by Chessy Prout
Mrs. Hebra sent me a sweet handwritten letter the next day.
Chessy Dear, Just a quick note to remind you of how many of us are thinking of, praying for, and celebrating you. I am sure it doesn’t feel this way at the moment, especially when doubt and scary thoughts enter your mind, but you are a hero. You are my hero, and for as long as I live I will think of you as such.
Much respect,
Mrs. Hebra
She invited me to her faculty house so I could have a quiet space to work on my victim impact statement. I had to have it ready by the next court date in mid-November. It was my one chance to explain to the judge how the assault had changed my life.
I stared at a blank sheet of paper for hours at Mrs. Hebra’s house. I had tried so hard to avoid thinking about these painful things, how I was no longer that innocent girl. And I never would be again.
I scribbled some notes during humanities class, but I couldn’t string together full sentences. Dark circles cupped my eyes and anxiety smothered my brain. I stopped returning Mom’s calls as the court date drew closer. She knew that was my silent cry for help, so she flew up to New Hampshire and took me on a road trip to the coastal town of Portsmouth.
We wandered around the cobblestone streets along the Piscataqua River and stumbled into a historic inn with a beautiful garden. Mom thought surrounding me with nature would cure my writer’s block. It wasn’t until four a.m. that I ripped out the jagged blades of anger, despair, shame, and panic tearing through my body and laid them out so that the judge could feast on the bloody carnage.
Lilly wanted to attend the hearing to support me, but shortly before we got word that Owen had fired his lawyer. The plea deal was off. I had numbed myself of all expectations, but I could tell that Mom was devastated. Dad got riled up, saying this was all part of a game to mess with us, to wear us down, to make us go away.
We met at the prosecutor’s office with Barbara, Catherine, and Joe Cherniske, an assistant county attorney working on my case.
“It’s a difficult process and, again, it’s not user-friendly,” said Barbara, the victim advocate. “We’re very sorry that you and your family are experiencing this.”
“I’m not going to give up. He is not going to intimidate me,” I said. “I know this is wrong and I want justice.”
“We’ll keep pressing ahead, then,” Catherine said.
My shoulders sank. My head hung down; it felt so heavy that it might roll off my body and down the gravel street. I couldn’t bear to resume a “normal life,” so for the second year in a row, I left St. Paul’s without completing my midwinter exams.
Back in Naples, I burrowed in the Prout cocoon. Lucy cuddled with me on the couch and watched rom-coms. Christianna and I buried each other in velvety sand and held hands as we crossed the finish line for the annual Turkey Trot.
For the first time in months, I felt safe and free. I didn’t have to look over my shoulder or worry about sleeping in my room. We were back together as a family again. My heart ached. I had missed this so much.
Mom held a post-Thanksgiving party to clear out the leftovers. Soft jazz music flowed throughout the house while my friends devoured the apple pie I had baked. I ducked into the kitchen to get a few minutes of alone time and found Mom standing by the water cooler. I perched on a white breakfast stool and exhaled deeply.
“Would it really be okay if I came back home?” I asked, looking her straight in the eyes. “Would it be a big hassle?”
“You’re always welcome to come home, darling. We’ve talked to the headmaster at CSN, and he said he’d hold a spot for you in case you want to return in the new year,” Mom said. “We’d love to have you back.”
“I just don’t know how much more I can handle,” I said.
Mom held my gaze for a moment before saying, “I don’t know if they deserve you anymore.”
We agreed that I’d finish out the semester and decide over Christmas break whether I would return next year. All I had to do was make it through a few more weeks.
Back at St. Paul’s, I had trouble sleeping and I barely made it to chapel on time in the morning. I scooted into the pews and stared at the wrought-iron light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, imagining them crashing to the ground. The chapel had tiered seating with faculty in the back and freshmen in the front. Each year, the students ascended to a higher level. Would I ever make it to the top?
The dim lights and monotonous drone of the speakers created a powerful sedative, especially for the sleep-deprived. My eyelids started drooping as two seniors made the morning announcements from the wooden lectern in the aisle separating the facing rows of pews. One of them was Jake, the guy who’d yelled at me after I saw him getting a blow job in the music building.
They announced a powder-puff football game taking place on campus but only invited girls over the age of consent to participate. My eyes popped open in time to see classmates turn and face me. My friend Reese’s mouth hung open. “I can’t believe they just said that,” she gasped. “That’s so insensitive.”
The rest of the students erupted in laughter. My eyes darkened like a monsoon. My insides were gutted. How could they joke about something so serious? I scoured the upper rows, searching for my teachers. Some of them were laughing, too. None of the adults stood up and said anything. The chapel had been my last refuge on campus.
When the announcements ended, I stormed out, shattering the facade I had promised myself to keep up. I walked hastily past the older students, not caring if I bumped into them. I glared at both of the reverends for allowing this to happen in a holy place.
Before I could get to the main road between the chapel and my dorm, my body started heaving. I was having another panic attack. Back at Con20, I slammed my door shut and called Mom, incensed: “I’m done with this place. I have to come home. It’s not healthy to be here anymore.”
Mom told me to go see Buzz while she made arrangements for Uncle Bernie to drive up from Massachusetts and get me out of there that afternoon. On my way into Clark House I saw my adviser, Mr. Callahan, who served on the disciplinary council, walk the two boys from chapel out of the health center. It took all my self-control not to give them a piece of my mind.
Buzz had me do breathing exercises to calm down after I closed the door to her office. Then I explained the powder-puff fiasco.
“This environment is not supportive of or respectful to girls,” I said. “I’m reminded of the assault every day. I want to go home and never come back here.”
Buzz looked at me hard, her blue eyes brimming with tears. “I understand.”
Then she brought me back to the dorm so I could pack up.
My room suddenly became a gathering place for people to either say good-bye or attempt to feel better about themselves. Some girls who hadn’t talked to me all semester finally chose now to communicate, but it was way too late.
The dean of students, Chad Green, stopped by and began to bawl.
“I’m so sorry we failed you here,” he sniveled.
Mr. Hirschfeld knocked on my door next and awkwardly promised that there would always be a place for me at St. Paul’s if I wanted to return. There was zero chance of that happening.
“Thank you, but I am never coming back. I just hope it gets better for other girls,” I said, attempting to shroud the anger radiating off my skin.
When Uncle Bernie arrived, Buzz handed him an apology note written by the two boys who’d made the announcement in chapel. I refused to look at it. I knew it was all bullshit.
As Uncle Bernie waited in the hallway of my dorm, a man, maybe a teacher, told him that if I was this sensitive, perhaps it was a good idea that I was going home.
I walked outside without a jacket. The blustery December air burned my face. Catie, Lilly, Faith, and Ivy followed me out, and we embraced in a group hug with my back to the chapel. Ivy cried the hardest and kept apologizing, but I was so tired of these delayed reparations. I was done with being the person that other people wan
ted me to be. I followed Uncle Bernie to the car, my knee-high black boots trampling over gritty salt and dirty St. Paul’s snow for the last time.
Mom tried to cheer me up with a visit from Christianna and Arielle, my best friend from Naples.
Eventually the bullying got so bad that I had to leave the school. Catie, Ivy, Lilly, and I embraced in a group hug on my last day at St. Paul’s (above).
Lucy came up one weekend (above) and passed the ball with me during halftime (first image, above).
TWELVE
Betrayed
When I returned home to Naples, Mom wasted no time in making sure I was back in the family fold. She put me to work helping Christianna’s Girl Scout troop for an upcoming Christmas parade. Mom had trouble finding enough parents to chaperone—obviously, the adults had all been smart enough to get out of it.
“It’ll be good for you,” Mom said in her there-is-no-negotiating voice.
Suddenly I was chasing eight-year-olds wearing red-and-white Santa hats along Fifth Avenue in downtown Naples. They threw candy canes and lollipops into the crowd. A few of my little girls dove for the pieces that scattered on the street.
I couldn’t believe this was my life now. All the independence I’d had at St. Paul’s had vaporized overnight. Now I had no choice but to chaperone a bunch of little kids. I was also back to eating meals on my family’s schedule, cleaning up after Christianna, and relying on Mom and Dad for rides.
But after a week at home, I relished the one privilege desperately missing from boarding schools: letting someone else take care of me. Instead of eating Goldfish crackers alone in my dorm and drowning my sorrows in TV, I fell asleep with my head on Mom’s lap, drooling all over her. Dad cooked my favorite Japanese dish, katsudon—a flattened chicken breast fried in panko and topped with an egg and onions—while I played Marco Polo with Christianna in our backyard swimming pool.
“Five games of Marco Polo and then you can go inside,” Christianna demanded.
“Three,” I responded.
“Seven,” she countered.
“That’s not how it works,” I giggled. “You’re supposed to compromise and go down.”
I was allowed to be a kid again. And I was starting to appreciate that.
A few weeks earlier Lucy had sent me the sweetest birthday gift. It was an orange journal with the words LIVE INSPIRED etched in gold on the front. She’d filled the pages with photos of us, one for each of our sixteen years together: arm in arm on the beach in Naples, parasailing in Miami, beaming on the volleyball court in our red St. Paul’s jerseys.
She wrote a beautiful letter inside the front cover:
To my dearest Chester,
. . . There is so much love in our family, and I hope you will be able to find and take refuge in that. Remember, Prout sisters are the best kind of sisters out there.
—Lucy
I was floored. It was so sentimental, so un-Lucy. And yet, as Lucy arrived home from Georgetown for Christmas break, I was nervous. I worried she was still mad at me because I hadn’t listened to her about the Senior Salute.
I walked gingerly by her side down the beach in Pelican Bay, letting the gulf water lap at our feet. Without warning, she turned and embraced me. That’s when I knew everything was going to be okay.
“You never hug me first.” I chuckled.
Lucy smiled mischievously and then put me in a headlock.
I was sitting in the office, waiting for my new schedule at the Community School of Naples, when my ex-boyfriend Dean walked in.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in a deep voice that I hardly recognized.
I hadn’t seen him since eighth grade. He was taller and had lost his braces.
“Well, I’m coming back,” I said casually, hoping he didn’t notice my flushed cheeks. “But don’t tell anyone. I don’t want it to be a big thing.”
Only a few close friends knew the truth. For everyone else, I pulled the quintessential teenage move: I blamed Mom and Dad.
“My parents moved back to the States so we could all live together,” I said. “I’m really happy to be home.”
Over time, my friends figured out that something bad had happened, but they didn’t probe for details. Instead they offered tenderness: “We are your friends. We’ll listen when you’re ready.” It felt like a giant leap into a world of decency, something I had forgotten existed.
As much as I wanted to purge my brain of anything St. Paul’s, I still felt strong ties to the place. I got together in January with Violet, a friend who had sung with me in Madhatters and was visiting family in Naples. I’d never had the chance to say good-bye to Violet, so I put on my best fake smile and pretended everything was fantastic, totally fantastic.
“Tell everyone I miss them,” I said as we hugged good-bye.
Harry, one of the few St. Paul’s guys who’d talked to me during the fall, texted that he was in Miami over break and wanted me to come visit. I tried to convince him to bring his family to Naples. I thought Harry was one of the good guys.
The adults at St. Paul’s hadn’t forgotten me either. I received several letters in the mail, including one from Mrs. Hebra. She felt bad about how I was treated but bizarrely likened me to a football.
Dear Chessy,
. . . I am deeply disappointed in the SPS student body—in the entire community, actually—for fumbling this one. It’s unfortunate that we were not able to support and protect you in a manner that you deserved. You are stronger than us. . . .
Always your friend,
Mrs. Hebra
Ms. Carter, who was head of Lucy’s dorm and had a daughter in my grade, also apologized.
Dear Chessy -
. . . I want you to know, Chessy, that I will continue to push so that SPS becomes a better place, especially for girls. Your strength in coming back to school has inspired a lot of us and I know there are a lot of faculty—especially female faculty members—who want SPS to be a safer place for girls. You know that we are facing an uphill battle because many strange “traditions” exist at school but we will try. . . .
- Ms. Carter
I appreciated their letters, but I didn’t understand why the rest of the adults didn’t try harder to stop the traditions or the victim blaming. I was furious when Catie told me that the school gave her an ultimatum after I left: she had to accept a new random roommate or move into a smaller space. It was so disruptive to do that in the middle of the year, and it seemed like another way to punish the people who’d supported me.
On Valentine’s Day I was getting ready for softball practice when I saw a Facebook message from Allie, a dancer from St. Paul’s. I’d only talked to Allie once before, so it seemed strange to me that she was reaching out about a problem with her boyfriend, Hopper.
Hopper was a senior football player and the older brother of Sally, the girl who’d bullied me. He had a reputation for being intense, and even his own sister admitted in the student newspaper that he was “very protective” and “set many rules.” One time he found Sally at the end of Nash Bash and held her arm as he walked her back to the dorm. It sounded controlling and possessive to me.
Everything became clear in Allie’s messages.
Allie: Hi Chessy, I know we don’t really know each other but I really wanted to reach out to you and say how much I admire you for your strength and endurance during everything you had to go through. I’m not sure how much you know (if anything) about the situation I am currently in . . . Basically, a couple of weeks ago at the BC dance Hopper put a strobe light against my thigh which had been plugged in for hours and it gave me 2nd degree burns. It wasn’t the first time he had been physically aggressive with me—he had pushed, slapped and hit me before a lot. So after the burn, I finally was able to stop being in denial and ended things as well as reported them. The school wasn’t very quick to act and it took 4 whole days to report it to the police . . . Hopper has been on health leave since the burn incident claiming that he was unable to bear the “
false allegations” against him. The school is allowing him back on campus next week, so I have been left with no choice but to leave. It’s really awful and unfair that I have to, but I just don’t feel safe being on campus if he is also going to be here. The administration is being pretty unhelpful and unsupportive and, although Hopper is facing a DC for “failing to respect the rights of others,” it seems as if he isn’t really seen as being guilty. It’s hard because I feel so betrayed, not only by adults I trusted, but also some of my close friends who have turned on me because they can’t believe that hopper (who on the outside seemed like an honest, gentle guy) could do something like this to me. . . .
Then she sent pictures of the gruesome burns, skin melted away, leaving raw red flesh and a deep pink crater. My stomach churned and my hands balled into fists of anger. I ran to Mom and held up the phone with the pictures. Then I wrote back to Allie.
Me: You are so brave. Because of what you are doing right now, you are preventing this from happening to someone else, which first of all is amazing . . . Aggression is assault, and I wonder how many educations will have to be taken away for st. Pauls to learn that. Through all of this i’ve also been able to weed out terrible friends, so I know where you’re coming from. My two best friends, and Sally, spread nasty rumours about me which made me feel so small until I realized that I was doing the right thing no matter what is happening around me. You are doing the right thing. . . . I know this may sound crazy or paranoid, but all of this is so connected. These boys the school breeds all have these similarities which they have to realize at some point.
I was horrified but not surprised by St. Paul’s response to Allie’s assault. I connected Allie’s parents to Mom and Dad so they could share their experiences and support each other. Allie’s parents said that a local attorney, Phil Utter, who Mr. Hirschfeld had recommended to help us during the plea negotiations with Owen last fall, was now representing Hopper. Mom called up Mr. Utter and told him where he could shove his new client’s retainer check.
