I Have the Right To

by Chessy Prout

  “No, of course I have to, I’m here,” I snapped, with unnecessary attitude.

  Then I took a deep breath. I realized what a blessing it was in the first place to be able to speak out, to have a voice, so I shoved to the side my desire to hide in a bunker.

  “I want to do this, I need to do this,” I said, wiping the tears on the back of my hand. “I’m okay. I’m happy to be back here on my terms.”

  Amanda looked worried. I knew “happy” was a total stretch. I took ten minutes to compose myself and then did several media interviews. Mom stood guard outside the door.

  People began mingling in the lobby for a reception. I didn’t feel like talking to strangers, so I huddled behind the PAVE table with Angela, baby Aryana, and Representative Kuster. Mom was close by when she was approached by Lucy Hodder, mother of Andrew Thomson, Owen’s roommate, and Haley, one of my former best friends.

  Apparently Ms. Hodder wanted to speak to me before the event.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mom said curtly, the ultimate putdown in her book.

  Ms. Hodder choked on her words.

  I was proud of Mom for standing up to Ms. Hodder. Her timing was totally off and I was frustrated by her children’s behavior. Ms. Hodder, who’d served on St. Paul’s board of trustees, had had three years to step up and say something. Her daughter abandoned me when I needed her most, and her son, according to Carney, had faced suspicions of having sex with an underage student at St. Paul’s, although no charges were brought. Andrew denied that, but emails suggest he pursued a freshman girl and met up with her at night.

  I retreated to the small room to gather my thoughts before the panel. My face lit up when Catherine and Detective Curtin walked through the door. So much had happened since the trial, and I had so much to thank them for. Catherine teared up and Detective Curtin, always stoic and professional, was on the verge of crying.

  “We’re very proud of you Chessy,” Catherine said.

  “Yeah, really proud.” Detective Curtin nodded.

  I felt indebted to these strong women who fought hard to get justice. I knew my case wasn’t easy. In fact, I’d only recently learned that the male prosecutor who watched my interview at the Child Advocacy Center days after I was assaulted expressed concerns. He thought the jury wouldn’t like that I went with Owen willingly, that I didn’t say no when he took off some of my clothes, and that I didn’t push back when he kissed me.

  But Catherine disagreed. She believed a woman could engage in a certain level of sexual contact but still say no. And as a fifteen-year-old, I wasn’t legally able to consent.

  These are precisely the kinds of cases that prosecutors need to tackle in order for society to understand that agreeing to kissing is not an invitation to have sex. That victims freeze. That survivors deserve to be believed.

  Thankfully, Judge Smukler rejected Owen’s request for a new trial and called out the “frivolity” and “absurdity” of some of his claims of ineffective counsel. Owen, of course, couldn’t accept that and asked the New Hampshire Supreme Court to review the ruling. The end was nowhere near.

  Before the panel discussion started, Catherine said she had a surprise for me. She opened her hand to reveal the knight-in-shining-armor figurine that I’d clutched while I was on the stand during the trial.

  “I want you to keep this, even though you don’t need it any longer,” she said. “You’re tough enough.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said, and zipped the figurine safely inside my wallet. “I’ll always carry it with me.”

  We headed upstairs to a classroom on the second floor. Mom and Dad took seats near the front as roughly a hundred people filled the room. I tugged nervously at my gold necklace that featured the symbol for woman and the symbol for man forming an equal sign. I bought the same necklace for Lucy and Mom before the Women’s March.

  Representative Kuster introduced the other panelists and welcomed me back to Concord.

  “We cannot change the culture of sexual violence in this state or across the country unless we all—our entire community—become a part of the conversation,” she said.

  I glanced around at the strange faces, mostly older adults, wondering if they had any connection to St. Paul’s and were there just to keep an eye on me. I needed them to feel a sliver of the pain I lived with every day. And then I wanted to encourage high school students not to accept the status quo.

  “I did that for too long at St. Paul’s,” I said. “I accepted the culture for what it was and thought I couldn’t do anything to change it. And there is a lot that needs to be changed.”

  I looked up again and searched for the faces I knew: Buzz, Detective Curtin, Catherine, Angela, Congresswoman Kuster. This network of female professionals who lifted me up during the most difficult moments of my life was nothing short of magnificent.

  “I’m lucky enough to have a supportive family and a supportive community now and people like Congresswoman Kuster who believe in the same things that I believe in as an eighteen-year-old girl,” I said. “Some things, I just won’t accept them anymore. I believe that it’s our time to really stand up and fight for our rights and to fight for our own respect and dignity. I’m tired of being silenced and ashamed.”

  I returned to Concord, New Hampshire, in April 2017 for an advocacy event with Representative Kuster (above). Angela and baby Aryana came to support me (second image, above). I also reunited with (first image) Detective Julie Curtin, attorney Catherine Ruffle, and Amanda Grady Sexton (on the end next to Mom).

  TWENTY-FIVE

  May 2017

  Parker had burrowed into my heart during these last few months of senior year. He was my boyfriend, and I was his girlfriend. I adored his family, especially his three sisters, and I could tell that the women in his life called the shots. Finally I was enjoying something normal teenagers did.

  I knew our relationship had an expiration date, but I hoped we could enjoy the rest of the summer together. I tried not to dwell too much on our inevitable breakup. Dr. Sloane was always reminding me to be present in the moment, and the moment required something else: a prom dress.

  I decided to shop in my favorite place—Lucy’s closet. I settled on the dress she’d worn to her prom, a strapless sky-blue flowy gown that came to the floor. It was beautiful and ethereal and most importantly, comfortable.

  On prom night, Parker showed up all decked out in a black tuxedo, a blue bow tie that I’d bought for his birthday, and a pocket square, carefully selected by his mother so it didn’t clash with my dress.

  After dinner, I took off my heels and let loose with my girlfriends on the dance floor, twirling around and singing along to the music, just like the way I used to dance with Christianna on the black lacquer table back in Tokyo. At the end of the night, as I was strapping on my heels, the song “Thinking Out Loud” by Ed Sheeran began playing. A couple of seconds in, I felt a hand on my back.

  “Forget your shoes, Chessy, come on and dance with me,” Parker said, and whisked me onto the floor.

  We were one of only three couples on the dance floor. But we didn’t care. He held me close, as if no one else was in the room. I knew the year was coming to an end, but I wanted this moment to last forever. I gazed into his eyes and laughed a little; prolonged eye contact always made me uncomfortable. But he just looked back, forehead to forehead, and kissed me. I shut my eyes and rested my head on his shoulder. When the song finished, I fastened the straps on my shoes, and we headed out into the night.

  Five days before graduation, I woke up to loud voices bellowing from the office. Dad broke the news: St. Paul’s had released a report that morning documenting decades of sexual abuse at the school, but it made no mention of my assault or any assaults that had happened in the last twenty-five years.

  I flipped open my laptop and started reading the seventy-three-page report. The investigation initially focused on one former faculty member accused of molesting students at another boarding school. But it was ultimat
ely determined that thirteen former faculty and staff members had engaged in sexual misconduct with St. Paul’s students between 1948 and 1988. Investigators hired by the school also looked into another twenty claims and later would identify more predators.

  The report faulted past leaders at St. Paul’s for ignoring and even concealing abuse. Mom and Dad were familiar with many of the cases from speaking with other survivors and alumni who’d worked on the task force back in 2000. Now the rest of the world would know too.

  Transparency and honesty were long overdue. But I was outraged by the school’s attempt to frame sexual abuse as a problem of the past. St. Paul’s had limited the scope of the investigation solely to examine faculty sexual misconduct. By doing so, Mr. Hirschfeld and other school leaders sealed off any potential criticism of how they had mishandled my case and other student-on-student assaults. This was a slap in the face to many survivors of St. Paul’s and they knew it.

  When the report was released on May 22, Mr. Hirschfeld and Mr. Cox, the president of the board of trustees, offered apologies for the sins of past leaders and promised “healing and reconciliation” to those wronged by the school.

  It was beyond offensive. In no way was I cared for as a survivor of sexual assault. I was a fifteen-year-old rape victim looking for help, longing for support, and instead the school treated me like a publicity problem that needed to be managed.

  My heart hung heavy for all the St. Paul’s survivors. I wanted accountability for those victims and I wanted it now.

  As the summer wore on, the news got worse. The Concord Monitor reported that a “relationship map” was found on the underside of a shelf in a basement laundry room. Police were also investigating another sexual assault on campus and a new sexual conquest game that involved a crown.

  Roughly eight boys from the same dorm competed to have their names put on a paper crown. The exact rules of the game weren’t clear, but the Concord Monitor reported that St. Paul’s attempted to cover up photos in the yearbook of the boys wearing the crown by placing a large sticker on the page to hide the original images. St. Paul’s, of course, tried to deny that there was a competition. But what else was new? This had been going on since before Lucy’s time.

  One group, the Center for the Study of Boys’ and Girls’ Lives, sounded the alarms at St. Paul’s all the way back in 2002 when it warned in a report: “A culture which describes dating as scoring suggests a cold-hearted, almost predatory, sexuality.”

  More than a decade later—and just months after my assault—the center bluntly concluded: “For years the relationship culture at St. Paul’s has been something of  ‘an elephant in the room’: although many were aware it had problems that needed to be addressed, few students or faculties were willing to openly engage in dialogue about the topic, and it was often only in hindsight that problems were recognized.”

  It riled me up that an institution in the business of teaching was incapable of learning lessons from its own misdeeds. How many more egregious examples were needed before St. Paul’s could admit there was a problem and put the well-being of students ahead of its own reputation? Girls needed to be treated as human beings, not targets.

  We got word that New Hampshire attorney general Gordon MacDonald was considering a criminal investigation into St. Paul’s and wanted to interview me to garner more information. Finally. Someone who could hold the school accountable. Someone who could expose St. Paul’s leaders for their horrendous, even criminal, actions.

  I was overwhelmed by a sense of responsibility when we met in his office in Concord.

  “I’m just so grateful you asked us here,” I said, my eyes welling up with tears. Mom broke down too. Everyone in the room jumped up to offer us tissues.

  “I think the school needs some kind of oversight. I don’t believe kids are safe there,” I said. “The school wants to call what happened to me an isolated incident, but these things keep repeating themselves.”

  Dad was restrained, and Mom sat quiet, until the end.

  “This has affected every one of our family members in different ways and changed the course of our lives forever,” Mom explained. “And it will be with our dying breaths that we see this issue through.”

  “This is what we’ve dedicated our lives to,” said Jane Young, an associate attorney general. “Welcome to the club.”

  “We will get to the bottom of this,” Mr. MacDonald vowed.

  All I yearned for was a gentle landing after four tumultuous years of high school. The last time our family had gathered for commencement, I was in shock from my assault. I wanted to reclaim graduation as a day for celebration, not devastation.

  Delaney was in the middle of a move and exams, but she still found time to attend the big day. She brought her sweet rescue dog, Ollie, and I raced around with him in our backyard, tumbling on the grass, letting him lick my face. Christianna and I had been begging Mom and Dad for months to buy a puppy and I felt like we were within striking distance. Buzz was a huge advocate of healing through animals and had been pressing Mom and Dad too.

  Delaney kept saying how proud of me she was, how there were so many obstacles that could have stopped me, but I was actually graduating. I could hardly believe it either.

  “I’m so proud of all that you’ve overcome, but I’m more proud of the person you still are after everything,” Delaney said, squeezing me tight.

  “I love you,” I said.

  “I love you too, girl!”

  Ollie got a little too excited at one point and peed all over the floor. Delaney was in the other room, and Mom and Dad were out with Christianna, so I ended up mopping dog urine in my white graduation dress. Never a dull moment in the Prout house!

  I put on my four-inch periwinkle heels and drove to the ceremony with the top down. I was anxious about graduation—and not just about tripping onstage to get my diploma. In the last week, Parker had acted distant.

  Everything was changing. I was in the beginning stages of writing my book so I was preoccupied, and he was getting ready to go to college. I was afraid to press Parker too much before his family vacation to Ireland in a few days.

  Our last names were close in the alphabet, so we sat next to each other, staring stoically ahead. I was very nervous because I had a solo in a song, “If We Hold On Together,” that the seniors in my theater class were performing for graduation. I took a few shaky breaths before we began to sing.

  When I got back to my seat, Parker tried to grab my hand and say something, but I yanked my hand away and avoided his gaze. It hurt that he had been so aloof. And I didn’t want to start blubbering onstage.

  It was a mob scene trying to leave graduation. Since the assault, my body had shifted into panic mode whenever I had to navigate crowded spaces. My muscles tensed as I snaked between knots of people in the lobby. I eventually spotted Delaney and introduced her to Parker before we headed out. I was too stressed out by the commotion to have a real conversation, so I halfheartedly told him I’d see him later.

  My family had a small celebration outdoors at an Italian restaurant but I felt distant from everyone, and kind of alone, despite the fact that I was surrounded by loved ones. Days earlier, my health teacher from sophomore year handed back the letters that we’d written to our graduating selves. All my friends were so excited to look at them, but I didn’t have the same urgency.

  It sat unopened on my desk at first. When I finally unfolded the letter, I saw that I’d questioned whether I would even make it to senior year. I thought I would succumb to the darkness that ate away my body and soul. But I hadn’t. I had survived. I looked over at Delaney, thankful to have another survivor there who could understand me.

  Hours after our family dinner, I reluctantly went to a graduation party, where I leaned on Paige and Arielle for support. Stupidly, I drank a little too much. I regretted it immediately as my head began to spin.

  The cops showed up after one of the neighbors complained about the noise and all the cars jamming the st
reet. Everyone cleared out, and I left with Parker even though he was still acting weird. We took an Uber to a local hotel and beach club and went to the top, one of his favorite spots, where you could see the waves crashing on the right and the lights of Naples to the left.

  Parker and I stood in silence. I leaned against the railing of the balcony and squinted at the glimmering lights. My vision blurred as tears filled my eyes. Parker tried to get closer, but I pulled away.

  Even though I knew we’d have to break up, I thought we still had the summer together.

  “It’s better to do this now. I leave on Sunday,” Parker said.

  I didn’t want to hear any more, so I left the hotel and started walking home. I told Parker not to follow me, but he did. I took off my shoes so I could move faster.

  I eventually put them back on and walked a mile and a half to the five-foot fence behind my house. I climbed up in my platform shoes and hoisted myself over. He didn’t follow me. I sat in our driveway, crying and asking myself why. Then I texted Lucy.

  Me: Are you awake? Please?

  Lucy met me outside by our pool and cradled me on the couch.

  “It’s going to be okay, Chess,” Lucy said, stroking my head.

  The next morning I could barely get out of bed. But then I heard the pitter-patter of doggy paws, and the pain in my heart eased a little. Delaney and Ollie were still there, and they both snuggled with me in bed before they left.

  During graduation parties that weekend, I mustered fake smiles and small talk, but my insides were pulverized. Parker ignored me and my family, but his mother came up and apologized: “His sisters will not let him forget his timing was terrible. You know how much we all love you.”

  I bit my lip. It was nice of her to talk to me, but I wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t his mother’s place to apologize to me. It wasn’t his sisters’ job to teach Parker how to be thoughtful, sensitive, and decent. It was his own responsibility.

  At home I hid in my room. Christianna tried to joke around and make me laugh, but I wasn’t in the mood. Then she crawled on the floor next to me.