped me,” Elise tells us with lowered eyes. “I was only thirteen when it happened. He was in high school and I couldn’t believe he was being so nice to me. And even though my mom told me not to spend time with him, I honestly believed he really liked me. I know now that it was dumb. He was just grooming me, telling me what he knew I wanted to hear … so he could get what he wanted.”
She takes in a deep breath. “He asked me to show him the playhouse in our backyard, and I stupidly took him out there.” She shudders. “And you know what happened after that.”
“Did you tell?” I ask her. “Was he arrested?”
She shakes her head no.
“You have to tell,” I urge her. “You can’t let him get away with that, Elise.”
She looks up with tearful brown eyes. “But it’s been more than two years.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Bonnie tells her. “You still need to report it. You might be able to prevent someone else’s victimization.”
“What happened after you were raped?” the other girl asks. “I mean, did it ever happen again?”’
“No way!” Elise’s eyes darken. “I would never let him … even if he wanted to. I hate him.”
Bonnie takes over, explaining the steps Elise needs to take. And she talks about the stages of grief that happen after an experience like that. Something about Elise’s vulnerability as she told her story helps us to chime in too, and by the end of the first session, Elise actually seems encouraged. We all hug and promise to come back next week.
Thanks to word-of-mouth “advertising,” our numbers double in our second meeting. And by our third meeting ten girls are present. The purpose of the meetings is to give girls a forum to talk and learn and form a kind of solidarity. And I’m surprised at how air
ing our stories makes everyone feel better. It’s like a load gets lifted from our shoulders.
Elise takes Bonnie’s advice by filing a police report. It takes about a month before a small group of girls complete police reports regarding Harris. According to the district attorney, the case against Harris is getting stronger all the time and, if all goes well, his trial is expected to be scheduled for after the new year.
I try not to think about that because I have to testify and I’m still not sure how I’m going to handle that. But having our group therapy sessions is making me stronger every time. And knowing that I won’t be the only one testifying is hugely reassuring. There truly is comfort in numbers.
Still, if I could just bury the whole thing without anyone else getting hurt and pretend that none of this ever happened to me, I gladly would. It’s not easy surviving something like that. Fortunately, I don’t think about it all the time. Sometimes I go a whole day without thinking about it. Then, sometimes, just when I think I’m doing better, I experience another horrible dream. I wake up sweating and shaking and frightened, and I am reminded — like a slap in the face — that it was real. All too real.
Occasionally something happens at school where I suddenly feel self-conscious and insecure and just plain negative about myself — as if I really am damaged beyond repair. But then I try to remember that God is able to fix me. At least that’s what I’m trying to believe. Sometimes it seems too good to be true.
...[CHAPTER 19].................
As it gets closer to Christmas, I am feeling much stronger, and I ask Dad if we can invite my brother to join us for the holidays.
“I’d love to have Sean come down here,” he tells me. “But Sean hasn’t been speaking to me.”
“What if I call him and ask?” I suggest.
“Great. And if you can talk him into coming, I’ll pay for his plane ticket.”
So after school I make the call. Naturally, my mom is the one who answers. As usual, she sounds grumpy … and pious. “My ladies’ group has been praying for you. They’re all very worried about your spiritual well-being, Haley. You and your father are in a dangerous place.”
Damaged Page 15