Thirty Sunsets (21 page)

“Vocabulary?” I suggest after an excruciatingly long pause.

“Yeah. Vocabulary.”

“Then I guess we’ve got each other’s backs.”

thirty-one

“It’ll only take a few minutes, honey.”

My nails dig into my palms. “Olivia and I were just headed out for yogurt,” I tell Dad.

Olivia touches my hand. “We’ll come with you.” She glances at Brian. “We’ll all come.”

A week has passed since Scott attacked me. The knot in my stomach hasn’t yet loosened, but my lip has healed, and the bruises on my arm have faded to light pink. I’ve trained my brain not to look at my arms; I’m nauseated by the outline of his fingers. Yes, I’ve gotten pretty good at closing that door in my mind. Sometimes, five whole minutes pass without me thinking about that night.

But I’ve overheard hushed phone conversations between my parents and the police, so I know I can’t wish the experience away.

In a way, I’d give anything to confront Scott, to scream at him and throw my pain at his feet. But I think of his soulless eyes and shiver. He doesn’t give a shit about my pain. And I truly don’t want to devote another nanosecond of my life to thinking about him.

But other girls are out there …

I take a deep breath. “Okay,” I tell Dad. “Let’s go.”

The five of us file into the car and head for the police station. All these years I’ve spent my summers here, and who knew where the police station was? It seems as jolting to think about a police station at the beach as it does to think about the sewage system at an amusement park. But on this gorgeous summer day, the police station is where we are heading.

In the car, Mom and Dad tell me in murmured voices what to expect: people have been questioned, statements have been filed, evidence has been gathered—and now a lineup of guys is awaiting me at the station behind a one-way mirror. Scott will never lay eyes on me; we won’t exchange a single word of conversation. I just have to look at the guys and point out which one is Scott. Then leave. That’s it.

So why do I feel like I’m going to throw up? Olivia squeezes my hand in the back seat, and Brian tosses his arm around my neck.

I keep my eyes on the sea of fuchsia crepe myrtle blooming in islands in the middle of the street. Spackle Beach … such a beautiful place.

I correct myself.
Sparkle
Beach.

Our family isn’t spackling over things anymore.

I swallow hard.

It’ll be okay.

I clench my sweaty palms.

“You’re sure he can’t see me?”

The officer nods. “I guarantee it, ma’am.”

My family is waiting outside while the officer and I sit behind the glass. The five guys standing in front of me all have similar features, but one face—the fourth one—is unmistakable. I’d know that asshole anywhere.

“He looks like he’s staring at me,” I tell the officer, who nods and assures me he hears that a lot.

But there’s more to it than that. Yes, Scott’s eyes are still soulless, but his gaze is smug and cocky. He holds his head high and throws his shoulders back. His good looks, his confidence, his swagger … they’ve clearly served him well in the past. And he seems to instinctively know where to level his eyes. Even though he can’t see me, he knows I’m on the other side. His gaze is a clearly a dare, a challenge, a threat:
Bring it, bitch
.

But rather than cowering, I stand taller. Yes, he’s a sociopath, but he’s just a guy … a pathetic, flesh-and-blood guy who I’m guessing has skated through life without so much as glancing backward at his victims. But I’m not in his past; I’m right here, right in front of him, facing him, and maybe for the first time forcing him to face himself.

I have no delusions; his conscience is probably irredeemably AWOL. But I spoke up, and he’s having to deal with me whether he wants to or not. I’m so grateful Mom and Dad insisted that I speak up. I feel twelve feet tall.

“That’s him,” I say simply. “Blue polo shirt, fourth guy from the left.”

This is for you too, Mom,
I think, then stand taller still.

The officer searches my eyes. “You’re sure?”

I nod. “One hundred percent.”

Yes. Twelve feet tall.

thirty-two

“No
way
!”

I squeal and leap into the air before throwing my arms around Shelley.

I was already peering at her mom’s car in our driveway, confused at first, wondering what was up, and then …

Then I saw Shelley come bounding out my front door, her strawberry-blonde hair blowing in the sea breeze.

Dad grins broadly. “Surprised?” he asks.

But I’ve already jumped out of the car and swept Shelley into my arms.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her, still squealing. Just for the record, squealing is
so
unlike me.

“My mom drove me,” Shelley says. “She’s inside.”

“She’s a rock star,” I say, then notice my family beaming as they approach us. This is the first time I’ve seen Mom and Dad look happy in a week.

Shelley offers hugs all around, then we go inside and join her mom.

I’d waited a few days before telling Shelley about the attempted rape. I wanted to talk to her, and I knew she’d be there for me, but I somehow wanted to keep as much of my world as pure as possible. Maybe if I could contain this filthy stain, then I could ease back into my real life without any seepage.

But then I thought about Olivia, feeling unworthy all those years because her mother ditched her. And I thought about Mom, too ashamed after her rape to tell a single soul, then slogging through the next few weeks feeling utterly alone. She probably never would have told
anyone
if she hadn’t gotten pregnant—just carried that horrible secret all her life.

It’s not fair to feel shame for something you can’t control. Scott carries the filthy stain, not me. So I called Shelley last night and told her everything.

Little did I know that she’d spend the next hour working the phones with my parents to arrange a surprise weeklong visit. And now here she is. Mom had left a key under the mat when we left for the police station.

Mom hugs Shelley’s mom, then scurries to the kitchen and pulls a huge bowl of fresh fruit and a plastic container of chicken salad out of the fridge.

“I can’t stay, Maureen,” Shelley’s mom is saying from the family room.

“You’ve got to eat!” Mom says cheerily, and I think,
This is the mom I know
.

In no time, she’s set the table and put a vase of fresh flowers in the center. The table seats only six, so Shelley and I squeeze into a chair together, wolf down a few bites, and beg off so we can hit the beach.

The moms offer fluttery waves and tell us to be careful.

“Hey, Liv, you and Bri come too,” I say.

They hop up from the table and we duck into the bedrooms to change. Soon we’re all emerging in bathing suits, surfboards tucked under our arms.

“See ya,” we call as we head to the deck, the surging waves of high tide beckoning.

The sea breeze brushes against my cheek as we run onto the beach. I
can
own all the parts of my life; I know this now. Things can suck one day and be cool the next, and I can claim it all, can absorb it all without feeling defined by any specific circumstances. Brian learned that a year ago. I’m learning it now.

And I’ve never felt lighter on my feet.

“Scythe?” Olivia asks incredulously, pronouncing the
C
.

I laugh lightly. “I promise it’s a real word,” I say as I tally my Scrabble score.

“This is my last Scrabble game with you,” Olivia says, fake pouting. “You and your dad are, like, wordaholics.”

“That’s not a word,” I say, and Liv playfully throws a tile at me.

It’s after midnight, and considering we spent hours today on the beach, you’d think we’d be dead to the world right now. But I’m still on a Shelley high, so she and Liv and I are playing Scrabble in the family room.

Well … kinda playing. We’re too punch-drunk for our hearts to be in it, so it’s a lot of gabbing interspersed with a smattering of scything.

“I hope my baby’s brilliant like you guys,” Olivia says, and Shelley sucks in her breath.

Olivia gives me a startled look. “She doesn’t know?”

I shrug. “She knows now.”

“You’re pregnant?” Shelley asks, then squeals when Olivia nods.

Then she casts an indignant look at me. “You didn’t tell me?” Shelley says. “I thought I was your BFF!”

“I’m not only brilliant, I’m discreet,” I say, collecting more tiles for my next turn.

“Are you and Brian getting married?” Shelley asks.

Olivia smiles and nods. “I know we’ve got a lot to figure out, but I think we’re gonna be just fine.”

“Do you know what the rumor was?” Shelley asks her conspiratorially. “That you were bulimic.”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t tell the people being gossiped about what the gossip is.”

But Olivia is giggling. “I’ve heard that one for two years,” she says. “I think I had cancer at one point too. Oh, and I was a drug addict. But bulimia … that one had legs.”

We laugh so hard that Liv starts patting her hand in the air to shush us. “Everybody’s asleep,” she reminds us. “Hey, why am I such a gossip magnet, by the way?”

“Because you’re drop-dead beautiful,” Shelley answers matter-of-factly.

“Then why aren’t you and I gossip magnets?” I ask Shelley, and we explode into a fresh burst of laughter.

“You two
are
drop-dead beautiful,” Liv assures us. “But you gotta get that whole diva vibe going.
That’s
what cranks up the rumor mill, I think.”

“Oooohh, will you teach us?” Shelley asks, folding her hands under her chin.

“I’d teach you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

Shelley smiles. “Who knew you were so cool?” she asks Olivia.

I smile.

My sentiments exactly:
Who knew?

thirty-three

“I’m not saying it’s hopeless.”

Mom, Dad, and I cast anxious glances around our kitchen table. Two more weeks have passed; we’ll be heading home on Sunday. We’d heard that Scott was out on bail, but until this meeting with the assistant district attorney, the details had been sketchy.

“Our best bet may be getting him to plead down to sexual assault,” the lawyer continues, her voice crisp with brisk efficiency.

“What’s the difference between attempted rape and sexual assault?” Mom asks her.

She frowns. “About twenty years.”

“No!” Mom says. “I’m sorry, Ms. Pickett, I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job, but I can’t stand the thought of Scott getting a slap on the wrist. The thought of him doing this to someone else … ”

Ms. Pickett leans into the table. “
His
story,” she says, “is that Forrest invented the rape charge because she was mad he’d stood her up that night.”

I guffaw indignantly.

“He hurt her!” Mom responds. “They have pictures …
evidence … ”

“And that’s good,” Ms. Pickett continues, “but he said Forrest told him she ‘liked it rough.’” She looks at me apologetically. “He said he has witnesses that you two were well into your relationship before the rape charge came up. Sorry to have to burden you with this, but that’s what you’ll be facing if this goes to trial. Not that I’m not perfectly willing—”

“So Forrest will be dragged through the mud?” Dad asks in a tight voice.

“I don’t care,” I say. “Let him say whatever he likes. I have the truth on my side.”

Ms. Pickett takes a deep breath. “That’s easy to
say
… ”

“I’m not just saying it. I mean it. I can handle whatever I need to handle.”

“What about Scott’s past?” Mom asks. “Certainly Forrest isn’t the first girl he’s taken advantage of.”

“Oh, he’s got quite a past,” Ms. Pickett says. “Drugs, DUIs, even a couple of thefts. But none of that will be admissible, and his family has had enough pull to cushion him from any real consequences. At least so far … ”

“I don’t want to label anybody,” Dad says, “but the way Forrest described him, he sounds like a sociopath—cold and calculating, manipulative … I’m terrified for any other girls who find themselves in his path.”

Ms. Pickett nods. “I understand. But I saw his videotaped police interview. He’s very persuasive … very charismatic. I’m sure he’s had a lot of practice talking his way out of jams.”

“Not this one,” I say through gritted teeth.

The lawyer considers my words, then nods smartly. “Then we’ll move forward. Of course, a grand jury will make the determination of whether the case will proceed, but I can give it our best shot. I just want to make sure you’re prepared for what lies ahead.”