by Chessy Prout
Delaney flashed me a thumbs-up. We headed over to the room where the interview would be taped. There were half a dozen people scurrying about, questions coming from all directions while the camera crew set up their equipment.
A woman with a clipboard approached me. “How do you want to be referred to in the interview?”
We still hadn’t decided whether I would use Chessy Prout, Francesca Prout, or just my initials.
Mom and Dad favored my initials so I could retain some privacy. Others said I needed to own my name and come out as Francesca Prout to be more accessible. Everyone chimed in with an opinion, and I kept agreeing with whoever spoke last. I was completely overwhelmed.
Then Delaney piped up: “Uh, if you don’t want to use any name, that’s fine too.”
The lady with the clipboard frowned in Delaney’s direction. “Uh, no, that’s not actually true. She has to use a name.”
“Chessy, you are the captain of this boat. This is your decision, not theirs,” Delaney said loudly. “Whatever you want, goes. End of story.”
I didn’t know what to say. In my head, I questioned whether I should be doing this interview at all. I looked down at my feet.
Suddenly Delaney grabbed my hand. “Can we talk for a minute?”
I nodded and followed her into a tiny side room with no chairs and no light switch that we could find. We sat down on the floor facing each other. Delaney put her hands on my shaking fingers and told me everything was going to be okay.
She took a silver bangle off her wrist that was engraved with the words EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON.
“I bought you another bracelet that said ‘Unbreakable,’ but it didn’t arrive at your house on time and I’m really pissed. So I want you to wear this instead. I wore it during my first interview. I want you to hold it when you feel like you’re going to break down and remember all the love and support you have behind you,” Delaney said. “You are a hero. We’re here for a reason.”
My eyes brimmed with tears as I ran my fingers along the words on the bracelet.
“Don’t mess up your makeup!” Delaney scolded.
I giggled, breaking up the storm raging inside my brain. We made a quick pit stop at the bathroom, and as we walked out, Delaney pulled me aside again.
“Chess, this is your moment to take back your voice. But if at any point you want to leave, we’re leaving. No one is going to stop us.”
“Okay.” I breathed out. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I had to do this.
“No matter what, your entire life is going to change after this day. All the pain you’ve been feeling for so many years is now transforming into fuel to light the fire of positivity in your world,” Delaney said, pulling me in for a hug. “I’m so proud of you for being the voice of survivors all over the world who are unable to share their stories.”
We walked out hand in hand through the double doors. I found the woman with the clipboard.
“I want people to know me as Chessy Prout.”
I felt a fire in my belly. The confidence I’d been waiting for finally arrived. I was ready for my one-on-one interview. Savannah and I sat alone on two chairs facing each other near a window. There were cameras behind me, in front of me, and to the right. A cold sweat moistened my skin even as the hot lights broiled above me.
Savannah sat close enough that I could touch her arm. She smiled warmly, her blue-gray eyes fixed on me.
“This is the first time you’ve come out and said publicly what happened.”
“Yes. Yeah,” I said.
“Why did you want to do that?”
This should have been the easiest question. I’d spent weeks convincing so many people, including myself, that it was the right thing to do.
“Well, uhh,” I sighed deeply.
I looked down at the floor, up at the ceiling, then at Savannah, and back down again. I spent nine whole seconds on national television rolling my eyes around, fumbling for words.
“It’s been two years now since the whole ordeal, and I feel ready to stand up and own what happened to me. And I’m going to make sure that other people, other girls, other boys, know that they can own it too and they don’t have to be ashamed either,” I said, shaking my head defiantly.
I saw Angela standing behind Savannah, pumping her fists in the air. Delaney was standing next to her, cheerleading for me with imaginary pom-poms.
I wasn’t broken or fragile. I was fierce. When Savannah asked questions about the trial, I redirected the conversation and told her I’d been answering questions about my past for two years now and I was done. I wanted to talk about the future instead.
So Savannah turned to my advocacy campaign: “You have an idea of how you can take something terrible that happened to you and turn it into something good for others. What are you hoping to accomplish?”
“We have been talking a lot about a woman’s bill of rights. And I decided I want other people’s input,” I said. “I want other people to feel empowered and just strong enough to be able to say I have the right to my body. I have the right to say no. And I wanted to bring this initiative that would be #IHaveTheRightTo and to have people contribute to it.”
I could have talked for hours about the campaign, but it was time for the family interview. I fidgeted with my bracelets as Lucy sat to my right and Mom settled in on my left. Dad was on the end and grasped Mom’s hand. The cameras started to roll.
Savannah began with the news—our civil lawsuit against St. Paul’s.
“Some will say, oh, a lawsuit. Is the family trying to get money? What’s the real motive here? Why not just let it go?”
The money question.
“Well, we’re talking about children and we feel an obligation that this not happen to any future kids at the school,” Dad said calmly.
Lucy sat silently, her hair hanging down the side of her face like a protective shield. She thought the interview was focusing on my experience, so she was surprised when Savannah began probing her on the Senior Salute and the hook-up culture at St. Paul’s. Lucy got defensive and talked in half sentences, refusing to give them a usable sound bite.
I loved my Lulu. She was under no obligation to answer anyone’s questions. She was there to support me and that’s all I wanted. I reached out and grabbed Lucy’s hand.
“Your family has been right there with you all along,” Savannah said.
“Yes.” I smiled and bowed my head in appreciation.
“And a lot of people don’t have that. I can only imagine how helpful that’s been,” Savannah said.
“Somebody’s got my back and somebody’s going to believe me, somebody’s going to help me,” I said, raising my hand with Lucy’s. “And even when I get my panic attacks and I lock myself in my closet because I don’t want my little sister to see-ee-ee me like that,” I said, my voice shaking, my vowels stretching for miles. Mom grabbed my left hand as my chin trembled and I blinked back tears.
“And she comes into my room sometimes and she’ll—she’ll come into my closet when I’m rocking on the floor and punching my legs, trying to get myself to calm down, and she’ll try to give me the biggest hug and she’ll say, ‘Chessy, you’re okay, Chessy, you’re okay.’ ” I sniffled loudly. “And it just, I just can’t imagine how scary it is for other people to have to do this alone and I don’t want anybody else to be alone anymore. I don’t.”
I really didn’t want to cry on national television. Now the whole world would know how damaged I was, that I punched myself in a closet.
I looked across the room and saw Delaney collapsed in Angela’s lap, muffling her sobs so nobody could hear. Delaney and I had commiserated over our struggles with panic attacks and placed as much blame on our attackers as the school communities that supported the predators.
It made me angry to see Delaney so upset. But it also made me feel better about blubbering on TV—people should see the true impact of these crimes. I could be fierce and vulnerable. That was the real me.
“You nailed it!” Angela shouted as she waddled over.
Delaney pounced on me like a panther. “I’m so proud of you! You’re going to change the world!”
Mom, Dad, and Lucy converged on me for a family hug. The tear ducts opened again and this time I didn’t care about streaking my makeup. I was fried. I needed a bed. I needed food. And I needed my sweet Christianna.
Our large group migrated to Soba Nippon, my favorite Japanese restaurant just a few blocks from Rockefeller Center. On our way back to the hotel, we stopped at a Momofuku Milk Bar to satiate our collective soft-serve craving and to pick up some chocolate truffles to bring back to Christianna. It was time to splurge.
I fell into a serious food coma and flopped on the bed in Mom and Dad’s hotel room and tried to take a nap while Christianna jumped up and down on the mattress.
I wished Christianna could have been with us during the interview, but it didn’t seem right to expose her in that way. Every time something new popped up with the case, we gave Christianna the abridged version of events.
“Chessy’s going to be on TV this week to talk about her experiences,” or “We have to leave you with Uncle Pete and Aunt Carol this weekend because we need to meet with lawyers in New Hampshire.”
Lucy hung around for a while after the interview but then snuck out of our hotel room, fighting back tears. Dad ran after her and for the next three hours, Lucy opened up about how difficult her own experience had been at St. Paul’s. My public confession had ruptured the inner peace she had struggled to maintain. Even Dad dredged up painful memories he had buried for decades: how the legacy kids teased him and called him a boofer—a derogatory term for a black person—because he was friends with other minority students.
Later that evening, we all reconvened in Angela’s hotel room and began working on the #IHaveTheRightTo website. Dad ordered five plates of french fries and nachos for everyone to nosh on as we labored late into the night.
Angela put out a call to her network of survivors, asking them to submit selfies as they claimed their rights with #IHaveTheRightTo signs. We picked out the graphics and I got my first look at the creation of a professional website. Helping to build something made me feel like I was finally on my way to truly becoming a thriving survivor.
Delaney and I focused on putting together our own video to post to the website. We had lost the fancy NBC camera crew, so Angela’s video camera would have to suffice. Christianna took on the role of holding the lights and Delaney’s mom, Kym, gave us a big grin.
Delaney and I sketched out a short script where we would finish each other’s sentences and show our strength together as survivors. We sat on a long brown couch, and Delaney interlaced her fingers with mine and we lifted our fused arms. This was girl power.
I looked at the camera as Delaney started, “I have the right to . . .”
“Seek out survivors whenever I feel ready,” I finished.
I turned to Delaney: “I have the right to . . .”
“Follow the road to justice no matter how long it takes,” Delaney finished.
After a couple of tries, and a long string of bloopers, we settled on the last one.
I smiled at Delaney and she rested her head on my shoulder. Angela beamed from the other side of the room. I felt so lucky that these amazing women had landed in my life and taken me under their wings.
Girl power with survivors Delaney Henderson (center) and Angela Rose (right) after taping the Today show interview in August 2016.
We began making a website for #IHaveTheRightTo with the help of Delaney’s mom, Kym.
TWENTY-ONE
Doubt
An avalanche of doubt and regret tumbled down on me once I got back home. Nothing, not even Delaney’s soothing voice, could free me.
“Did I just make the worst decision of my life? Who even wants to hear me speak?” I squeaked into the phone. “What if I made everything worse?”
“How could it get worse?” Delaney said. “You’ve already dealt with the worst.”
That was hardly reassuring. Each time I thought I hit rock bottom, the earth ripped open beneath me again and swallowed me whole. After the assault came the school backlash, rejected plea deals, a mobster attorney, hate sites, media distortions, curfew violations, appeals, and attempts by St. Paul’s to bully me into silence. What was next?
I was ensnared in a web of self-loathing for the next two days. I had nightmares as soon as my head hit the pillow. When I woke up, I grabbed my journal and contemplated what life would be like “if I were gone.”
If I were gone Christianna could have my room. She could have all my clothes and wouldn’t have to worry about me getting angry or sad anymore. Lucy wouldn’t feel like she had to dedicate her life to social justice, she could find happiness without me dragging behind her. She could finally have mom and dad’s actual attention. She needs their help. Mom wouldn’t have to worry anymore, about my well-being, about my gluten-free diets, about knowing when to talk to me and how. . . .
When I read it later, I realized how harmful those thoughts were. I just wanted my family to live happily and carefree. And I felt like I was a giant pit of quicksand trapping everyone in misery.
During my free period on Monday, I searched NBC’s website and found a promo video teasing my interview with Savannah. I flipped out and called Dad when I saw it featured pictures of Owen in court.
I had agreed to go on the Today show for other survivors, not to give any further attention to this criminal. I intentionally did not say his name once during the interview.
This was my turn to speak. Finally the school community who turned their backs on me, the adults who did nothing and sat quietly, and the strangers who judged me harshly would have to listen and confront the uncontaminated, uncomfortable truth.
Dad promised to talk to NBC and then sent one of his trademark pep talks.
Dad: Chessy—from tomorrow the story will no longer be about the perp. It will be about survivors and the impact. . . . Tomorrow, the narcissist will lose. Keep your chin up and remember why you spoke up.
I was still shaking on the couch ten minutes after the interview aired. Mom and Dad had made a Chessy sandwich: Dad nestled on my left and Mom cuddled on the right. I was wearing a white cotton bathrobe over my pajamas and clutching a mug of Yogi green tea. The hot Florida sun streamed through the windows in our family room, but I couldn’t feel a thing.
When Owen’s face flashed on the television screen, I squeezed my eyes shut and wondered whether I had made the right decision. I cringed when I heard Savannah describe our encounter as a date. But then I saw my own face. Yikes. That’s not something you could ever prepare yourself for. I sank deeper into our beige couch after listening to myself describe my panic attacks. I felt so exposed. Would people judge me for speaking out? Would they call me an opportunist? Could this actually help someone?
Finally the segment ended. No one said a word. Mom eventually broke the silence that covered us like a heavy blanket.
“There is a reason this is all happening. We don’t understand why,” she said. “But we are trusting that good is going to come from this. God has this, Chess.”
I nodded but couldn’t get words out. I tugged at the UNBREAKABLE bracelet that Delaney bought me. It had arrived in the mail the day before.
Dad’s phone started ringing. We thought it was Grandma Prout. We hadn’t heard from her in twenty-four hours, and Dad had asked the doorman in her building to go up and check on her.
Dad looked at his phone and saw that Mr. Hirschfeld was calling.
“I’m not picking this up,” he said.
“Don’t pick it up,” Mom advised.
I looked at them, my heart racing. My limp body jolted into action. “I am.”
With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I grabbed the phone from Dad’s hand and put it on speaker. Boy oh boy, I was ready to unload.
“Hello,” I said.
“Chessy, I wasn’t expect
ing to hear from you! I thought I called your dad. Maybe it’s the wrong number.”
Mr. Hirschfeld had a lilt in his voice, a remarkably different tone from when he spoke through the St. Paul’s megaphone.
“No, it’s the right number,” I answered.
“It was so wonderful to see you on TV,” he stammered.
I stopped biting my tongue and cut him off.
“Mr. Hirschfeld, when I was having a really hard time, Dylan let me into your home and we had all those dinners. He took care of me a lot. And I will always be grateful for your son. But I really don’t understand what you’re doing to our family. You know the truth. How can you do this?”
Wow. I wasn’t sure I was gonna get all that out—and I kept my cool, too! I had volcanoes of anger ready to erupt for nearly two years, but by the grace of God I was able to stay calm.
Mom and Dad held their breath.
“Uhh, frankly, I don’t know sometimes,” he said.
I stared at the phone, mouth gaping. He was the head of the school! An adult, for God’s sake!
After a long pause, Mr. Hirschfeld sighed, “It’s the lawyers. I don’t understand it all.”
He was a coward. I saw Grandma Prout was calling and told Mr. Hirschfeld I had to go. I hung up before he had the chance to say good-bye.
I fell back onto the couch, retreating into myself. Our phones were blowing up with text messages from friends and family. My stomach was in knots. What did the rest of the world think?
I needed to talk to Delaney. Needed to hear her voice, her support, her guidance.
“The interview was fantastic,” Delaney said. “You killed it. You should feel so proud and good.”
I didn’t. I saw a jerk on Twitter who called me “nothing but a whore who ruined a mans life.” The rest of the message had terrible spelling and punctuation, but I expected nothing less from a troll. I wanted to respond and set this ignorant commenter straight.
Delaney told me not to worry and promised she’d take care of it. She spent the rest of the day hunting down bullies on Facebook and Twitter, flagging their comments and trying to get their accounts blocked. I had my own virtual bodyguard.
