Damaged: A Violated Trust (Secrets) (17 page)

But what can I do about anything? It’s not like I want to go public and suffer even further humiliation. Besides, who would believe me? A newcomer’s word against the golden-boy football hero? Still, if there was a way to anonymously blow this whistle, I feel fairly certain that I would.

By Thursday I feel a tiny bit stronger. I’m not even sure why. Unless it’s like the old saying that “time heals all wounds.” But a little bit of the sting is gone, and I feel like I can walk with just a tiny bit more confidence.

Part of this is the result of Ms. Flores’ praise and appreciation for what I’m contributing to the fall art fair, which is next week. My pottery went through its final firing and the glazes I chose turned out very nicely. Even I felt proud. Also, my water-color of the old truck in the field is finished and Zach helped me cut some mats that really show it off nicely. All things considered, it is an okay sort of day.

But then Friday comes, and for some reason I feel a sense of foreboding as I go to my first class. I have no idea where this feeling is coming from, but by second period I know my instincts are accurate when I am asked to report to the office. I don’t know why I feel so uncomfortable (almost guilty) as I walk down there — I have done nothing wrong. But when the receptionist sends me to the office of Mrs. Evanston and two other adults are already waiting there, I have cause to be distressed.

“Hello, Haley,” Mrs. Evanston says. She has kind dark eyes and what seems a sympathetic smile. “Please take a seat.”

I barely nod, then sit in the chair across from her desk, my knees shaking. I have never been in any kind of real trouble, but for some reason this feels like something very serious.

“You’re probably wondering why we’ve called you down here.”

Again I nod, swallowing against the hard lump in my throat.

“Let me introduce you to Detective Harbick.” She points to the middle-aged man in a gray blazer. “And Detective Dorman.” She points to a younger woman in a navy suit. Both of them smile stiffly at me.

Suddenly my stomach feels like I swallowed a brick for breakfast. “Wh-what is going on?” I ask in a mousy voice.

“According to California law, teachers are required to report it if they believe a crime has been committed.” Mrs. Evanston clears her throat. “Ms. Flores spoke to me on Wednesday. She explained to me about what happened to you.”

“She told?” I peer helplessly at Mrs. Evanston. “
Why?”

“As I said, according to California law, teachers are obligated to report it if a crime against a minor has been committed. If it makes you feel any better, she didn’t want to tell. She knew you were trying to deal with it on your own, Haley. But it was her responsibility to report it. Her job could’ve been at risk if she hadn’t.”

“And what you may not understand,” the woman cop steps in, “is that by
not
reporting a crime, you are essentially allowing a perpetrator not only to go free but also to possibly commit the same crime again on another victim.”

“Detective Dorman’s right,” the man confirms. “And crimes like rape, particularly date rape, are sometimes committed by repeat offenders.”

I feel slightly dizzy now. Leaning over, I put my head in my hands and tears slip down my cheeks. “I can’t do this,” I mutter into my lap. “I cannot do this. Please do not make me do this.”

I feel a hand on my shoulder and glance over to see that it’s bronze colored, which tells me it’s Mrs. Evanston. “I know this is going to be hard, Haley, but hasn’t it already been pretty hard on you? I’ve spoken to all your teachers, and a number of them confirm that you’ve been acting differently these past couple of weeks. You’re obviously in pain.”

I look up at her with tears running down my face. “But it will be so humiliating,” I whisper. “How can I talk about
that
to — to anyone?”

“We’ll try to do this in whatever way makes you most comfortable, Haley,” Detective Dorman tells me. And Mrs. Evanston hands me some tissues.

“If you like, I can step out,” the man says quietly.

I just nod, looking back down at my lap and feeling like a bug under a magnifying glass as I blow my nose.

“They wanted to take you to the station to get your statement,” Mrs. Evanston explains to me, “but I encouraged them to do it here. However, if you’d prefer to go down —”

“No, I don’t want to go to a police station.”

Mrs. Evanston tips up the blinds on her windows so no one can see in. I take a deep breath, and for the first time since my ordeal began, I feel like whispering a prayer to God. However, I do not. Partly because I have a feeling he’s not listening and partly because Detective Dorman is asking me if I mind if she records my statement.

“I guess not.”

She turns on a small device, sets it on the desk, then asks me to state my full name, address, and parents’ names. I give her that information as well as answering some other perfunctory questions. Mrs. Evanston gives me a bottle of water.

“Now tell me about you and Harris. Were you and he a couple? Or was this just a one-time date?”

I explain about how we were friends, how he wanted guitar lessons, and then about how he and Emery broke up. “He seemed to really like me. We were together at school and he gave me rides, and I thought we were a couple. But we only had two actual dates. I mean, where we went out, you know, and had dinner and stuff. But we’d done some other things together too.”

“During this time did you ever have consensual sex with Harris?”

“No,
never!”

“But you were romantic together?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe your relationship? Did you kiss or touch each other?”

My face gets hot. “We kissed. I guess you could say we kissed a lot.”

“Anything else?”

“Harris would kind of try some things … you know …” I glance at Mrs. Evanston and she just nods as if encouraging me to continue. “And I would kind of make him stop.” Then I tell them about the time we were in his car at the lookout point. “I was relieved that the cop came. It felt like too much.”

“Have you had any other boyfriends?”

“No. I had an
almost
boyfriend at my other school, but all we did was kiss, and then my mom found out and that was the end of it.”

“I spoke to the counselor at your other school,” Mrs. Evanston says. “She said that you were considered a very serious and academic student there and that you never got into any sort of trouble.” She frowns. “But she also mentioned that your mother worried quite a bit about you getting into trouble.”

“My mother is a little … well, she’s kind of fearful about a lot of things.”

“The counselor said something to that effect.”

“If my mother had her way, I’d be dressing like a nun and going to private church school,” I confess. “That’s why I petitioned the court to live with my dad and it’s why the judge ruled in my favor.”

“So back to Harris,” the detective says. “When did he rape you?”

“On our last date.” I tell her when that was.

“Can you describe that night?”

“It started out as a really special date. Nice dinner, candles, and everything. We took a walk in the park. It was magical.” Even as I say this, I find it hard to believe that something so wonderful turned out to be so horrific.

“So when and where did the rape happen?”

“In my bedroom.”

“Was anyone else at home?”

I explain that Dad was out.

“Did you
invite
Harris into your house?”

“He asked if he could come in. He had his guitar, and I’d been giving him lessons. We were just going to play some music.”

“Did you play music?” The detective is studying me now. I can only imagine what she’s thinking.

“We played for a while, then he stopped and I played a little longer.”

“Then what happened?”

I explain about the alcohol. “He told me it was mostly Coke, but I think whatever was in it hit me kind of hard.”

“Do you usually drink alcohol?”

“No, never. It was the first time.”

“So, Harris brought the alcohol with him?”

“It was in his guitar case.”

“But you willingly drank some. Do you recall how much you drank?”

“Not really. I remember he refilled my glass, or maybe he gave me his glass. It’s all pretty fuzzy now.”

“Were you intoxicated?”

“I think so. I think I must’ve blacked out … because I came to in my bedroom and I couldn’t even remember how we got there.”

“You didn’t willingly go to your bedroom then?”

“No way. What if my dad came home?”

She nods, looking down at the notepad in her lap. “Now I’ll need you to go into more detail, Haley. I know it’s not comfortable getting this personal, but this is information we need.”

She asks me more specific questions, and although my face gets hotter and hotter, I try to answer. But some of the things she says don’t even make sense. I don’t even know what she’s talking about. Finally she asks if Harris used protection.

“I honestly don’t know. After he wouldn’t quit, I just closed my eyes.” I reach up and touch my lip, which has healed. “And I bit into my lip so hard it looked like someone had hit me.”

“Did he hit you?”

“No.” I shake my head.

“Did you take a photo of your lip or did anyone see you?”

“No to the photo. But my dad saw it and I told him I’d hit it while swimming laps in the pool.”

“So when Harris was done, what did you do?”

I describe how he fell asleep and I just waited to be sure. “Then I grabbed my underwear and ran to the bathroom and took a really long shower.” I tell her how I barricaded myself in there and when I finally came out, he was gone.

“You mentioned that you grabbed your underwear, Haley. What did you do with it?”

A jolt hits me. “I, uh, I wanted to destroy it. And the dress I’d been wearing, because it was torn too. They were both too damaged to wear again.”

“Did you destroy them?”

“No. I totally forgot. I wadded them into a ball and hid them beneath the sink in my bathroom. As far as I know, they’re still there.”

Detective Dorman looks pleased. “That’s good news. Those items are evidence.” She asks me about what happened the following day. “Did you tell anyone what happened to you?”

I shake my head. “No one.”

“So your parents don’t know.”

“The only one I told was Ms. Flores.” Now I remember something. “And Emery Morrison.”

“Is that your best friend?”

I frown. “No. That’s Harris’s girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?”

So I explain that.

“Interesting.” Now she looks confused. “But you told this girl that Harris raped you?”

I tell her the story of meeting Emery in the restroom. I even tell her about the purity pledge ring. And then I remember the warning letter I received and tell her about that.

“Do you still have the letter?”

“No … at the time I thought someone, like one of Emery’s friends, was just trying to scare me away from Harris. So I burned it.” Now I remember how Emery had warned me herself, saying that Harris would eventually go back to her, so I tell the detective about that, too. “And I even had a couple of other warnings.” I mention Poppie and Zach’s concern. “Zach even suggested that this is a pattern with Harris. And I suppose he could be right.”

Detective Dorman turns to Mrs. Evanston. “Do you suppose there could be other girls at this school who’ve been caught up in this? I mean, if it really is a pattern.”

“It’s possible, but I don’t know how we’d ever find out.”

Now I remember Libby mentioning something about a time when Harris and Emery broke up and he had another girlfriend. So I tell them this and the detective makes note of it. She asks a few more questions and finally announces she’s done.

“What will happen now?” I ask nervously.

“We’ll bring Harris in for questioning.”

I take in a slow breath. “So he’ll know I talked to you.”

She nods.

“There’s no way to do this anonymously?”

“I’m sorry. I wish there were. But we will try to protect you as much as we can, Haley.”

Now I’m crying again. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what?” Mrs. Evanston asks.

“Go to this school with everyone knowing about it — knowing I’m the one who got their star football player in trouble.”

“He’s a star football player?” Detective Dorman asks.

“He’s the quarterback,” Mrs. Evanston explains. “And the team’s having a good year.”

The detective gives me a sympathetic look. “It won’t be easy. I suppose you could look into transferring to another school.”

This reminds me about Dad. “And will you tell my dad?”

“He’ll have to know, Haley. We can tell him or you can tell him. But he has to know.”

I shake my head and look down at my hands in my lap. This is so hard.