Going Under

by S. Walden

  Parker’s first bowl was a strike. Big deal. His second bowl was a strike, too. Slightly bigger deal. He sauntered back over to me and lifted his hand in the air. Did he expect me to high-five him? Get real.

  “Come on, grouch,” Parker said. “I promise to stop being mean to you if you’ll high-five me.”

  I stared at him perplexed. “Just like that? Yeah right. You know, I don’t know what your problem was with me in the first place.”

  “Look, I was having a bad day, okay?” he said.

  “Are you serious? So you were having a bad day when I ran into you at school? And another one when I took Gretchen away from you at the party? And another when you freaking tripped me on the bleachers? You know, I could have broken a tooth or something!”

  “Take it easy,” Parker said.

  “You take it easy,” I snapped. “Oh yeah. I almost forgot the diner! Were you having a bad day then when you insulted me?”

  Parker rubbed his forehead.

  “Yeah, rub your forehead. It’s sooo exasperating being called out for acting like a complete asshole.”

  “Anyone care to watch me bowl?” Cal asked, grabbing his ball from the ball return.

  “Sure!” Gretchen said. She smiled at me. It was a smile that said, “I don’t have a clue what’s going on right now, and so help me God, you’re gonna tell me everything when this horrible group date is over.”

  I returned my own smile. It said, “How many years would I get for bashing Parker’s head in with my bowling ball?”

  Cal bowled, and Gretchen and I acted impressed because we figured that’s what he wanted. I knew in my heart I annihilated any chance of setting him up for rape charges. It was the most ludicrous feeling: disappointment for ruining my chances of getting pseudo-sexually assaulted. I thought up until now I was simply teetering on the edge of insanity. Now I knew I had toppled over, and I wasn’t sure where to go from there. I didn’t know what Beth would have me do, and as I sat beside one nemesis while watching the other bowl a spare, I wanted to cry for my failure.

  Fourteen

  It was time to get to work. I woke up Monday morning with a new resolution. Well, several resolutions. Number One: Make Beth a priority. Remember my purpose. Number Two: Discover the rest of the boys in the Fantasy Slut League responsible for raping girls. Number Three: Warn the girls scheduled to play in the next game about the boys’ intentions. (I wasn’t sure how to go about this yet, but it was one of my resolutions.) Number Four: Make Ryan fall in love with me.

  I resigned myself to my fate with Cal. After our horrid date, I assumed he’d lost interest. I showed him exactly who I was: not the sweet, shy, timid girl I tried to portray at registration so many months back. Nope. I had a smart mouth and a hot temper, neither of which made me a good candidate for molestation. Surely Cal would cut all ties with me, especially since I verbally trashed his friend. My only chance at justice lay in exposing the league and encouraging victims to come forward. I thought this was the only way I could make peace with Beth.

  I cried all of Sunday night as I tried to explain this to Beth. I lay in bed talking things over with her, telling her I never intended to fail her, but that I made a lousy undercover detective. A lousy date. A lousy crusader.

  I cried to Gretchen, too. After the date, I called Dad to let him know I was spending the night with her. We took a cab to her house since neither of us had any intentions of being driven by Cal, who was drunk, or Parker, who was an asshole.

  “Put Gretchen on the phone,” Dad ordered.

  I was confused, but I did what he asked, pressing the speaker phone button to listen in.

  “Hi, Mr. Wright,” Gretchen said.

  “Gretchen, is Brooke spending the night with you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are there any boys spending the night with you?”

  “Mr. Wright! I have parents, you know!”

  “How can I trust that you girls aren’t going somewhere with this Cal person? You know who I’m talking about? Brooke’s date for the evening?” Dad asked.

  “Mr. Wright, I went on that date as well, and let me tell you. There’s no Cal. Ever.”

  “You went on the date?”

  “Long story, but it was a surprise double date that ended kind of badly. My date was a jerk. Brooke’s date was a doofus.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “I swear, Mr. Wright. Brooke is spending the night, and it’s just us two, and my parents are home,” Gretchen said.

  There was a brief pause.

  “I trust you, Gretchen,” Dad said.

  Gretchen looked at me. “You should. And you should trust your daughter, too.”

  “I do.”

  Gretchen and I were both confused now, but she said goodbye to my father and handed the phone to me.

  “I know I was on speaker phone. I’m not an idiot,” Dad said.

  “What was that all about then?” I asked.

  “It’s called being your father, Brooke,” Dad replied. “Now, was your date really so bad?”

  I sighed. “The worst. But can I just tell you about it later?”

  “Yes, Brooke. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I said, and hung up.

  Gretchen and I sat on her bed while I explained Beth’s suicide, Cal, and my plans to expose the Fantasy Slut League.

  “She was raped?” Gretchen breathed. She looked stunned.

  I nodded. “I know that’s why she did it. She was so depressed the last few months before she died. Of course, I didn’t help at all. I wasn’t even there for her, and then she discovered Finn and me. Can you understand why I feel so guilty now? I knew what had happened to her because she told me. She trusted me, and I betrayed her in so many ways.”

  I was crying, unable to hide my total anguish.

  Gretchen took my hand and squeezed it.

  “I’m trying to make things right for her. I . . . I think I can. I know about this league. I know Cal is a rapist. I’m not sure about the others. I’m trying to figure that out.”

  “How?”

  “God, Gretchen. If I tell you these things, you have to swear on your life you won’t tell a soul. A friend of mine could get in big trouble,” I said. I took the tissue Gretchen passed to me and blew my nose.

  “Brooke, I know I can be spacey sometimes and say stupid things, but I swear to you that I’ll keep your secrets. You can trust me,” Gretchen said. It was the first time she was that serious. I saw a different side of the friend I’d known since ninth grade. I believed her, and so I talked.

  I told her everything, but I left out the part about setting up Cal.

  ***

  I studied every game. Parker kept records for years, all of which I received in a black binder from Terry after work Wednesday night. He told me to be smart about it. That’s what he always said whenever we discussed anything to do with the Fantasy Slut League. Be smart about it. I thought I was, but when I confessed to him that I told Gretchen about the league, he blew up on me. We were standing beside my car.

  “What the fuck, Wright?!” he yelled.

  “I had no choice!” I replied. “She caught me, Terry! I had no choice!”

  “Jesus, did you mention my name?”

  “No! God, no! I’m not stupid. I knew what things to say and what I shouldn’t,” I said.

  “Yeah? Like what?” he asked.

  “Well, I certainly didn’t tell her your name. And I didn’t tell her I planned on getting raped.”

  Terry looked shocked. “What the hell did you just say?”

  “I said I didn’t tell her your name. Everything’s cool.”

  “No, after that,” Terry clarified.

  “I said I didn’t tell her I planned . . .” My voice trailed off. Oh my God. Stupid stupid stupid. What have I done?

  Terry advanced on me and grabbed my upper arm. “What are you doing, Wright?” he hissed, inches from my face.

  I tried to pull away. “Nothing. I’m not doing anything.�
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  “Then what was that comment all about?”

  “I don’t know why I said that.”

  “Bullshit. Now I’m giving you one minute to explain yourself,” Terry said. He kept his fingers wrapped tightly around my arm.

  “I can’t,” I whispered. “Please, Terry. You just don’t understand.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. And you’re gonna tell me,” he replied.

  I ripped my arm out of his grasp and searched my purse for my car keys.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Wright.” Terry moved in front of the car door, barring my escape.

  “He’ll keep doing it,” I said, mostly to myself. My body felt strange.

  “Who? Cal?”

  I screamed, “He’ll keep doing it! He’ll keep getting away with it! He’s a monster!” I looked at Terry, eyes wild and unfocused. I thought he didn’t hear me or didn’t register what I was saying, so I screamed again. “He’ll keep doing it! He’ll keep getting away with it! He’s a monster!”

  I felt the panic explode in the base of my chest. Usually there’s a build-up. Usually I know it’s coming. I have a bit of a warning. But not this time. I couldn’t breathe. I kept hearing myself yelling, repeating the lines over and over but never taking a breath between them. I was running out of oxygen. I was running out of time. I had to keep saying it. Someone needed to understand, to believe me.

  “He’s a monster!” I gasped, feeling my knees buckle, my eyes roll up into my head. White nothingness as I dropped to the pavement like a stone.

  I awoke on an unfamiliar couch. It smelled of rich leather, and in my peripheral vision, I saw the flickering of candlelight, warm and comforting. Wherever I was, I liked it.

  Someone walked up to me and removed a cloth from my head. I squinted and recognized the face, but I couldn’t yet put a name to him.

  “You scared the shit out of me,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “You fainted, Wright.”

  Wright. Someone calls me that. Who calls me by my last name? It was on the tip of my tongue.

  “I did?”

  He sighed deeply, and then I felt the couch sink next to my stomach. He must have sat down.

  “Does that ever happen to you?” he asked.

  “Sometimes,” I replied.

  Terry! That’s who it was!

  “Terry, why did I faint?” I asked.

  There was a brief pause.

  “Well, I think because I discovered something you didn’t want me to,” he said. He looked down at me and furrowed his eyebrows. “You said something you didn’t mean to.”

  And then I remembered. My slip-up. How could I be so careless?

  “Brooke, please tell me I misheard. Please tell me I’m crazy or something. Anything, because I’m freakin’ out over here,” Terry said.

  I breathed deeply and thought about creating an elaborate lie. And then I remembered I was lousy at lying.

  “I thought it was the only way,” I said. “He’s done it to other girls, Terry. I know he has. I know one of them. I mean, she wouldn’t come right out and say it, but the signs are all over her. He’ll keep doing it. I know he will, and no one will stop him. None of these girls will come forward. They’re all scared or unsure or something. She’s scared of him, Terry. This girl I know.”

  “Are you hearing yourself?” Terry asked.

  “I’m not crazy,” I snapped.

  “I didn’t mean to imply that. But Brooke, what more can you do but expose these guys? You can’t make the girls come forward. You can’t make them press charges.”

  “Exactly!” I said. “I can’t make them press charges. But I can. Or at least I thought I could.”

  “Jesus Christ, Brooke. Are you hearing what you’re saying? You’ll let this guy screw you to what? Get justice for a bunch of girls you don’t even know?”

  “I do know them!” I shot back. “They’re Beth! All of them!”

  Terry said nothing. He placed his hand on my forearm, and I didn’t pull away.

  “I blew my chances anyway, so you don’t need to worry.”

  I sat up slowly, the pounding in my head increasing then subsiding once I sat still, fully upright.

  “What are you talking about?” Terry asked.

  “I’ve been trying to get Cal to like me. I figured I could get him to want me and then use me. But I messed everything up. I’m sure he won’t ever talk to me again. Whatever. At least I can try to keep these girls safe during the next game.”

  “How did you mess things up?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I replied.

  “Why are you doing all of this?” Terry asked.

  I huffed. “I told you. For my friend, Beth.”

  Terry stared at me, and I shifted uncomfortably.

  “You think you’re responsible,” he said.

  “I don’t think it. I know it. She told me about her rape. I should have done something. I should have made her tell her parents. I should have been a better friend. I should have gone to that party with her.”

  I cried unabashedly. I didn’t care that I looked unattractive, or scared, or tired; I cried until there was nothing left, until I was dried up. Terry sat beside me and put his arm around my shoulder. He held me like a big brother, saying nothing, just letting me cry out my anger and guilt until I settled down and the hitching in my chest eased.

  “I’ll help you get them, Brooke,” Terry said. “But you have to promise me you’ll kill this crazy idea about setting yourself up as a rape victim.”

  “I told you I had,” I argued.

  “No, you never said that. You said you think you messed up the chance,” Terry countered. “You have to promise me, Brooke. We’ll get him and all the others, but you have to promise me you’ll stay safe.”

  I nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “Come on, Terry.”

  “Say it, Wright.”

  I sniffed and wiped my face. “I promise.”

  Terry met my dad for the first time that night. He drove me home, introduced himself as the head chef, and told my dad he was escorting me to my car when I fainted. Dad was sick with worry, and he crushed me a little too hard against his chest, but I was glad to be home and in his arms. I realized in that moment that, despite all the bad I was learning about Cal and Parker and their friends, there were still good men in the world. Terry and my dad were two of them.

  ***

  “This is daunting,” Ryan said, staring at the blank canvas, holding my brush.

  “No,” I replied. “This is the fun part. When it all starts.”

  We were standing on my back patio Sunday afternoon. I thought it would be fun to paint a picture together. Ryan was unsure when I explained my plans over the phone, but he agreed to try. I stood mixing the colors on my palette while he stared, obviously frightened, at the awaiting canvas.

  “Now don’t be nervous,” I said. “There’s no right or wrong to it. That’s what makes it art.”

  “Hmm.” Ryan sounded dubious.

  “I’m serious. Create whatever you want.”

  “Yeah. I’m more concrete than that,” Ryan said. “We’ve got to have some sort of idea in mind.”

  “Okay. How about a winter scene?” I suggested.

  It was surprisingly mild outside for mid-November. But the striking fall leaves had long since vanished from the trees. Everything outside looked like winter, even if it didn’t feel that way. Bare trees. Muted sky. Gray.

  “You gotta narrow it down, Brooke,” Ryan said.

  “All right,” I said, and came up behind him. I stood on my tiptoes and spoke into his neck. “Snow.”

  I handed him the palette, showed him how to hold it, then placed my right hand over his to help him guide the brush.

  “A sloping hill,” I suggested, and steered the brush to the paint, swirling the tip in a light green and bringing it to the canvas.

  “I thought it was snowing,” Ryan said, giving up control of the
brush as I grazed it over the canvas fibers.

  “Soon,” I said. “Now feel what’s happening with the paint. Notice how it glides effortlessly over the canvas? How the brush doesn’t pull or tug?”

  Ryan nodded.

  “That’s because this is primed canvas. If it weren’t, you’d see the paint soak deep into the fibers immediately on contact. But this canvas forces the paint to hover on the top, waiting for you to let it dry, rework it, whatever you want.”

  I dipped the brush once more and continued the curve of my line, creating the rolling hill that would be the backdrop of our snowy scene.

  “You wanna try by yourself?” I asked, releasing his hand and backing away.

  “I don’t know, Brooke,” Ryan said. He shifted on his feet.

  I grabbed another paintbrush and stood beside him.

  “You can’t mess it up,” I said.

  “I’m sure I can,” Ryan countered, and I giggled.

  “No you can’t,” I said, and showed him by dipping my brush in gray paint and swirling it all over the top half of the canvas.

  “Wait! Shouldn’t that be blue?” Ryan asked. “You know, for the sky?”

  “Sure,” I replied, and waited for him.

  He cleaned his brush and dipped it in blue, hesitating before bringing it to my gray swirl.

  “Don’t be afraid,” I encouraged.

  He took a deep breath and ran the blue on top of my gray, mixing the colors to slate, and I thought our snowy scene had just taken on a blustery effect.

  “A winter storm,” I said, and continued with my gray, dotting and gliding, twirling and smashing until the sky was filled with the promise of snowflakes. Ryan mingled his blues, discovering by accident the effects of flicking his brush to create a 3-D impression with the paint.

  “That’s so cool,” he said, staring at his work.

  We painted all afternoon, creating the winter sky, stopping only to kiss once. Neither one of us was interested in making out. We wanted to create a different kind of art together, one Ryan could hang in his bedroom.

  “And why do you get it?” I asked.

  “I figured we’d share it,” he suggested. “I’ll take it for a few months, and then you can. We’ll switch off.”

  I liked that idea. It meant that Ryan planned to keep me around for awhile, and suddenly I thought of many more paint projects we could undertake together to make me a permanent fixture in his life.