What We Saw (12 page)

I can't hide the smile that spreads across my face, but I roll my eyes. “Dork.”

He laughs and in one easy move lifts his arm, spinning me away from him beneath it. He pulls me in close again, and just as I think this evening may be the most perfect of the known high school dances in all of recorded time, I see the doors to the gym swing open, and Coach Sanders steps inside with his arm around John Doone.

THE GENERAL MAYHEM
that greets Dooney's entrance is the kind usually reserved for international recording sensations and movie stars. There are shouts and screams and a general rush toward him. Dooney is mobbed by most of the varsity team and anyone else who can get close enough. Amid the fist bumps and high fives, Phoebe and the Tracies follow the path that Christy clears, the four of them dancing toward Dooney through the crush.

Ben doesn't make a move, just stands there staring. By virtue of height, he's got an unobstructed view.

“He's here!” Rachel is flushed from dancing, and tugs on Ben's jacket. “Isn't that great?” She looks so relieved that I smile.
“See?” she says. “It was all a big misunderstanding.”

Ben nods, but I see a hesitance in his eyes, something guarded about Dooney's being here. The music gets fast and loud again in answer to the energy that has surged through the crowd. The focus has shifted to John Doone at center court, and the look on his face says that this is his rightful place.

“Let's go say hi!” Rachel says.

“Looks like he's coming to us.” Lindsey jerks her chin in Dooney's direction, and I see him making his way over. The crowd clamors, then falls away, and in a moment he's in front of us, reaching toward Ben in that way guys do, the first move of a secret handshake, thumbs hooked, hands clasped. They pull each other in for a thump on the back, a
brah
hug with their fists and forearms sandwiched between their chests.

Dooney is lit up like a Christmas tree. “Dude! I'm back. Can you believe this shit?”

Lindsey goes tense beside me. Ben smiles at him, but there is something in his eyes—wariness, or weariness. I can't tell which in the floating beams of the disco ball hanging over our heads.

“Didn't think I'd see you here,” Ben manages. If Dooney notices how checked out Ben seems he doesn't let it bother him.

“Pops finally convinced mom it was time to let me out of lockdown for a couple hours.” Dooney is crowing, vodka on his breath. He holds a hand up toward Ben and waits a second for Ben's halfhearted high five.

Phoebe reappeares at Dooney's elbow. “Hey!” she shouts.
Dooney swings around. She beams at him and gives him a hug. “Why didn't you text me?”

Dooney smirks at Ben. “Fucking chicks. More trouble than they're worth.”

Phoebe smacks his shoulder and Dooney apes repentance. “Babe! I'm sorry. The cops still have my phone.”

“Well, you coulda answered the phone at your house. Or messaged me online and let me know you were coming.” Phoebe is pissed and no good at pretending. “You were supposed to be my date, you know.”

Dooney shrugs. “Probably easier that we didn't come together,” he says, winking. “I'm a star now. The press is all over me! Coach had to run interference so I could get in past the news vans. Couple of 'em have been following me around since lockup. They're camped out at my house, too.” He pulls a flask out of his jacket pocket and waggles it in front of him at waist height to avoid detection. “Now that I'm here, anybody wanna get this party started?”

Ben frowns and shakes his head. “Driving,” he says, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “Besides, shouldn't you be laying low?”

Dooney ducks and takes a quick gulp, then grimaces, not at the booze, but at Ben's question. “Hell no
.
Go big or go home, dude.” He laughs as Ben tries again.

“If you get caught with that, won't they take you back in?”

Dooney slides the flask back into his pocket. “I'm never going back to jail,” he says. There's a smug look of satisfaction
on his face. “Dad's got a buddy in from St. Louis. Best defense attorney in the Midwest. He's gonna shut this shit down
.
”

“What about Deacon?” The music is thumping so loudly that Ben has to yell this almost directly into Dooney's ear.

Dooney shrugs. “What about him?” he yells back.

Rachel touches my elbow. “Gonna grab a Coke with Lindsey.” She has her church smile on, trying to distract from the fear in her eyes.

“Want anything?” Lindsey asks.

I tell them I'm good, and Lindsey promises to circle back. “I just can't with him right now,” she tells me as Dooney takes another swig from the flask and steps on Phoebe's toe.

I give her a little wave as they head off to the bar in the corner.

“Where we partying after this?” Dooney slurs.

Ben takes my hand and says he's hanging out with me afterward. For the first time, Dooney notices me standing there, and I feel his eyes travel down my shoulders, across my chest all the way to my feet, and back up again. “Damn, dude.” He whistles, still looking at me. “I wouldn't wanna hang out with me either.”

Phoebe rolls her eyes. Dooney grabs her elbow and steers her in front of him. “C'mon, babe. Let's get our groove on.” He pauses as he passes Ben. “Text me later, dude.”

I see Mr. Jessup clapping Dooney on the back and laughing with him. There is heat and sweat and madness in the air. A group of Buccaneers thumps along with a new song.

First-class seat on my lap, girl, riding comfortable . . .

A dance circle forms around Phoebe and Dooney, LeRon slides in on his knees, then jumps up. He and Dooney leap into the air and bump chests.

Coach is hooting along as the guys chant and bark like Dooney's just been drafted to the NBA. The whole gym is crowding around them when Ben leans in behind me. “Let's get outta here.”

The last thing I see as we leave is Phoebe, holding her high heels in her hand and plopping down against the wall of folded-up bleachers. For a moment, I think she might be crying, or about to. She looks up as we make our break for the doors, and in that split second she plasters on her top-of-the-pyramid smile. It's a smile I have seen a thousand times before, a smile that says
Everything is perfect.

Only this time, I don't think she believes it.

And I don't believe it either.

WE ARE QUIET
on the drive home, but it's not the comfortable kind of quiet I've shared with Ben before—the silence of
all is well.
This is the quiet of a duck floating on a pond: peaceful and serene up top, paddling like mad below the surface.

Ben is so distracted he doesn't turn on any music, and I can't turn off the questions in my head. I keep seeing Phoebe's face as Ben and I left the dance, and thinking of Ben's cool response to Dooney. Why didn't Ben seem more excited that Dooney is out on bail? What is Phoebe covering up with her smile?

The closer you look, the more you see.

I'm desperate to fill the quiet cracks in our evening with laughter or music or chatter about anything at all. I search for
a sound to fill the air between us, words to drown out the tiny voice I can hear too well in this silence. It's a whisper that grows a little louder every day, and even now I can hear it turned up one decibel more. Over and over it asks a single question of one person.

That person is Ben, and the question is,
Do you know what really went on that night?

The garage door is open at Ben's house when we pull into the drive. Adele Cody is almost hidden by Bounty eight-packs in a stack nearly as tall as she is. She flits in and out of the shelving racks wearing yellow yoga pants and a black sports bra. Her abs are clearly defined, the muscles in her arms ropy and straining like an aging pop star's, with too little fat on her body and too much Pilates on her schedule. She's making room for the paper towels, moving boxes of Band-Aids to the shelves above and Brillo Pads to the shelves below, displacing display flats of Carmex and Altoids in either direction.

Ben bumps his head slowly against the steering wheel three times then he rests it there. “Perfect.”

My hand finds the back of his neck, and I run my fingers through his hair in a gentle massage. “Should we go say hi?”

“No. We should have her committed.”

I laugh, but I'm pretty sure he isn't joking. “C'mon,” I say, and unclick my seat belt.

As I turn to open the door, Ben tells me to wait, and when I look back at him he leans across the seat and kisses me. There is
a depth of need in this kiss to which I am unaccustomed. I can feel it in the way he leans, the way he reaches, the manner in which his mouth draws on mine, the grasp of his hands. There's something fierce in this kiss, something raw and unguarded. Something that says,
Please catch me. I'm falling.

After a minute my hands find his face, and I pull back, looking him in the eyes. Six days later, we are forehead to forehead again, but I
know
him now—not as an old friend with a shared history, but as something much more.

“Let's go inside,” I whisper.

He glances out the windshield at the garage, where his mom teeters on a step stool, pushing a package of paper towels onto a top shelf. “Can we sneak in the front door?”

I smile. “It'll just take a second.”

Adele wants to hear all about my dress while Ben hefts the Bounty rolls onto the top shelf, then quickly fills in the rest on the rack below.

“There isn't much to tell,” I say. “Just found it at Second Sands.”

“Can you imagine somebody letting go of that?” she says. “So glad you put it to good use. Didn't expect you home so early, Benny.” She pats Ben's arm, but he ignores the question and continues putting stuff away.

“John Doone showed up,” I say, trying to fill the silence, but Ben shoots me a look, eyes wide.
Why are you talking to her about this?

“It's all anybody's talked about at work this week,” Adele
says, shaking her head. “His daddy's been on the phone with the door closed for hours talking to lawyers. Margie's been in and out all week, too, crying buckets every time I see her.”

Ben hefts the last pack of paper towels into place. “Well, tell her to come here if she needs a tissue. We're prepared for a flood. Won't need an ark. We can just mop up the whole planet with these.”

“Thanks, hon.” Adele tries to peck his cheek, but he squirms away. “Now we won't have to worry about running out for a while.”

“Were we worried about running out of paper towels before? Was there some worldwide shortage I didn't hear about?” There's an edge of scorn in Ben's voice.

“It was just . . . such a good deal.” Adele blinks, her eyes smudged with the liner she wore to the gym tonight. “I actually made twenty dollars when I picked these up.” She looks over at me and smiles in hopes of a friendlier audience. “I had a coup—”

“A
coo-
pon,” Ben cuts her off, mimicking his mom's pronunciation. “You and your
coo-
pons. Jesus, Mom. When's it gonna be enough? The stores aren't shutting down. We can go buy freaking toilet paper whenever we need some.”

Ben's anger chokes Adele, and her eyes water. She glances at me, then blushes at the floor. “Just . . . like saving money, I guess . . .” She busies herself folding up the step stool. She leans it against the wall, then reaches the door that leads into the downstairs rec room. She pauses with her hand on the knob, trying to salvage this ruined moment. “What do you have
planned for the rest of the evening?”

Ben shrugs. “Watch a movie or something.”

She searches Ben's face, but he won't make eye contact. It's excruciating to witness. “That sounds nice.” She turns and gives me a shy smile. “Good night, Katie. You look beautiful.”

I say thank you as she slips through the door, closing it behind her. I am seized by the urge to chase after her and give her a hug, but I don't. Ben won't look at me for a minute either. He jams a stray case of Altoids back onto a shelf. I hear water flowing through pipes and imagine Adele, stepping into a hot shower upstairs.

Ben punches the button to close the garage, then opens the door to the rec room. “Coming?”

As I follow him down the hall, I feel a frown folding around the words that form in my mouth.
What the hell was that? Why did you yell at your mom?
As we reach the den I turn to say this. Ben kisses me. I kiss him back, and he wraps his arms around me. He slips an arm under my thighs as he bends, and lifts, gently laying me back on the sectional that outlines half the room.

“Wait,” I whisper between kisses. I want to talk to him about what is happening. He is kneeling on the floor, his upper body slowly settling on top of me, his arm around my lower back pulling me close, every part of him pressed up against me. The same desperate kisses from out in the driveway fill my mouth, the heat of his body against mine steals my breath, and fogs all the things I want to say, words written on a mirror in a steamed-up bathroom.

He reaches for the zipper at the back of my dress and draws me up with the arm underneath me as he unzips it. I feel his bicep bulge and remember again how powerful he is. I say, “Wait,” once more, but it's as if he doesn't hear me. His fingers are warm on my bare back, his tongue adamant against my own as he pulls the dress loose from my shoulders, one hand sliding down, down, down my back, cupping my hip in his hand. He pulls me more tightly beneath him, throwing one leg up onto the sectional with me, rolling his full weight onto the couch, while his fingers continue searching beneath me.

My pulse is racing now as fast as my mind. I press my palms flat against his shoulders, pushing back and up. I roll my mouth away from his and thrust my whole body against him, bucking him sideways, back off the couch and onto the floor.

“Jesus!
Ben
.”

He stares back at me, dazed. “What?”

“What is with you tonight?”

He blinks at me, then scowls. “You're the one who wanted to come inside.”

“Yeah, I did, before you decided to make your mom cry. And I just told you to wait. Twice. What the hell?” I pull my dress up and sit back on the couch, huffing out a long slow breath.

He is kneeling on the carpet, his face red. He peers up at me, ashamed. “I'm sorry,” he says. “Really. I wouldn't—”

“That was some bullshit out there with your mom.”

His eyes darken and he looks away, pulling off his jacket
and tossing it onto the couch. “Don't tell me about my mom. She's crazy.”

“You know what else is crazy?” I snap. “That you're way more upset about a stack of paper towels than you are about what's going on with Dooney and Deacon.”

His eyes flash up to mine. “What do you mean?”

I can't hold the question in any longer. “Were you there when it happened, Ben?”

He gapes at me. “When what happened? I was dropping you off at home.”

“After that.” I drill down. “When you went back for your truck. What was going on?”

“I went in to tell Dooney bye. That's it.”

“So, what Stacey says happened . . . you're saying it didn't?”

“I don't even know for sure what she's saying.”

A response forms in my mouth but is pulled back by a jolt in my chest. It's the first time this phrase has entered my mind. Ben looks at me, expectantly. Finally I force out the words in a rush. “That she was raped, Ben. More than once. By different guys on your team.”

Ben groans and rolls his eyes, but I keep going.

“Sloane Keating said Stacey was in the hospital all day on Sunday—”

“Wait.” Ben holds up a hand. “That reporter? She said this on the news?”

“No. Last night. She told me.”

Ben frowns. “Where were you talking to a reporter?”

I take a deep breath, then blurt it out.
Quick, like a Band-Aid.
“At Coral Creek. I went to see Stacey. Sloane Keating was hanging out in a news van.”

I see Ben blink twice when I say this. Even in the dim light of a single lamp the color seems to drain from his face. “Kate. What the hell are you doing?” He hisses this in a loud whisper, as if he's afraid the walls are listening in or the whole house is bugged. “Why did you go talk to Stacey?”

“I didn't talk to her,” I tell him. “Her mom shut the door in my face, and then I got ambushed by a reporter.”

“We weren't there,” Ben says. “Nothing happened. And even if it did, you and I were already gone.”

“When ‘nothing' happens at a party, charges aren't filed, and reporters don't show up.” These words slice through the air between us, and Ben rocks back on his heels as they find their mark.

“Coach told us that we shouldn't talk to anyone about this. Why are you talking to reporters?”

“He's not my coach. And I didn't talk to her.”

“She sure as hell knew our names tonight.”

I sigh. “We're both all over the Buccaneers Facebook page. It's not hard to figure out. She's a reporter.”

“Exactly,” he says. “A reporter. She doesn't care about Stacey. Or any of us. She just wants to make a name for herself. That's why we should stay as far away from this whole thing as we can.”

“Dooney isn't staying away from it. You saw him tonight. He's loving this.”

Ben closes his eyes and rubs his temples like he has a headache. His expression is the same one he has when he sees his mom hauling stuff into the garage—like he wishes he could snap his fingers and make all of it disappear, me included.

Something about this makes me furious.

“Oh yeah. It's such a pain in the ass, isn't it? The fact that someone else had something terrible happen to her.” It comes out more sarcastically than I mean it to, but I don't stop. “And what if Dooney did do this? So now he's got a hotshot lawyer, right? What if he gets off the hook? Won't he just think he can go on acting this way forever? Did you see how Coach and Mr. Jessup were smacking him on the back tonight? It made me sick.”

Ben places his hands on my shoulders and looks right into my eyes. “Kate. We are not the police. This is not our problem.”

I wonder if he's lost his mind. “Not our problem? Your two best friends might've raped someone.”

“Why would Deacon and Dooney rape anybody?” he asks. “They can both have any girl they want. You saw Stacey hanging all over them at the party.”

“That doesn't mean she wanted them to fuck her.”

Ben jerks like I've slapped him in the face. “We don't know that,” he says quietly. “We weren't there.”

“Exactly,” I say. “For all we know, it's just as likely that Dooney and Deacon are the ones lying. Don't we owe it to Stacey to believe she might be telling the truth?”

“I don't owe her anything.”

Something about these words cracks me open. I try to choke back a sob, but start crying despite my best intentions.

Ben reaches for my hand. “Kate, no—please, I didn't mean—”

“What about me?” I choke. “Do you owe me something? I was just as wasted as she was. Why do I get driven home and kept safe but not her? Why not just leave me to Dooney and Deacon and the boys in the basement?”

“Because I love you.”

He fires this back at me, then smacks a hand over his mouth. The words roll through my chest like a thunderclap. More tears stream down my cheeks and I try to wipe them away, but they won't stop coming. How many times did I imagine hearing
I love you
from Ben? How many times will I wish I had kept my mouth shut so I didn't have to hear it like this?

Ben collapses onto the floor, turning around to sit with his back against the couch, his arm against my leg. We stay like this for a long time staring at the dark TV screen on the opposite wall, watching different movies in our minds.

Mine is the image of Ben, walking back to Dooney's that night, pausing on the stairs to tell Rachel and Christy good-bye as they leave. He finds John and Deacon in the kitchen, finishing the Cabo Wabo with Stacey. Ben waves away the shot they offer. He bumps fists with Greg. He hears Randy call up the stairs from the den. He stops at the top of the stairwell and yells a
later
back down.