The Last Good Girl

by Allison Leotta

  Cooper handed her a granola bar and a bottle of water. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell Anna what you’re doing?”

  “Nope. If she knows, I’d be considered a government agent. But if I go on my own, I’m just a civilian—and I can do pretty much anything. Then she can use it afterward, untainted.”

  “Are you sure she wants you to do this?”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t. Which is exactly how it has to be.”

  Jody had a deep need to help her sister. Last year, Anna had come home and saved her after Jody was charged in a homicide case. Without her, Jody might have had her baby in jail, and almost certainly would be behind bars tonight and for years to come. She’d given Anna a hard time, but Anna had stuck by her.

  Jody admired what Anna was fighting for tonight. Jody herself had been sexually assaulted as a teenager—and the people in charge hadn’t helped her. She believed in taking matters into her own hands when the system failed. That’s what she was going to do tonight.

  “At least keep your cell phone on,” Grady said, “so we can track where you are.”

  “Yeah,” Cooper said. “Grady and I want a text from you every fifteen minutes. If we don’t hear from you, we’re coming.”

  “Okay.” Jody appreciated that Cooper didn’t try to stop her. “I hope Leigh behaves for you guys.”

  “Oh, she’s great,” Grady said. He kissed the baby’s head. “Even when she’s crying. She’s the best.”

  Jody cocked her head. “You know, you do look pretty good holding Leigh.”

  Grady’s smile was the biggest she’d ever seen on his face. Cooper reached over and stroked Leigh’s cheek.

  Jody said, “We’ll have to get you one of your own, Coop.”

  A shadow crossed Cooper’s face before he smiled. “I’ll work on that.”

  Jody left knowing her daughter was in good hands.

  • • •

  Half an hour later, Jody parked by the Beta Psi fraternity house. The sky was dark, but the building glowed with strategically placed exterior lights. She swallowed back a wave of nervousness, walked up the steps, and knocked on the door.

  A kid in a Beta Psi T-shirt opened it. “Yes?”

  He looked so young to her. She was twenty-six, and he couldn’t be more than eight years younger, but he seemed like a baby. Jody thought of college kids as being the same age as her. But, she realized, she’d passed them by. Seeing this baby boy made her pause, for just a moment, and think about where she’d be right now if she’d gone to college instead of straight to work on the GM assembly line. Some office job? Law school, like Anna? Would she even be in Michigan? But now wasn’t the time for self-reflection. Now, she just had to hope this boy didn’t think she looked as old as she felt.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling and cocking her hip to the side, in a way that said the world belonged to her. “I’m here to see Peter.”

  That was the thing about kids these days. They put everything up online. It was ridiculous. In less than ten minutes on a computer, Jody had discovered all she needed to know about Dylan Highsmith and his closest circle of friends. She knew Peter York was one of his best buddies. And Peter was out of town the next few days.

  The boy opened the door and gestured toward the back of the house. “Check the living room.”

  Jody thanked him and walked toward what she hoped was the living room. She recognized Dylan immediately. She’d gotten to know his handsome face online. He was sprawled on a couch, watching TV while scrolling through his cell phone. A bunch of boys, and a few girls, sat around him. Everyone held either a beer or a cell phone. She was kind of disappointed. She thought of college as this amazing world, a universe apart, where you went to become a better person. But this could be any living room of any autoworker in Flint, except autoworkers kept their living rooms a lot cleaner than this.

  Dylan looked up from his phone and let his gaze travel up and down her body. Jody met his eyes, liking the interest she saw there. He wanted her, and she could use that.

  “Help you?” Dylan straightened a fraction on the couch, the frat equivalent of standing when a woman walked in the room.

  “Yeah, hi. I’m looking for Peter,” Jody said in her best helpless-little-girl voice.

  “I’m sorry,” Dylan said. He actually got up from the couch, stepping over a couple guys. “He’s not here tonight. He went to visit his parents in Chicago.”

  “Oh no! I’m Jody. We’re supposed to study together tonight. Guess he stood me up.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be sorry to hear that he missed you.” Dylan put an arm casually around her shoulders. “It must’ve slipped his mind. He had to leave town unexpectedly; his mom needed surgery. I’m sure he’d want me to offer you some hospitality. Come on over, have a seat.”

  He shooed some kids to make room for Jody on the couch. She sat next to him.

  “Pledge!” Dylan addressed the kid who’d let her in. “Get this lovely lady a beer.”

  Jody watched the young man go to the mahogany bar in the corner. He opened a bottle of Bud Light; the top came off with a hiss. He brought the bottle to her. Since she’d seen it being opened, she wasn’t worried about it being drugged. She took a sip. It tasted fine.

  “So you’re Peter’s friend?” she asked innocently.

  Dylan shifted so his thigh was brushing hers. “Guilty as charged.”

  She sat watching TV with him, occasionally talking, making light jokey comments. Dylan kept sending the pledge to get more beer. The pledge kept bringing her fresh bottles, which she carefully watched him open. Soon Jody felt herself getting drunk—but just the familiar intoxication of alcohol. After two episodes and five beers, she knew she would have to pump and dump her milk when she got home; no way could she feed Leigh with the blood alcohol content she was acquiring.

  Just thinking about her baby made her breasts tingle. She looked down and saw that she had leaked milk right through her bra and onto her blouse.

  He probably wouldn’t notice the wetness on her shirt, she told herself. The only light in the room was from the TV. Plus, Dylan was a college kid. Even if he saw the wet spot he wouldn’t assume it was from a leaky mama’s boob. Just in case, she deliberately let her beer bottle tip, and some of it spattered down.

  “Oops.” She giggled.

  Dylan smiled and put his hand on her thigh. Finally. She met his eyes and took his hand off her leg. “I just met you,” she said.

  He smiled and removed his hand, the picture of gentlemanly restraint. But one commercial break later, his hand was back on her leg. Her breasts ached and throbbed. She felt more milk leaking out onto her shirt. If Dylan didn’t make a move soon, she was going to explode, or at least get mastitis.

  “Oh my God, I’m so drunk” she said. “I should go.”

  “No, this is the best part,” Dylan said, pointing to the TV. “You have to see this.”

  Her heartbeat accelerated as he got up and walked to the bar. He stood behind the counter and mixed a drink. His hands and the drink were out of her sight, hidden by the counter. He came back to the couch, holding two plastic Solo cups. Was it just her imagination or did one of the other boys give him a sly grin?

  Dylan handed her the cup. It was full of ice and red liquid. “We’re out of Bud. Do you like fruity drinks?”

  “Love ’em,” Jody said. In fact, she had some experience with date-rape drugs. They often tasted salty or bitter, but sweet or salty drinks could mask the taste. Smiling at Dylan, she dipped her index finger into the drink, in what she hoped was a subtle gesture. It was hard to tell. She was already pretty tipsy.

  “Cheers,” Dylan said.

  He held up his plastic cup. She did the same. They clinked softly against each other.

  “Cheers.” She smiled at him. She brought the cup to her mouth and pretended to drink. She could feel the cold liquid on her lips and hoped that those drops weren’t enough to do her in. She pretended to swallow and lowered the cup.

  Dylan was looki
ng deep into her eyes. If she didn’t know better, if she were, say, an eighteen-year-old girl at a frat for the first time, she might think he was looking at her that way because he really liked her.

  She took her index finger out of the drink and looked shyly down at her hand. The nail on the finger she’d dipped into the drink was now a dark purple—several shades darker than the lavender on the rest of her fingers.

  He’d slipped a roofie into her drink.

  Even though this was exactly what she’d come here for, her heart started to pound now that she saw the reality of it. If she drank this cocktail, she would black out. He would take her somewhere and do whatever he wanted to her. Maybe invite his friends to, also. The idea infuriated her as much as it terrified her. She became very aware of the fine line between safety and devastation.

  Shakily, she set the cup down on a coffee table. She stood. “I’ve gotta head out,” she said.

  “Wait,” Dylan said. “You didn’t finish your drink.”

  She walked toward the door. “Thanks for your hospitality.”

  He followed her into the foyer and put his hand on her arm. “Where are you going?”

  “I really need to go study.”

  “Come on up to my room.” He smiled at her. “You can study there.”

  She tried to pull her arm away. His grip tightened; she couldn’t break free. Her stomach dipped. She looked toward the living room. The people watching TV were blocked from view. She and Dylan were alone in the foyer.

  “That’s a nice offer,” Jody said. “But I—I don’t have my books.”

  “You said you came here to study with Peter.”

  “I, well—I was going to use his books.”

  “What class are you guys in together?”

  “Um, social studies. You’re hurting my arm.”

  “Who are you?” Dylan’s smile turned into something ugly. His fingers bit into her flesh. “What are you doing here?”

  VLOG

  RECORDED 12.1.15

  There’s awful, and then there’s the special brand of awful reserved for college sex-assault disciplinary hearings.

  I had to sit there and listen to Dylan lie and lie and lie. All these gory details about the hot, wet, acrobatic sex we had. While a student, a Ph.D., and a food-services lady tried to keep straight faces.

  Ugh.

  Ugh, ugh, ugh.

  I want to rip out someone’s hair. Dylan’s. Yolanda’s. Mine.

  It was in a seminar room in the English Department, like we were all there for a lecture on Nabokov. Which kinda made sense, since Dylan’s story was total fiction.

  Yolanda Skanadowski sat at the head of the table. She was supposed be like a judge or something, but mostly she sat there like a lump in oatmeal. The three “adjudicators” had been chosen by . . . God knows how. Not because they know how to handle rape cases. Seriously, it was a cafeteria worker from Holmes Hall, still wearing her name badge. A bald engineering Ph.D., who might know how machines work but has no idea about the mechanics of sex. And a pimply sophomore from Topeka.

  It’s like a trial, I guess, but there are no lawyers. No real judge either. Maybe it’s supposed to make you feel more relaxed? But all I got was the feeling that no one knew what the hell they were doing.

  The only person in the room who had any legal knowledge was—get this—Dylan. You could tell he’d been superprepared by some expensive lawyer. It wasn’t just in his words. It was in his whole way of sitting there. He walked in like Mr. Humble, head down, nodding respectfully at the panel. What a crock. Dylan Highsmith has never walked into a room like that in his life. Someone coached him on how to act like a nice young man. If only they’d done that twenty years ago. We wouldn’t’ve been there today.

  I had to go first. The whole time I’m talking, Dylan was sitting right next to me, so close he could have touched me. It was horrible. And he’s shaking his head sadly the whole time—when I said he drugged me, he raped me—not like it was so sad that he did it, but it’s so sad that I’m a crazy nutjob. I had to avoid looking at him most of the time, or I couldn’t have kept going. But I did look right at him when I said he took away my feeling of being in control of my own body. He rolled his eyes—let that nice-boy act slip for just one minute. I hope someone saw that. Then he was Mr. Humble again.

  He sucks. But you know what? The panel sucked even worse.

  The student from Topeka asked if I was into Dylan when I first met him. Okay, fair enough, I did like him. Topeka asked if I wanted to hook up with Dylan when we went upstairs. I guess I thought we might kiss or something. He asked if I started kissing Dylan. I did not. At least not when I was awake and conscious—who knows what he did to me when I was passed out. So then Topeka asked, was it possible that I was acting in a blackout? That I was just drunk, not drugged? No, not possible, I said. He asked if I remembered Dylan’s hand on my breast? No. Did I remember my nipples getting hard? Definitely no. Did I remember him taking off my panties? No. Did I remember him fingering my vagina? Was I moaning? Was I wet? No, no, no. God, no.

  That’s when I saw that Topeka had his hand under the table, moving rhythmically. I think he was playing with himself! I stared at him, and he stopped, but later on he started again. I couldn’t even process it.

  Anyway, that’s when the engineering Ph.D. jumped in, with all his brilliant questions. How do I know I wasn’t aroused if I can’t remember? How do I know I wasn’t saying yes to everything Dylan did? Maybe I was wet? How wet do I normally get during arousal?

  Oh my God. I’m like, shut up. I mean, I didn’t actually say that. But I wanted to.

  Meanwhile, Dylan’s just sitting there, looking respectful and serious.

  I started to tell them how Dylan’s raped other girls. And that’s the one time he interrupted. All polite and formal. “Excuse me,” Dylan said. “But I think this was discussed before the hearing, and it was decided that no other relationships would be mentioned.”

  Yolanda flipped through some papers and nodded. “Yes, that’s true,” she said. “Emily, please stick to the events of September 1, 2014. That’s all we’re here to talk about today.”

  It’s bullshit. Of course it matters that he’s done this before. But whatever, it’s like they don’t even care. Or they don’t want to hear it, because then they’d have to do something about it.

  Then it was his turn to speak. It was all such an act. Totally scripted. Dylan turned to the panelists and meekly introduced himself. “Hello, I’m Dylan Highsmith. I’m nervous and scared about these proceedings, but respect the work of the panel and the effort you are going through to find the right solution for all the parties here.” Christ. He sounded like a very polite young paralegal. Then he turned to me. “And I would like to start by apologizing to Emily. Emily, I’m sorry you left my room feeling the way you did. I thought we had a wonderful night together, one that we both enjoyed. I would never want you to feel used. Obviously, you did, because here we are. But I want you to know, I never intended for you to feel that way.”

  It was so obnoxious. Like this was about some strange way I ended up feeling instead of some terrible way he’d acted. I’m just oversensitive. And the engineering prof is nodding his head sagely, like, yeah, he totally gets this. I wanted to scream.

  So then Dylan goes into his song and dance about what happened. It’s all pretty much true until we get to his bedroom. Instead of me passing out, he has me hitting on him. I kissed him; I took off his pants; I stripped myself down. I told him how to touch me: harder, faster, a little to the left. I’m riding him like a cowboy.

  The three panelists were looking at me, imagining me doing all these things. Two men and one woman, who I’ve never met before and hope never to meet again.

  I have never felt so gross in my entire life.

  It’s not supposed to be this way. I read the University Handbook. We’re supposed to get a fair hearing where everyone feels comfortable and heard. Easier said than done, I know. But still. This was horr
ible.

  And now I just have to wait. They’ve taken the case “under consideration” and will render an opinion “in due course.” What does that even mean?

  So I go home and it’s been, obviously, like one of the worst days of my life. I open the door to our suite, and Preya and Whitney are sprawled on the couch, eating pizza and watching Say Yes to the Dress. I shouldn’t be surprised; life goes on, and I hadn’t told anyone what was happening today. But still it was so weird to see regular life just meandering along.

  I don’t know why—I’ve kept it inside all this time—but I sat down and told them everything. What Dylan did three months ago. Why I’ve been so depressed all semester. The kangaroo court today. Preya turned off the TV and patted my back and was supportive in her quiet way.

  Whitney was furious, though. Not at Dylan. At me. For bringing charges. She said it was going to ruin the frat, make them stop throwing parties, get them shut down. She said I wasn’t raped—I just had morning-after regrets. I was angry Dylan hadn’t called. I wanted attention and the “status” of being a rape victim. Yeah, because being a rape victim is so much fun!

  I should’ve known. Whitney is obsessed with Beta Psi. She’s been hanging out with this Peter guy, not dating, obviously, because those guys don’t date, but answering all his booty calls and generally following him around like a puppy. “The guys are going to be at Lucky’s at eleven o’clock!” she’ll say, and be sure to be there at 11:15. She’s so up in their business, she could be Beta Psi’s official scheduler.

  So she yelled at me for a while, then demanded I drop the charges. I laughed in her face. I haven’t gotten this far in the process to call up Yolanda and tell her I was just kidding. Fuck Dylan. And fuck Whitney too. I said that.

  Whitney’s face got as red as her Marry Me lipstick, and she stood up and screamed so much, spit was flying out of her mouth. All these dire threats: I’ll be blackballed, I’ll be an outcast, I’ll never be invited to another party again.

  Like I want to go to parties. I told Whitney exactly how much she scared me. And then I told her what I’ve thought of her from day one. She’s a spoiled, selfish, shallow, coked-out ditz who only got into Tower because her parents donated their way in. And her nose job sucks.