by Amy Reed
“Let’s go to my place,” Chad says. In the few minutes it takes to drive to his apartment complex, Amber eats her burger and fries and swallows whatever pride foolishly dared to surface this morning.
Amber has seen apartments like this before. Dishes piled in the sink for who knows how long. Cheap and mismatched secondhand furniture. Stained, drooping couch. Large bong on the coffee table amidst empty bags of chips and beer cans. A rank smell of dirty socks, rancid food, and ball sweat. Walls bare except for one crooked poster of a car Chad will never in his life be able to afford, with a bikini-clad woman on top he will never sleep with.
Amber’s phone rings. The caller ID says it’s that girl Grace from school. What is her problem? Why does she keep bothering Amber? Is it a weird Christian thing? Is Grace trying to save her? Well, too bad. It’s way too late for that.
“Here,” Chad says, handing Amber a plastic cup. She takes a sip of what she guesses is about five shots of cheap vodka with a splash of SunnyD. They talk for approximately four minutes before Chad unceremoniously leans over and puts his mouth on hers, his hand on her breast. He tastes like the room smells.
Amber wishes she’d gone to school today after all. Grace invited her to sit with her weird friends at lunch, but Amber hasn’t taken her up on it yet. Even though Amber doesn’t trust her, even though she has no clue what her angle is, sitting next to her at lunch and wondering what Grace wants from her sure sounds a lot better than this.
She pushes Chad away. “What’s wrong, baby?” he mumbles as he pulls her back. She tries to wiggle out of his arms, but he holds her closer. She hears her phone ring again, and she moves to reach for her purse on the floor, but Chad doesn’t let go.
“Stop,” she whispers, the word so foreign and strange in her mouth. She thinks maybe he didn’t hear her. She says it a little louder.
Chad laughs and pushes her down on the couch. “Yeah, right,” he says, both hands under her shirt, pressing against her ribs, holding her in place.
“No, really,” Amber says, the taste of fear in her mouth. “I’m not joking.”
He pretends not to hear her. He pushes her shirt up until it is gathered around her neck like a noose.
Amber knows she must make a decision. To fight or not to fight.
She is so tired. She thinks today was not a good day to try to not be herself.
She thinks, It doesn’t count as rape if I give up.
She thinks, Different rules apply to different girls. Someone like me doesn’t get to say no.
* * *
“You guys!” Melissa yells, running up to Rosina and Grace in the hall after school. Sam Robeson follows, silky multicolored scarves trailing after her. “Stop everything you’re doing and come with us,” Melissa says.
“What’s going on?” asks Grace.
Rosina doesn’t need to know. She’ll go wherever Melissa asks her to.
“We’re going to the police station,” Melissa says. “Like, right now. Lisa and Abby are already on their way.”
“Numbers nine and ten have come forward, too,” Sam says.
“Holy shit,” Rosina says. “This is really happening.”
“Did you ever get ahold of Amber?” Melissa asks.
Grace shakes her head. “I tried. She never answered.”
“It’s okay,” Sam says. “Four girls is totally enough.”
“We have to find Erin,” Grace says.
“I already talked to her,” Sam says. “She’s not coming. She said she had something really important to do after school.”
“What’s more important than this?” Grace says.
“Probably just taking a shower and watching Star Trek,” Rosina grumbles.
“I’m ready for you two to stop being mad at each other,” Grace says.
“Let’s go,” Melissa says. “You can both ride with me.”
ERIN.
Otis Goldberg’s car is clean and tidy inside. Erin finds this acceptable, maybe even pleasing. She might be comfortable if she wasn’t so anxious.
“Take a right here,” she manages to say, though what she wants to do is open the door and jump out of the moving car.
“Okeydokey,” he says.
“What is this music?” Erin says. “And who buys CDs anymore?” She realizes the words may have sounded rude. She reminds herself to work on this. This may have been something she would have asked Rosina to help her with, but not anymore.
“In answer to your first question,” Otis says. “This is Muddy Waters, the greatest blues musician in history. In answer to your second question, I buy CDs because I can get them used cheap. All kinds of cool old music like this.”
Erin likes the straightforward and logical way he structured the answer to her questions.
“It’s the blue house on the left,” Erin says. “Also, you are an excellent driver.”
“Is that a compliment?” Otis says. “Did you just give me a compliment, Erin DeLillo?”
“I am capable of giving compliments,” Erin says. “But I do it selectively.”
“I am honored to have been selected.”
Spot is the first one to greet them when they enter the house. He licks Erin’s hand like he usually does, then he circles around Otis, sniffing. When he’s made it all the way around, he licks Otis’s hand too.
“Spot approves of you,” Erin says. “He’s a good judge of character.”
“I’m honored again,” Otis says, rubbing Spot behind the ears.
Then Mom bursts through the kitchen door and attacks. “Otis, it is so nice to meet you! May I take your coat? What is your project about? Oh, isn’t that interesting! What do you think of Mr. Trilling? Erin thinks quite highly of him, and you know how demanding she can be, ha ha ha! I made snacks!”
Mom runs to the kitchen, leaving Otis and Erin and Spot in the living room.
“Let’s get to work,” Erin says. “I sit here. You can sit there.”
Otis doesn’t question her instructions. “Your mom is nice,” he says as he sits down.
“She doesn’t get out much.”
“Here you go!” Mom sings as she enters the room with two plates. She sets one in front of Erin that has celery and carrot sticks and a small bowl of raw almond butter. The plate in front of Otis has cheese and crackers. “All right then,” she says. “Otis, do you need anything else?”
“No,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Mother,” Erin says, “we are unlikely to get much work done with you hovering.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”
“So what’s up with the different snacks?” Otis says as soon as she’s gone.
“I’m not supposed to eat dairy or wheat,” Erin says, opening her laptop.
“What happens if you do?”
“Probably not too much if I just have a little right now.”
“Oh. Do you want some?”
“Yes.” She reaches over and counts out exactly half his crackers and slices of cheese, and puts them on her plate. She counts out half her carrot and celery sticks for him. “We can share this almond butter,” she says. “But do not, under any circumstances, double dip.”
“It’s a good thing nothing had an odd number of pieces,” Otis says.
“Mom knows better.”
Otis is smiling in a way that Erin knows is not mean, but it still feels like he’s laughing at her. Is it possible to laugh at someone in a friendly way? Erin wishes Rosina was here to ask, but she’s probably out on a date with that cheerleader. This is how it starts, the loss of people. They start drifting away and they never stop.
Erin feels the little reminder she’s been trained to feel, the internal voice telling her to try to act normal, to not say weird things, to not get emotional. Along with this reminder is the realization that she cares whether or not Otis likes her. These are the kinds of feelings she’s tried to eradicate, the insecurities and yearnings that only ever lead to pain.
This is too hard, this talking about
snacks. Spot seems to agree, and licks Erin’s hand.
“I already put together an agenda for this afternoon,” Erin says, pulling up the document on her laptop. “To make sure we use our time most effectively and get the most done.”
“Do I get to have any input?” Otis says.
Erin looks at him and blinks. “I’d rather you not.”
“I’m pretty smart, you know.”
“Usually teachers don’t make me do group projects.”
“I asked Mr. Trilling to make us partners.”
“What?” Erin says, panic rising in her voice. “That’s not fair. You can’t go behind my back and make decisions for me like that. You can’t just sneak around manipulating things. Why’d you do that?” Spot paws at her. He rubs his face against her leg.
“I’m sorry,” Otis says. “I didn’t know it would upset you so much. I just thought it’d be fun to do a project together.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Because you’re smart and speak your mind. Because you’re real. You’re also not bad to look at.”
Erin’s anxiety is not gone, but it has changed shape. It is a nervousness she and Spot can live with, at least temporarily.
“Not bad to look at?” Erin says. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“I thought you’d hate it less than if I said you’re pretty.”
Erin shoves a stack of cheese and crackers in her mouth. The salty crunch and creamy softness calm her. Mom’s food theory is so wrong.
“Let’s get to work,” Erin says through the mass of crumbs in her mouth.
Erin is pleasantly surprised that Otis manages to stay on track for the next hour and a half. He is, indeed, smart. She might even say they work well together. There is no more talk of liking or prettiness. Confident that he will not be needed, Spot takes a little nap on the floor next to Erin’s feet.
“We made really good progress,” Otis says.
“I agree,” Erin says, closing her laptop.
“So now what?” Otis says.
“Now what, what?”
“What are you doing right now?”
“After homework and before dinner, I watch an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation.”
“Can I join you?” Otis says. “I don’t have to be home until dinner.”
Erin narrows her eyes as she tries to think of a good reason why not. Because that’s how I’ve always done it does not seem like an adequate reason. And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to sit next to someone besides Spot while she’s watching it. It’ll be like an experiment, she thinks. Another way to challenge herself.
“Fine,” she says.
“Great!” says Otis.
Erin pulls out her phone and taps a few times.
“What are you doing?”
“I have an app on my phone that randomly generates numbers. That’s how I choose which episode to watch.”
“That’s quite a system.”
“It’s so I can practice being comfortable with surprise.”
Otis does that weird smile again, the one like he’s laughing at her but in a nice way. “How’s that working out for you?”
“Fine, thank you.”
The number is one hundred seventeen. The episode is “The Outcast.”
“What’s wrong?” says Otis.
“Nothing,” says Erin. “What makes you ask that?”
“Your face,” he says. “You looked sad for a second.”
Erin is not sad. She feels something, and maybe it was strong enough to do something to her face, even though she’s not quite sure what it is. The thing is, this is one of her all-time favorite episodes. She is not sure she wants to share it with Otis Goldberg. She is not sure she is ready to let him see something she loves.
“Have you ever watched this show before?” she says.
“I think so,” he says. “Maybe a couple of times on the Syfy channel or something.”
“It is the greatest show ever on television.”
“Okay.”
“So don’t talk during it.”
“Okay.”
“Try not to move too much either. It’s distracting.”
“Okay.”
Erin finds the episode and presses play. She folds her legs and puts a pillow on her lap. She tunes Otis out as she enters deep space, as she joins the crew of the Enterprise as they encounter a genderless alien species called the J’naii, for whom sex and gender specificity are considered an abomination. To be male or female, to want someone who is male or female, is primitive, unevolved. The only right way to be is androgynous. Sexless.
But Soren, one of the J’naii crew members, is different. She considers herself female. She falls in love with Riker, the epitome of the human male. She is an abomination. She must be fixed. Riker can do nothing to save her. Their love is not strong enough. She is not strong enough.
Soren allows herself to be reprogrammed, to be turned back to “normal.” She lets her people convince her that loving Riker was a sickness, that her gender was shameful, that sex was shameful. It is a mistake she vows to never make again. Better to be safe. Better to blend in. Better to keep her distance from the destructive influence of desire.
“Well, that was intense,” Otis says as the credits start to roll.
“If you don’t have anything nice to say,” Erin says, “don’t say anything at all.”
“I liked it,” he says. “I really liked it. You kind of look like that Soren character.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Yes.” That infuriating smile again.
Erin forgets to look away. By the time she does, it’s too late. They made what could be described as meaningful eye contact. For a moment Erin’s chest simultaneously burns and feels caved in. For a moment she wishes Rosina were here. She wishes she could ask her what it is she’s feeling.
“It’s almost time for dinner,” she says. “You should leave now.”
As if on cue, Erin’s mom bursts through the kitchen door. Was she listening this whole time?
“How are you doing, kids? How was the episode? Oh, looks like you enjoyed the snacks, ha ha ha. Otis, would you like to stay for dinner? No? Well, you’re welcome any time. Really, I mean it. I really hope to see you again soon. Right, Erin? Honey?”
Mom is quiet just long enough for Otis to leave, then the verbal firing squad starts right up again. “He seems like such a nice boy. So glad you invited him over, sweetheart. I wish you would invite friends over more often. You know, I haven’t seen Rosina lately. How’s she doing? Do you think Otis is going to come over again soon? Oh, I really hope so. Honey, I’m so proud of you. You’ve been showing so much growth lately. You’re taking a lot more chances socially and—”
“I ate cheese,” Erin says.
“What?”
“I ate cheese and my stomach hurts so I’m going to skip dinner.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I’m going upstairs now.”
Strange feelings follow her, and they have nothing to do with cheese. Missing Rosina. Memories of Otis’s smile. The way his body threw off the balance of the couch, how Erin listed slightly toward him over the course of the episode, how when it was over they were only inches apart. How he said she looked like Soren.
Erin is due for her biweekly head shaving. Also a good time for a bath. She strips naked and stands in front of the bathroom mirror, watches the reflection of her long, thin fingers as she pulls the electric razor in careful tracks over her head, leaving a clean quarter inch of hair. When she is done, she looks at herself in the mirror. Maybe she does not hate what she sees. Maybe she does not blame the image reflected back at her for everything bad that has happened.
US.
“Ladies!” the cop at the front desk yells. “I need you to calm down!”
There are at least twenty girls crammed into the tiny waiting room of the Prescott police station. Without Marg
ot there to take control of the situation, everyone is talking at once, trying to explain to the cop why they are there. No one’s getting very far, especially Sam Robeson, whose theatrical bent has reached epic proportions; she seems to have slipped into a Shakespearean accent accompanied by dizzying hand motions as she attempts to lecture the clueless cop.
“It’s a good thing Erin’s not here,” Rosina says to Melissa. “All this noise would kill her.”
“Someone’s got to do something,” Grace says, to no one in particular.
“Um, hello?” Rosina says. “Maybe that someone is you.”
Without giving herself time to talk herself out of it, Grace pushes her way to the front desk. She turns around and faces the crowd, raises her arms in the air until eyes start moving in her direction. “Hey, y’all,” she says. “Can we quiet down a little?” To Grace’s amazement, the room actually hushes and listens. “Unless anyone has any objections, I’m going to talk to the officer and explain what we’re doing here. If I miss anything, please feel free to chime in, but I think we’ll be more effective if one person handles most of the communication right now. Does that sound okay?”
There is a consensus of “Yes” around the room. Someone shouts “Go, Grace!”
Grace turns around. “How can I help you, young lady?” the officer says. He’s already exhausted.
“We are here to report a rape,” she says. “Several rapes, actually. We have proof. It’s online. I can give you the website address to Spencer Klimpt’s blog, where he basically confesses to—”
“Stop right there, honey,” the cop says. “I’m going to have to call in the chief on this. You girls sit tight.”
“Can’t we talk to you?”
“No, I think this is really something for Chief Delaney.” He hands a clipboard to Grace. “Will you have everyone sign this?”
“What is it?”
“We need a record of who’s here if you want to file a formal complaint.”
“Oh, okay.” Grace takes the clipboard and starts working on getting everyone signed in. Rosina texts her mother that she can’t come to work tonight. The room throbs with energy. The girls are electric.
“Yeah, hey, Chief,” the cop says into the phone. “O’Malley here. Sorry to bug you. I have a couple of dozen girls here in the station who say they want to report a rape or something. . . . Something about a website and that Klimpt boy, and I remember you said you wanted to handle anything concerning . . . Yeah, I know. . . . Sorry. . . . Yep. See you soon.” He hangs up the phone, looks around the room, and sighs. “Chief Delaney is on his way. But it may be a while, so you probably want to make yourselves comfortable. I’m sure not all of you gals need to be here.”
