What We Saw (7 page)

ANOTHER THING ABOUT
living in a small town is that there isn't a big law enforcement presence—especially not at school. I've seen TV shows where high school students in New York and Los Angeles walk through metal detectors flanked by security guards on the way into the building, but it's like watching science fiction.

Also, nobody on those shows seems to have a mother. Or if they do, she's away in rehab, or too busy running a fashion magazine from a skyscraper in Manhattan, or acting in a soap opera on a soundstage in Burbank to notice that the police showed up at one's high school.

Mine is not one of these mothers.

She and Dad always arrive home within a half hour of each other. I hear the water running in the bathroom off my parents' room while he takes a shower. Then the crack of a beer and the sound of the five-thirty local news.
As Seen on Thirteen!
Central Iowa's news leader is doing a pet adoption and a profile on one of the teams with a good seed in the high school state tournament next weekend. I'm almost done with my homework when I hear the garage door open again and Mom calls Will and me downstairs to help her set the table. I start unloading the dishwasher, handing Will silverware while Mom rolls chicken into tortillas.

“No-guilt enchiladas tonight,” she announces, drenching the first layer in a dirt-red sauce from a jar.

“Why would anyone feel guilty about eating enchiladas?” Will steals some of the cheese she's sprinkling over the casserole dish and she smacks his hand away.

“All that fat,” she says, holding up the giant bag of fat-free cheddar she gets on her once-a-month pilgrimage to the Sam's Club near Iowa City. “Ran into Adele at Hy-Vee this afternoon. She handed me a coupon—then told me the police showed up at your school today?” Mom leans over the island. “Anything on the news about it, Carl?”

“Anything on the news about what?” Dad wanders in from the living room. A commercial for Crazy Al's Discount Furniture screams at us from the television.

Will pulls plates out of the cabinet. “It was wild,” he says. “We're all just eating lunch, and then
boom
: Mr. Jennings was
cuffing Dooney over the table.”

“Cuffing him?” Dad frowns as he tosses his can in the trash.

“Recycling, Carl,” Mom scolds, moving the can into a paper grocery bag under the sink. “They dragged that poor boy out in handcuffs?”

Will is bouncing around the table folding paper napkins in half and sliding them underneath the forks. “Yeah. Deacon, Greg, and Randy all walked out on their own, but not Dooney. He was pissed.”

Dad gets another beer out of the fridge. He leans over the island and grabs a tortilla chip as Mom pours them into a bowl. “These chips are
gluten free
.” Mom announces this with great pride as she hands me the bowl to put on the table.

“Aren't all corn chips gluten free?” I ask. “I mean, they're made from corn.”

Mom ignores my question and frowns as she pops the casserole dish into the oven. “Why on earth would they put John Doone in handcuffs?”

“Ask Kate,” says Will enthusiastically. “She and her boyfriend were standing right there when it happened.”

Mom turns around as I put coffee mugs into the cabinet. “Boyfriend?” she asks. “Kate, are you blushing?”

I take a deep breath. “What? No, I just—”

“What's gluten, anyway?” Dad asks, grinning as he crunches on another chip. I smile back at him. He knows I don't want to talk about this. It's one of the things I love about Dad: his belief that silence is golden.

“Carl, please! Don't change the subject. Your daughter has a boyfriend.”

“And if she wanted to tell you about him she would.”

“It's fine,” I say. “He's not . . . we're just . . .” I close the dishwasher. “Ben asked me to Spring Fling.”

“Oh, honey!” Mom almost knocks me down with a hug. “Isn't that wonderful, Carl?”

“What the hell is a Spring Fling?” he asks.

“It's this really cool dance,” says Will. “Everybody wears clothes they buy at the thrift store or garage sales. Tyler told me his brother found this hilarious suit from the seventies made out of denim.”

Mom's face lights up. “Sounds like we'll have to go shopping.”

I hold up both hands. “It's really not that big a deal. Rachel and I are going to look around after school tomorrow.” Mom looks deflated and turns back to the enchiladas. “Seriously, Mom. It isn't Junior-Senior or anything.” The minute the words leave my mouth, I realize I've made a mistake.

Mom's hand goes to her neck, clutching imaginary pearls. “Do you think he'll ask you to prom?”

Dad shakes his head. “Sue, let the poor girl deal with one dance at a time.” He takes a handful of chips and heads back to the living room with his beer, an eyebrow raised in my direction. “If that Cody boy gets outta hand, just kick him in the head like you did the first time.”

Dad gets all the way through the
NBC Nightly News
and half of the local news at six before the timer goes off on the oven. Mom is setting the no-guilt enchiladas on the table and telling Dad to turn off the TV and come eat when I hear the words “several arrests at Coral Sands High School,” and now all four of us are staring at the screen.

A blond woman with a microphone is standing in front of the school—our school—giving the studio anchors in Des Moines a preview of the story she'll do on the ten o'clock news. Her name floats beneath her chin: Sloane Keating. Her hair falls in golden waves that frame her face. Her makeup is perfect, and her navy jacket clings in all the right places, but she doesn't look much older than I am.

The county sheriff's department has confirmed that four young men were taken into custody, though no names have been released as of yet. Apparently, two of the high school students are minors, and two are eighteen. The charges stem from a party that was held Saturday night at the home of a star Coral Sands basketball player, and include sexual assault, rape, and distribution of child pornography. I'll have a full report at ten. . . .

Dad clicks off the television, and we all stare at the dark screen in silence for a moment before Mom quietly says, “Let's eat.”

The enchiladas are delicious, but there is guilt in the air, and
I can hardly swallow. Why do I feel like I did something wrong? Dad is silent as Mom peppers me with questions.

Is that the party you were at?

John Doone's party?

Ben was there with you?

Did you see anything?

Did you hear anything?

Were his parents home?

Will keeps piping up with rumors his friend Tyler has heard. “Everybody knows Stacey filed the charges.”

“Stacey?” Mom turns to me. “Do you know her?”

I nod, miserable. “You do, too.”

“You don't mean . . .” Mom puts her fork down. “Stacey
Stallard
?”

“Isn't it crazy?” Will is close to whiplash from all of the rubbernecking. “Nothing like this ever happens around here. I mean, we're on the news and—”

“That's enough.” Dad wipes his mouth and tosses his napkin onto his plate. I jump at the sharp sound of his voice. “This is nothing to gawk at, Will.”

“I'm not gawk—” He falls silent as Dad fixes him with the what-did-I-just-say? look. Our father can communicate a great deal without speaking, so when he raises his voice it usually means we should pay attention.

Dad turns his gaze to me. “Were people drinking at this party?”

“Yes, sir.” I can feel my cheeks go hot.

“Were
you
drinking at this party?”

My heart pounds, but I know better than to lie. I'm bad at it. I nod. His stare bores right through me.

“Ben drove me home. Early.” I blurt it out. “He wouldn't let me drive my truck.”

Dad nods slowly. “That was a wise choice, young lady. If I ever catch wind that you got behind the wheel after drinking, you'll be walking to college and paying for it yourself.”

I stare at my plate for what feels like an eternity.

“Kate?” Finally, Dad says my name and I look up at him. There is no anger behind his eyes. “You keep your head down, understand? You do not want to get caught up in this mess. People's lives will be ruined whether there's an ounce of truth to this or not. Steer clear. As far as this family is concerned, you don't even know where that Doone boy lives.”

After another moment of silence, Mom asks who wants ice cream for dessert.

Tonight, for the first time in the history of the Westons, there are no takers.

FOUR ARRESTED IN CORAL SANDS RAPE INVESTIGATION

By Sloane Keating

Published: March 18

CORAL SANDS, Iowa—
Four arrests rocked the south-central Iowa town of Coral Sands yesterday. Charges filed with the county sheriff's office allege that a 17-year-old high school junior was raped during a party held at the home of Coral Sands Buccaneers star John Doone, 18.

Doone and teammate Deacon Mills, also 18, have been
formally charged with one count each of sexual assault, and one count of rape. Doone is also charged with one count of distributing child pornography. Pictures and videos taken before and during the alleged incident, as well as during the arrest of the players, were widely circulated among partygoers and other students via social media. Under Iowa statute, any distribution of images featuring a minor in a state of undress or participating in sexual activity is considered child pornography, regardless of the age of those distributing.

Two other students taken into custody are also members of the top-ranked high school basketball team, but their names have not yet been released as both are minors.

Coral Sands principal Wendall Hargrove said late Tuesday night that he and the school's administration take the allegations very seriously. However, in a statement released this morning, Hargrove urged the community to exercise caution in their rush to judgment:

“These young men are innocent until proven guilty. It is important to understand that we are dealing with allegations against four students who have been examples of fine sportsmanship; young men who have rallied our community, despite a difficult economy, as members of our most winning basketball team in recent history. We owe them the respect and privacy they deserve as we get to the truth behind these charges.”

The name of the alleged victim has not been released, but several sources close to the investigation say that there have
been “troubling” reports of her behavior. Initial accounts indicate that the young woman was very drunk at the time of the alleged incident, and had refused to leave the party earlier with friends. One source, who spoke on condition of anonymity, stated, “It would appear, in our preliminary investigation, that the student making these charges wanted to be where she was and remained at the party of her own volition.”

Further complicating the issue, images and messages circulated on social media suggest that some in attendance deemed the young woman's attire to be provocative. Additional online comments seem to indicate she may have been dating one or more of the young men involved.

Deputy Barry Jennings, the arresting officer, refused to comment on an ongoing investigation, saying only, “The allegations are serious and could plague these boys for the rest of their lives.”

Scholarship opportunities for two of the players have already been called into question. University of Iowa, which has a signed commitment from Deacon Mills in advance of the Buccaneers' top seed in next week's state tournament, is said to be “reviewing the situation.” Representatives for Duke University, said to be seriously courting John Doone, could not be reached for comment.

The four young men are still currently in custody, pending arraignment and bail hearings, set for later today.

IF SLOANE KEATING'S
live coverage last night was scant on quotes and details, no one seemed to notice. There was nothing live to cover, really, just an empty parking lot. Still, the fact that she was there, reporting from our high school, had the entire town in rapt attention. Will was texting all night, and Mom left Margie Doone three different messages before we all found ourselves in the living room to watch the ten o'clock news together for the first time in . . . well, maybe ever.

The wind had picked up, and the chilly breeze gave Sloane's report the effect of a bizarre newscaster music video, her blond hair whipping about lightly, her lips perfectly lined, her eyes huge and gleaming white, like alien dinner plates. She was a
Pixar princess in shoulder pads.

Overnight, however, she'd managed to gather more information, and though her blog post this morning on the regional page of the
Des Moines Register
lacked live video, what it did have were a couple of cold, hard facts and the scent of scandal. Just before fourth period, Lindsey pointed out that Reuters had picked it up.

The news vans in the parking lot sent a strong gust of wind across the lit embers of everyone's imagination. In the cafeteria, you could almost see heat waves rippling the air over the three tables of Buccaneers. The guys on the team were talking about last night's practice. Coach Sanders had gotten choked up, and told them that if there was ever a time to come together as a team, this was it—both on and off the court. He swore he was doing everything in his power to get Dooney and Deacon to the tournament next weekend.

Kyle kept drumming on Stacey:
liar, slut, liar, slut.
Phoebe and the Tracies were there, too, nodding and tapping their nails on the table:
Bitch'll be sorry. Bitch'll be sorry.

Ben was quiet, just listening. Lindsey picked at her food, then said she had to finish some homework before next period. We all made plans to hit the thrift store after school and get outfits for Spring Fling. When Ben heard this, he smiled for the first time all day.

In two minutes, the tone will sound to end my journalism class and the school day. Mr. Jessup shot down any discussion of the events at hand, insisting instead that we spend the hour
working on next week's blog posts for our online student news site. I wanted to tell him that there was actual journalism going on in the parking lot, but decided against it. Sometimes it's easier just to go with the flow. From my seat by the window, I can see two more news vans have now joined Sloane's team (
Thirteen's on the Scene!
) from Des Moines at the edge of the parking lot: one from Cedar Rapids and one from Sioux City.

When class is over, I stand by the window for a moment, watching as the cameraman from Cedar Rapids frames up a shot. He centers squarely on the fifteen-foot-tall Buccaneer plastered across the side of the gymnasium. It was painted by the Buccaneer Boosters last year with materials donated by Christy's dad, who owns Hank's Hardware and Lumber. This single act of goodwill by her father (whose name, surprisingly, is Harold, not Hank) started a campaign called Buccs Buy Local! Instead of driving out to Ottumwa and shopping at Home Depot, people started coming back to Hank's and asking Harold for help finding stuff in his cramped storefront on Second Avenue. Christy says it saved the business, which had all but dried up. This town loves its basketball team. I remember Dooney's face in the hallway on Monday.
Loyal. I like that.

I take a deep breath and gather up my stuff.

Christy and Lindsey are coming from yearbook and fall in next to me. Rachel meets us at the stairs with her flute case, fresh from band.

“This time next week, we'll be headed to the field to run drills,” Rachel moans.

“Bring on the pain!” Christy shouts and pounds on her locker like she's King Kong.

Lindsey laughs. “I'm going to remind you of that when you're puking next week.”

“How long did you make it during first practice last year? Must've been at least a quarter mile.” I poke Christy in the ribs, and she jumps, then tries to scramble after me. I spin around in the hall, and run smack into a six-foot-four tower of human. It's Ben.

“Hi,” he says.

I smile up at him. “Oh. Hi.”

He leans down and pecks me on the lips. Christy immediately makes a barfing sound and starts tossing loose papers over our heads from the landfill that is her locker. Rachel whistles with her fingers in her mouth. I hear LeRon down the hall holler, “Get a room
.
” It's been like this all day—everyone is wound up.

It's overcast as we head into the parking lot. Ben holds my hand and explains that he swapped trucks with his mom today. “I can drive and drop everyone off back here,” he offers. “That cool with you?”

I nod. “How come you have your mom's car?”

Ben glances around for half a second, taking stock of who's within earshot. Christy is grabbing an umbrella from her trunk and dumping her backpack. Rachel is laughing with Lindsey about finding a tie-dyed dress for the dance. I hold up a hand to stem the tide of his explanation.

I get it. No words needed
.

There is relief in his eyes as he opens the back door of his mom's Explorer for Lindsey and heaves a laundry basket over the headrests into the space behind the seats. It's filled with unopened packages of tube socks. The whole team wore those awful black socks pulled up to their knees during the last three regular games of the season. A show of solidarity. Sock-erstition. At the time, I wondered where they'd come from. Now I know: Adele's shopping habit strikes again.

Will calls my name, and I see him walking up with Tyler as Christy, Rachel, and Lindsey pile into Ben's backseat. “Where you going?” he asks me. “I thought you were gonna drive me home.”

“'Sup, Pistol?” Ben holds out a fist and Will grins as he bumps back, glancing at Tyler to make sure he caught the exchange. Tyler is appropriately impressed.

“Meant to text you,” I say. “We're going to the thrift store. Can you get a ride home with Tyler?”

“He wanted a ride home with us.”

I turn to Ben. “Sorry. Looks like I have to run carpool first. Meet you there?”

“We've got room.” Ben jerks his head for Tyler and Will to follow him and pops open the hatch behind the backseat. “Just don't flip off any cops or anything. Everybody's supposed to have a seat belt.”

Tyler just stands there, staring. “Dude . . .”

“C'mon, man.” Will elbows him and jumps in.
Hurry up. We
may never get another opportunity to ride in a varsity player's way-back ever again.

Will sits down on the laundry basket and Tyler crouches across from him. “Are these all the leftover rally socks?” Will's voice contains the hushed awe of the first man to see Niagara.

“All yours,” says Ben.

“Really? Won't you guys need 'em for the tournament?”

Ben shakes his head once. “Plenty more where those came from. Trust me.”