I Have the Right To

by Chessy Prout

  I debated what to do with my furry white beanbag chair. It was too big to fit in the rental car, but I didn’t want to have to buy a new one in the fall. It never crossed my mind that I wouldn’t return. My parents still lived in Hong Kong. St. Paul’s was my home.

  “Maybe I could store it at Dylan’s house, at the rectory?” I suggested.

  Mom hissed something at Dad in the corner. I could barely make it out: “There is no way I’m letting her come back.”

  NINE

  A House Divided

  I was back in Naples, spread out like a starfish on my queen-size bed. A quilt of emotions covered me: confusion, fear, paranoia, sadness. I dug up my old turquoise-blue journal from my bedside table, the one I’d started after the earthquake three years ago, and began writing down the thoughts ricocheting in my head.

  I also feel overwhelmed although the events that happened in Concord, NH are not always, vibrantly on my mind (I think because this area now has no constant +physical landmark reminders) . . . I know I am doing the right thing, but am I really willing to ruin someone’s life to prove a point to him or the school? Yes (yet my hands are still shaking.)

  I hadn’t shared much with Lucy when we met up for a couple of days in New York City on the way back from Concord. She was coming from graduation parties in Block Island and heading off to Paris for a celebratory trip with her St. Paul’s friends. She couldn’t, or wouldn’t, absorb what had happened.

  We talked briefly in the hotel in New York one morning after she had brunch with a friend, Poppy, who’d dated Owen during the fall of senior year. He supposedly did something bad to her, too.

  “Poppy said she hopes he gets what he deserves,” Lucy recounted to me and Mom. “She’s glad you’re speaking out.”

  I didn’t even know Poppy. Ivy texted me that the police had interviewed another third former about her encounter with Owen.

  Ivy: . . . she wanted me to pass on to you that she’s here for you if you ever want to talk.

  Me: Oh my god. Okay. I was wondering if they were going to do that. Wow tell her thank you for reaching out, and that I am so sorry for putting her in that situation.

  I was relieved that the girls seemed to be on my side. I felt guilty burdening them and their families with such an uncomfortable topic. I didn’t want my classmates to hate me. I hoped the police would hurry up with their investigation. Owen still didn’t seem to have a clue that he was in any trouble in his most recent message.

  Owen: hiii chessy so we just got back to the states from our absolute bender in montreal so I’m pretty dead but also hoping things have quieted down a little . . .

  I forwarded the note to Detective Curtin along with the other messages he sent. The police were planning to interview him soon. I hoped he would be scared shitless.

  In the meantime, my parents were on high alert. They treated me as if I was one of the orchids in our house, fretting that I would lose my delicate petals at any moment. Are you hungry? Are you tired? Are you lonely?

  I was annoyed at Dad for violating my personal space—writing down my Facebook and email passwords and looking at both accounts while I was sitting right next to him!

  Their worrying was now oppressive, even when it was warranted. My resentment built and I had a meltdown on a family bicycle ride to the beach. I barely made it across the street before the pressure of the hard seat between my legs became intolerable. Mom led Christianna away while Dad tried to console me as I curled up behind the large green garbage containers on the side of the driveway.

  Once I calmed down, my panic converted into anger. Biking—a favorite family activity—was completely out of the question. Owen had stolen my virginity and now he’d taken this? And in one fell swoop, I’d managed to frighten Mom, Dad, and my little sister.

  I was determined to prove to myself and everyone else that I was stronger and wiser because of all this. Later that day Mom and Dad brought me into the living room. I sat stiffly on the couch and focused on Dad’s black lacquer table, which we’d brought over from Japan, and saw my childhood before me: slurping udon noodles on Friday nights, twirling around for dance parties, playing with Barbies. Would that little girl ever come back?

  Mom interrupted my trip down memory lane.

  “Chess, what happened out there?” she asked, her blue eyes burrowing into mine.

  Silence. I had nothing to say. Nothing I could say. I used to tell Mom everything, but a new era had dawned. Detective Curtin had advised me not to share details of my assault with anyone in order to preserve the integrity of the investigation. I tried to keep everything bottled up inside, but a tear crept out. Mom came over to hug me. I pushed her away as my body turned to stone.

  “Don’t touch me,” I snapped.

  Mom sniffled and then wept softly. I felt horrible for hurting her feelings, but I didn’t want to be touched. Especially without her asking first.

  I talked plenty with Dr. Sloane. We reunited right after I came home to Naples. We met twice a week, sometimes for an hour and a half, double my usual sessions.

  I wanted to let my best friend Arielle know what was going on, but I couldn’t find the right time, the right words. I attempted to corner her during a birthday celebration at her house, but our friend Paige wouldn’t leave the kitchen. Finally, I just blurted it out to the both of them.

  “So . . . this thing happened at school with a boy. The police are involved and there’s an investigation.”

  Arielle’s jaw plummeted and her eyes went dead.

  “I was sexually assaulted—raped—or whatever.”

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” Arielle said.

  “Chessy, that’s terrible. What can we do?” Paige asked.

  They were kind and caring. I didn’t think Arielle or Paige could actually help me, but it was too tiring to keep such a big secret.

  My body was exhausted yet my mind never stopped wandering. I’d lie motionless in bed, questioning my faith. Why was this happening to me? What if I’d never gone out that night? I just wanted to be a normal fifteen-year-old riding my bike, going to the beach, learning how to drive.

  I hoped to find my way back to God on a youth missionary trip to an orphanage in the Bahamas. Lucy had done some missionary work when we lived in Asia, and now it was my turn. A friend from North Naples United Methodist Church had encouraged me to join the excursions for teens she’d led over the last several years. I’d signed up months ago and had a ticket for the end of June. But Mom and Dad were so distressed that they suggested I cancel the trip.

  “I don’t want you to go someplace by yourself,” Mom said.

  “You need to be around your family right now,” Dad agreed.

  I understood their concerns. I was apprehensive about not knowing anyone, but I didn’t have any fears about my safety. It was a chance for me to be my own person, not the girl who’d just been sexually assaulted. None of these kids knew anything about it.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this. I made a commitment. Please let me go,” I begged. “Besides, I need to fulfill my required community service hours for St. Paul’s.”

  I started having doubts about the wisdom of the trip after boarding a prop plane in Nassau with fraying seat belts and a broken AC. It didn’t help matters that I had to sign a legal document before I left, picking which funeral home I would want to be shipped back to in Florida in case I died.

  I inhaled the stale, hot air and gazed at the ocean during our thirty-minute journey to Cat Island, a remote stretch of sand in the central Bahamas with a population of about 1,500 people. Here, the main attraction was Mount Alvernia, the tallest point in the Bahamas at roughly two hundred feet above sea level. It was topped by a stone monastery called the Hermitage, which offered a spectacular view of the lush island and aquamarine waters sweeping to the horizon.

  When the plane door opened, a cool breeze settled my stomach. Ten of us loaded into a silver van meant for six people. By the time we arrived at the Old Bight Mission Home and
Orphanage, my butt was covered in sweat. That would be a constant for the next week.

  Old Bight takes care of children who have been removed from their families because of abuse, neglect, or other problems. I had envisioned sad, mopey kids. But as we pulled up to the home, a bevy of beautiful children chased our van into the gravel driveway and screamed with excitement. I felt like a movie star as I opened the door, with kids climbing all over me—a stranger—offering hugs and warm welcomes to their gorgeous island.

  We woke up every morning at six thirty a.m. to Christian rock tunes and songs from Florence + the Machine. The sun boiled in those early hours, and hornets greeted me as soon as I rolled off my leaky air mattress. We prepared breakfast and kept tabs on the water. There was only one pitcher in the main house fridge for all eleven children.

  We spent our days hosting different stations that combined arts and crafts and science projects with daily Bible lessons. We assembled in the sanctuary for worship after breakfast, before lunch, and after dinner. During free time in the afternoons, the girls braided my hair and then we jumped for hours with the boys on the black trampoline on the scrubby lawn.

  Mark, one of the smallest boys, stole my heart immediately. He was seven years old, always wearing pants that were too big and falling down. I found a bandanna and fashioned it into a belt by tying it around his waist. During worship one day, he sat on my lap and fell asleep. I adored holding him. I was protecting him as much as he was protecting me.

  The kids reminded me of the joys of human connection. They were filled with love and grace, and their spirits were as high as the Hermitage. I realized that nothing sticks to your soul like love. Everything else could be washed away.

  I felt lucky to be there. Yes, I was doing volunteer work, but it was a privilege that my parents had to pay for. Cat Island provided a temporary escape, a refuge from the trauma that waited for me back home.

  Each night I read stories from a Disney Princess collection to the girls and then gathered with the other volunteers in the living room of our house. We discussed Bible passages and answered questions about how the text had meaning in our lives. What do you worry about? Have you ever been in a situation where you were in need? What happened?

  The topics couldn’t have been more relevant, but I had my own set of questions. Did I want to tell them? How would this church community react to a sex crime? Would they blame me? I pondered these questions by myself at night outside the chapel as I searched for the Milky Way in the star-studded sky.

  During the week, other volunteers confided deeply personal struggles with illnesses and being gay. Everyone offered compassion, which made me relieved and helped restore my faith a bit. On Thursday night, we sat in our usual circle and discussed a parable about how we should use what God has given us and provided for us. This time, the question had instructions: How has God gifted you personally? Make sure everyone answers this one!

  I exhaled loudly when my turn came. I started out slowly, halting, hesitating.

  “It’s such a gift to be here on Cat Island and meet all these people and make all these relationships . . . I’ve learned so much from the kids at a time when I really needed to learn from them . . . and find a way to get back to God.”

  Silence. Deep breath.

  “At my boarding school, I was assaulted on campus by a student there . . . I’ve been dealing with the aftermath of all that for the last couple of weeks . . . It’s made me question what my purpose on earth is.”

  Then my words began flowing like the ocean waves around us.

  “Being here and being able to see the kids and their raw, unadulterated faith and belief in God even though they have faced much worse than I have ever faced has made me realize that if they can get through it, so can I. Instead of saying why me, I can be thankful for what I have and be strong.”

  I glanced around and saw nodding heads, mournful eyes. There was a smattering of “I’m sorrys” and “Are you okays.” I had done it.

  On the seventh day, our last day on Cat Island, little Mark closed our worship service with a thoughtful prayer, thanking us for everything we’d done. With his eyes fluttered shut, the sweet Bahamian boy ended his prayer by saying, “And please bless Chessy on her way home. Please bless Chessy.”

  From my sweaty metal seat, I cried, tears sliding down my cheeks. After our group’s farewell lunch of crab and rice and barbecue chicken—most likely the chicken we’d played with earlier—we undertook our difficult good-byes.

  I searched for Mark so I could tell him how much I appreciated his prayer. I saw him making the rounds and heard him lovingly call each female leader by my name, Chessy. He had been praying for all the women on the team. He was using my name as a symbol for every woman who brought love, kindness, and relief. Now I knew I had something to live up to, especially when I got back to St. Paul’s. I could be a voice for voiceless survivors. I could help others. I had found my purpose.

  I returned to Naples with love bursting from my heart and mosquito bites destroying the backs of my legs. I scratched and scratched without realizing what I was doing. I couldn’t feel my nails across my skin, the blood dripping, the scabs ripping open again and again. Nothing. I just kept clawing until the wounds got infected and Mom hauled me to the doctor.

  My Cat Island glow quickly wore off as I found our house submerged in anxiety. Dad’s boss seemed to be giving him a hard time for taking off work. I shriveled up whenever anyone tried to be affectionate. Our close relatives criticized Mom for considering my return to St. Paul’s. One even told her to “act like a goddamn adult.”

  Mom and Dad were still trying to sort through the wreckage as I dug in my heels. The guy who assaulted me was gone, and so were his buddies. This was my education, after all. He couldn’t take that away too. Lucy was biting her tongue so hard I thought it would fall off.

  I hoped Lucy would come around by the time we left for Italy. We were headed there for the first time as a family since Dad’s sister got married in Venice back in 2000. We’d long talked about spending summers with them in Italy, and Dad finally planned a trip around Mom’s fiftieth birthday.

  There seemed like no better time to flee the United States. We’d learned that the Concord Police had enough to pursue certain charges against Owen, but they wanted to question other potential victims and gather additional evidence. If he was getting arrested, I wanted to get the hell out of the country.

  We stopped for a few days in New York City to see Grandma Prout, Aunt Frannie, and Aunt Cathy. Lucy and I were walking on the Upper East Side past the Guggenheim Museum when I told her that she needed to respect my feelings—my anxiety over what happened and my desire to go back to St. Paul’s.

  “Respect? Let’s talk about respect,” Lucy shot back. “Why did you go see Owen even though you knew I had had a relationship with him? That totally violates sister code.”

  “I know, I know, I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I’ve wanted to apologize to you for a while, but I didn’t want to bring it up.”

  “I’m furious at him, but I’m also upset with you. I told you what to expect, why you shouldn’t engage in the Senior Salute,” Lucy said. “They’re gross, sleazy guys.”

  “I went because my friend told me he was different,” I explained. “I felt special that he was giving me attention.”

  “Ugh,” Lucy sighed. “I could have prevented this.”

  The guilt I felt for not listening to Lucy consumed me. I never should have changed my mind and agreed to meet Owen. I could have saved myself and my family so much pain if I hadn’t gone to a secluded place with a guy I didn’t know well. I was too trusting, too naive. I felt like it was all my fault. It would take me years to accept what now seems obvious: rape is not a punishment for poor judgment.

  During our family vacation that summer, I’d stay up late and scour the Internet for any updates on the case. On our second day in Italy, news broke on Owen’s arrest. The reports described him as a six-foot soccer player who studies
at Harvard, a presidential scholar. I, on the other hand, was just a fifteen-year-old female student, a nameless victim. I was nothing. I felt sick. I read through the comments and saw anonymous posters referring to me as a liar, a scorned ex-girlfriend, a slut, an attention grabber. One person on a local CBS Boston website outed my name in the comments section.

  I raced to the bathroom and threw up my spaghetti into the toilet. I banged on the door of my parents’ room, sobbing. It was one a.m. Dad immediately emailed Detective Curtin and Mr. Hirschfeld. The CBS site eventually redacted my name, but who knew how long it was up there? And why were people spewing so much venom at me? I was the victim. Owen had done something to hurt me.

  I hoped he felt as bad as I did. I wanted this to be a wake-up call for him and his family so he realized the seriousness of his actions. He needed to own up to what he’d done to me and to other girls. I pulled the covers over my head and slept with Mom and Dad. So much for their romantic getaway.

  Mom carted us out of bed the next day. She wasn’t going to let this wreck our family vacation. Later that night, as Christianna and I got ready for dinner, I heard loud voices coming from Mom and Dad’s room. Christianna was only eight, but she knew that something bad had happened to me that made everyone sad and angry. I tried to distract her while eavesdropping on the yelling next door.

  “Why would you let her go back to the school where that happened?” Lucy shouted. “You don’t understand the culture there.”

  “Luce, how is it that bad? I never saw this stuff when I was there,” Dad said. “Besides, if Chessy goes back, there will be lots of adults looking out for her.”