What We Saw (19 page)

SAY WHAT YOU will
about Sloane Keating, she works fast.

Her post went up on the Channel 13 website around four on Thursday afternoon. By five o'clock, she was on with Jeremy Gordon out of Des Moines, filling in all of Iowa. Thirty minutes later, she was talking on
NBC Nightly News
, explaining the situation to all of America. By six, I was curled into a ball on the couch trying not to hyperventilate.

“There's a video? Of what?” Mom shouts from the kitchen as she drains pasta into a colander. “I thought that girl made the whole thing up.”

“Maybe Ms. Speck made it up,” Will says, putting a bowl of shredded Parmesan on the table per Mom's direction. “Nobody
knows if she's for real or not.”

“Well, that girl-power computer group sounds pretty ‘for real' to me,” Mom says, and calls Dad and me to the table.

Will scoffs at this. “The feminazis? They're just bluffing.”

“Enough! Where did you learn that word?” Dad shoots daggers at Will with his eyeballs, and my brother slides gingerly into his chair as if it were made of dynamite.

“This is what I was talking about last week when I told you both to stay out of it,” Dad says. “It's national news now. No one even knew this town existed last week.”

I can barely breathe as we pass around the pasta, making small talk as we eat. Will drones on about the tournament this weekend, and whether Ben and the guys can pull off a win without Dooney and Deacon. Mom is taking off work tomorrow afternoon to drive us up to Des Moines for the first game of the tournament. Coach Lewis is letting us out of practice early so we can get there on time. Dad will still be working tomorrow night, but he'll watch the game on TV.

“It won't matter who wins,” says Dad, cutting through Will's chatter. “The only thing anyone will remember when the Buccs are mentioned now is the Coral Sands rape case.” He shakes his head and carries his plate to the sink before grabbing a beer from the fridge and settling onto the couch in the living room.

I stay in the kitchen for as long as I can, helping Mom with the dishes and putting the leftovers away. When everything is finished, I stand by the little desk near the island pretending to fiddle with the printer, waiting until Dad has fast-forwarded
through a commercial break on the buddy-cop drama he watches. One of the two is a robot. Or an alien? I can't remember. They have a problem understanding each other every week that leads to a life-or-death moment. They always survive by learning something new about the other one.

As soon as I hear a high-tech shootout happening, I slip through the living room as quickly and quietly as I can, dodging Dad's eyes.

When I get to my room I close the door behind me with a quiet click and lean against it for a few minutes. I wish there were a way I could explain to Dad why I had to go against his advice, why I had to steer directly toward the collision.

Sometimes, I think Dad and I are standing at the edge of different continents, so far apart that we can't even see each other. He felt so close on Monday morning. How does this happen?

How do we drift so far, so fast?

Ben is waiting for us in the parking lot on Friday morning. Will whoops and high-fives him about the big game tonight. The varsity team leaves right after lunch today to get to Des Moines, check into their hotel, and get warmed up at Wells Fargo Arena.

“Brought my rally socks.” Will grins, pulling up his jeans to show the black tube socks he's wearing.

“You guys are coming up tonight?” Ben asks.

“This might be the last game of your junior year,” I say. “Of
course we'll be there.”

“Shut up!” Will shouts, alarmed. “They're going to the championship tomorrow. Don't junk it up.”

Ben laughs. “That's the spirit.”

Will bumps his fist and bounds off to class.

“Do we have to go in there?” I ask.

“Any other day I'd say no”—Ben puts his arms around my waist and pulls me in to him—“but I can't miss class, or I can't play.”

I put my arms around his neck. I needed this. I'm terrified of walking inside. Ben must sense this without my saying so. “Nobody knows,” he whispers. “There's no way they could.”

“What if somebody saw me in the parking lot yesterday,” I ask, “talking to Ms. Speck?”

“Coincidence,” he says.

I laugh nervously in an attempt to keep the fear at bay. He takes my hand and I walk inside with Ben, the honorable Buccaneer.

When I step into the geology room, Rachel is mid-screech, telling Reggie and Kyle to shut up. “You're both
freaking morons
,” she hisses.

Christy jumps in, too. “Shut this crap down
now
.”

Reggie winds up to pitch more of whatever he's slinging, but sees Ben coming toward him and leans back in his seat. Ben gives him and Kyle a chin flip and a 'sup, sliding into the desk behind me.

Reggie and Kyle glare at me, their eyes drilling into the back of my head. Hostile curiosity is heavy, and hot. I glance over at Lindsey. “What is going on?” I whisper.

She shakes her head. “Just forget it,” she says. Her smile is sincere, but short.

As soon as the tone sounds, Mr. Johnston collects our permission slips for the field trip next week. Counting through the growing pile of crumpled yellow paper, he stops at Reggie's row and looks up.

“Missing one here,” he says.

“Can't go.” Reggie's arms are crossed.

“How come?” asks Mr. Johnston. “It's part of your grade for the class.”

“Can't risk it.”

“What?”

“Don't wanna get accused of
raping
somebody on the bus.”

The air is sucked out of the room. Mr. Johnston stares Reggie down. “You're out of line.”

“Am I?” Reggie says, all swagger. “Can't be too careful these days. Never know when some girl's gonna get wasted and throw herself at you. If I can't help myself, I don't wanna wind up arrested.”

Mr. Johnston tosses the pile of permission slips on his desk, then whips off his glasses. “You done?” he asks Reggie.

“Just sayin.'” Reggie slouches in his seat, a smug bandit pleased with derailing the train.

“What exactly are you ‘just saying,' Mr. Grant? That if a drunk girl approached you on a school bus, you'd take advantage of her?”

If the room was silent before, it's a sterile vacuum now. I dare a quick glance behind me. Reggie squirms, then shrugs.
I don't know. I don't wanna know. I want you off my back.

“A shrug.” Mr. Johnston's voice is an arrow making its mark. “Am I to interpret that as ‘you don't know' or ‘you don't care'?”

“Jeez. Let's just drop it,” Reggie says quietly, buckling.

“No, no.” Mr. Johnston doesn't drift an inch. “You brought it up. You decided geology class was the proper forum for this. So let's talk about it. It sounds like you're saying that if a drunk girl approaches you you'd be unable to ‘help yourself.' Am I to understand this means you'd be unable to stop yourself from having sex with her, whether she consented or not?”

“That's . . . that's not what I said.” Reggie's voice is shaky now.

“But in this scenario, the young woman is drunk, correct? I believe the word you used was ‘wasted.'” Mr. Johnston reaches over and grabs the yellow wad of permission slips, holding them up and addressing the entire class. “If a female student is ‘wasted,' is she capable of giving her consent?”

“No.” Lindsey says this firmly and loudly. We all gasp for breath as if a hatch has been blown open and oxygen has once more flooded the room.

Mr. Johnston puts his glasses back on. He goes to the
whiteboard and picks up a marker. “I have a hypothesis that there may be other choices to make if you come into contact with a young woman who is ‘wasted' and ‘throwing herself at you,' Mr. Grant. What else might you do in that situation—besides have sex with her?”

“I dunno.” Reggie mutters this, staring at his desk.

“Oh, c'mon. You're a bright kid. B average. Doing pretty well in my class. I'll bet you can think of one other option.” Mr. Johnston waits at the whiteboard, his eyes locked on Reggie. After a moment, he says, “Okay, I'll open this up. Let's help Reggie out. What else could you do if you're at a party, or out somewhere, and you come across a wasted young woman? And for now, I just want to hear from the guys.”

“Get her some water.” Ben says this right behind my head, and his voice makes my whole body relax.

“Excellent.” Mr. Johnston writes
1. Water
on the board. “What else?”

Wyatt's hand flies up across the room. “A ride home.”

“Good thinking.” Mr. Johnston's marker is squeaking away. “Other ideas?”

Guys all over the room start speaking up—some of whom I've never heard say a word during class before.

Find her friends.

Call her parents.

Get her a pillow.

Some Advil.

Make sure she has a safe place to sleep.

Don't let her drive.

A list soon fills the board. “Thank you, men. All excellent alternatives to rape. There's one other,” Mr. Johnston says. “Not as kind as the others, perhaps, but at least not harmful.” He adds the words
Just walk away
to the list, then turns back to face the class.

“Got the idea, Reggie?”

Another shrug.

“Sorry, didn't hear you,” Mr. Johnston says.

“Yeah. Got it.”

“Glad to hear it.” Mr. Johnston puts the cap on the marker and places it back in the silver tray. “Words have
meanings
. When we call something a theory in science, it
means something
. Reggie, when you say that you ‘can't help yourself' if a girl is wasted, that means something, too. You're saying that our natural state as men is ‘rapist.'”

Mr. Johnston leans toward us on the lectern at the front of the room. “That's not okay with me, Reggie.” He points at the list on the whiteboard. “That's not okay with the rest of this class, either.”

Mr. Johnston walks over to his desk and pulls open a drawer. He takes out a new yellow permission slip and walks it down the aisle, placing it on Reggie's desk. “You have until Monday to get this back to me.”

Just before the tone sounds to end fourth period, Coach Sanders announces over the intercom that the bus for the varsity players
will be parked behind the school, out of view of the news vans.

In addition to the satellite trucks, there are now a handful of protestors standing fifty feet from the front doors of the school. Several of them are wearing pink masks. Most are holding signs:

COME FORWARD

YOU TELL OR WE WILL

SHE NEEDS YOUR HELP

When we get our food, Ben walks with me to a table in the back of the cafeteria. None of the senior players left campus for lunch today. They have to be on the bus for Des Moines in thirty minutes.

With everybody here, it's crowded. The cheerleaders are in uniform and keyed up. The drill team is doing the “cup thing” with their plastic water tumblers, beating out a rhythm that echoes across the room, adding to the general pandemonium. Christy and Rachel are already sitting with Lindsey at the end of the table. We're all wearing our blue
BUCCANEER
hoodies today. Even in the face of everything else going on, we want to show solidarity.

As Ben slides his tray across from LeRon and Kyle, he pulls out my chair. “You guys ready?” he asks.

There's no answer. Both of them continue shoveling in bites of cheeseburger. Finally, Kyle glances up at Ben and nods. “As we'll ever be.”

The images of Kyle and LeRon pointing and laughing in the video play over and over in my head, but I try to smile and
force myself to speak. “Are you nervous? I always get so nervous before a game.”

LeRon looks at me, then shakes his head and goes back to his food.

Rachel sees this, and jumps in. “Yeah, me too. Crazy butterflies.”

“We'll be there cheering you on,” says Christy.

LeRon looks up at me. “You coming, too?”

Big smile. Everything's fine.
“You bet.”

He glances at Ben, then back at me. “Take good notes.”

“What?” I ask.

Kyle smirks. “So you can write your report about the whole thing.”

My stomach drops and I see Ben's face turn to stone. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Aw, c'mon, man.” LeRon drops back in his chair, dragging a couple fries through ketchup. “Your girl can't let this go.”

I glance down the table. Cheerleaders, drillers, benchwarmers, starters, Reggie slouched at the end, laughing into his tray. Every face straight ahead. Every eye turned toward me. Sideways. Watching, without seeing me. Listening, without hearing me. They've already made up their minds. I realize I'm still holding a turkey sandwich I can't imagine ever bringing to my lips.

Ben, Rachel, and Christy all explode at the same time.

Shut the fuck up.

Leave her alone.

You don't know what the hell you're talking about.

There's an argument I can't hear, then a silence that is deafening. In the awkward moments that follow, I glance across the room and see Phoebe, looking over at our table. She's sitting with another cheerleader named Amy. Dooney always used to joke that Amy was only on the squad because they needed a “solid base.” Phoebe gives me a shy smile. I nod once and look away, wondering if she's heard the rumors, too.

Before Ben gets on the bus he tells me not to worry. He gives Christy a high five, Rachel a fist bump, and Lindsey a smile, then pulls me aside and gives me a hug.

“You're finally getting out of here,” I say. “At least for a night.”