Someone I Used to Know

by Patty Blount

  I resist the temptation to shout “hoo-ah.”

  “And speaking of right.” Ted grabs a stack of paper and hands a piece to each of us. “These are some upcoming events. Give them a glance and please consider speaking at one or more. Not all of them are here on Long Island, and we could really use a show of strength and support from nice guys.”

  I glance at the list. There are about forty events from now until the end of the year in a dozen different states. Then I fold it up and stuff it into my backpack. Our first meeting is over.

  But I can’t shake off my frustration. Six guys. That’s pretty damn pathetic.

  I spend most of that night reading all the internet sources listed in my handouts and blow off the next day’s classes…and Brittany, who keeps texting me to make sure I’m okay.

  I’m really not. I’m annoyed. I feel like I might explode, so I head over to the fitness center inside the sports complex because I’m afraid I’ll hurt somebody if I don’t work it off.

  I cue up my favorite playlist, plug in my earbuds, hit one of the mats, and go through my warm-up routine. I’m restless and itchy, like I might ignite at any second and launch into orbit, taking anybody in a half-mile radius with me.

  There are a couple of guys jogging on a pair of treadmills. I recognize them but don’t actually know either of them, so I tune them out. With the weight stack on my vertical lift machine set to a punishing level, I start my first set, accepting the burn that spreads across my pecs, maybe even welcoming it. I do another set, grunting with the effort, and stop for a water break.

  “And you wouldn’t believe the ass on her. I’m putting the moves on her, carrying her tray, about to ask her to hook up. She’s totally into it. I can tell.”

  I suppress an eye roll as the tail end of one guy’s statement to his pal hits my ears. I’ve seen him around. In fact, I think I saw this dining hall drama play out.

  “Yeah, right.” His pal shoots him a look of disbelief.

  “Hand to God, dude,” the guy assures him. “She’s playing it cool, thanking me for the help and all, and then saying, ‘See you around,’ but all I want to do is just grab her and shove her up against the nearest wall, you know?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “So I say to her, ‘Come on, baby. Let’s find ourselves a nice quiet spot and make each other very happy.’”

  I snort out a laugh and set up the next machine—biceps curl. I did see this drama. The girl he’s talking about was definitely hot; he’s not exaggerating that part. Tall, curvy, and full of confidence. She wears a nose ring and has a floral tattoo on her arm. But he wasn’t all smooth and easy. He’d pretty much grabbed the tray from her hands, followed her over to the table where the girl’s friends were sitting, and sort of stammered his way through what ended up being, “I want to do you.” The girls—shocked, pissed off, and creeped out—gave him the finger and took off, laughing.

  The guys glance over their shoulders at me, but they seem to figure it’s not them I’m laughing at since I’ve got headphones on.

  “She says, ‘Nah,’” he says with a shrug like it’s no biggie and then adds, “And I’m like, ‘Who do you think you are, bitch?’ When I see her again, I’m just gonna do it. Just shove her up against the wall and see how she likes it.”

  And that’s when my fuse blows.

  In about three strides, I have him up against a wall, his shirt bunched in my hands. “You better not let me ever hear you threaten to assault somebody again.”

  “What the fuck, man? I didn’t threaten to assault anybody!”

  “I heard every word you said. It sounded like a rape threat to me, and I’m telling you, straight up, I will not let it happen.”

  “Dude, relax, bro. It’s just talk, you know?” the guy’s friend says, tugging on my arm, trying to separate us.

  Fuck that. That’s bullshit. “I don’t know what kind of people you talk to, but I’m telling you again. Not. Gonna. Happen.” I slowly enunciate every word. “I know the girl you’re talking about. I was there when you tried out your comedy act on her, and you know what? You’re lucky she didn’t report your ass.” I relax my grip on him. He gives me a shove that doesn’t budge me even half an inch.

  “Asshole.”

  Yeah, I know that I am. Been called a lot worse.

  “Hey, hey, what’s going on here?”

  “This guy just attacked me for no reason!” the one with the big mouth informs a campus cop who rushed over to us.

  I hold up my hands in a gesture of cooperation. “When somebody threatens to assault a girl, I don’t ignore it.”

  The guard’s eyes narrow when he turns them back on the kid I had on the wall. “Both of you, come with me. Right now.”

  “Are you kidding me? I didn’t do anything!” he whines.

  “Then you won’t mind coming with me so I can sort all this out.”

  In a small office just inside the main entrance to the complex, I give a statement. I tell campus police the whole story, starting with the dining hall drama I’d witnessed the other day and ending with the guy’s boast that had me charging like a bull.

  “I never said I’d rape anybody!” the moron protests.

  The guard turns to him. “What’s your name?”

  He blows out a heavy sigh. “Aaron Dreschler. But I never said rape!”

  “Did you say, ‘When I see her again, I’m just gonna do it. Just shove her up against the wall and see how she likes it’? Because that’s the actual definition of assault, Aaron,” the guard counters, reading his notes.

  Aaron tries to smile and appeal to the guard’s Y chromosome. “Nah, man, come on. You know how it is. It’s just talk. I didn’t actually mean it.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have said it.” The cop picks up the phone on the side of a desk and asks for one of the deans. Aaron’s face loses all its color.

  “You can go, but you may need to make another statement,” the officer tells me.

  “No problem,” I reply.

  Outside in the fresh air, I pull in a deep breath. I feel…well, better. That itchy, restless feeling is gone. I feel kind of—I don’t know. Proud, maybe? I did something good. Points for me.

  And then, I freeze. Points. I’m still doing shit just for points.

  No. No, damn it. I didn’t do this to square anything. I didn’t shut that asshole up because I thought, Hey! Here’s an opportunity to make up for what I did! I did it because I couldn’t not do it. It sounds like it doesn’t make sense, but it’s the truth. Hearing the way this jerk was talking about that girl almost made my head explode. And the part that sucks the most about this whole incident is that he doesn’t even know her name. She’s just a—a thing. The object of his fantasy world.

  I shut my eyes. Ashley had been that for Vic. An object. A thing. He didn’t think of her as anything besides points. A wave of disgust ripples over me, because I know I’m not any better. Dakota was never anything besides points for me, either. After it all went down, Mom told me Ashley had been spinning all these fairy tales around Victor…going to his senior prom, hanging out all summer before he left for college.

  Ashley might never be the same, and I obsessively worry about that and hate myself a little bit more. Vic killed part of her that day. A huge part. He took what he wanted and left her an angry, frightened, resentful shell. God, I hate him in that volcanic fury way I haven’t felt since the day it happened.

  The sound of shoes slapping concrete mixed with a few giggles catches my attention. A group of girls is heading my way, and my jaw drops. One of them is the girl who shot down the moron in the dining hall. They see me, and immediately, their laughter fades and caution creeps into their eyes. Their bodies all go tense. I notice one of the girls takes her hands out of her pockets. She’s carrying keys.

  It hits me—they’re afraid of me.

  I’m
the good guy, I want to scream at them. Can’t they tell? I want to protest and defend myself and whip out my GAR pledge form so that they’ll stop looking at me like I’m…Victor Patton.

  But then I remember what Ted Vega said. It’s about them, not me. It’s about how they feel.

  I clear my throat and hold up my hands, trying to look as unthreatening as I can. Maybe if I’d done more looking out two years ago, I could have prevented the single worst thing that’s ever happened to my family.

  The girls pass me cautiously. The second I get back to my dorm room, I find that list of GAR events Ted handed us last night, and I email the contact name listed for an event that’s scheduled at Ohio State University at the end of November. I get a reply almost immediately, thanking me for stepping up and adding my voice.

  Could you pick three or four discussion points from this list—whatever you’re most comfortable talking about—and let me know?

  Comfortable? I almost laugh.

  October

  7

  Ashley

  When I came to, bleeding and sick, the defendant kept saying, “Two hundred points,” over and over again. I was retching in that dirt and garbage, and he, the nice boy, was adding up his points in a team-wide scavenger hunt every single person in that school knew about—knew about and did nothing to prevent.

  —Ashley E. Lawrence, victim impact statement

  NOW

  BELLFORD, OHIO

  The weather has turned crisp and part of me sighs in relief. It sure makes getting dressed easier. I can wear baggy sweaters, boots, and flannel and not have people look at me like I’m a freak.

  But another part of me tightens and braces for impact. October is not my favorite month. October means homecoming.

  I shake my head violently. I’m not going there. I’ve been doing so well, and I’m not about to backslide. I return my attention to the screen in front of me, where the results of my internet research are listed. Sebastian and I got approval to hold a pledge rally in a few weeks. Coach Davidson promised us no homecoming activities at all. No dance, no parade—and absolutely no scavenger hunt. He personally addressed all students over the PA system and assured us that any player on his team who even attempts to resurrect the sexist tradition will be immediately benched.

  Bruce turned and skewered me with a spiteful glare at this news. I just shrugged.

  We’re holding the pledge rally instead of a pep rally the day before the homecoming game. That gives us a few more weeks to figure out our plan. I’ve been drafting a pledge form, trying to find the right words to convey the message I want to send. I want people to take responsibility for their actions. That means you can’t blame the victim for drinking too much if you were drinking, too.

  I click a link about dress codes and decide that has to go into the pledge form, too. People need to learn to control their own impulses. Someone’s bare shoulders or legs are distractions? Please.

  There are so many other points I can consider making, so many things that were said to me, I can hardly keep them all straight. Things like Consent is fuzzy.

  It’s a yes or no question; I said stop. It doesn’t get much clearer! And yeah, I think partners should have the right to change their minds at any time and be able to trust the other person to honor that right. Quickly, I add more notes to the document I’ve got open.

  I skim another link, and my heart twinges inside my body. This one’s about hazing and how a phenomenon called group-think can convince decent people to turn their backs on what’s right. That scavenger hunt could totally be called hazing. My throat goes tight, and I squeeze my eyes shut, but it does no good.

  Sometimes the bad memories are too strong for me to keep contained, and they spill over the dam.

  TWO YEARS AGO

  BELLFORD, OHIO

  “What the hell are you doing, Ashley?” Derek grabs my arm at the exit that leads to the athletic field.

  It’s now the beginning of October, and after all that intense practicing with Candace and the rest of the girls, I tried out for the dance team’s choreographer, a former Rockette named Ms. Pasmore, and made the Fusion team. I was totally shocked. Championship teams have dozens of dancers, but our school’s squad isn’t very large. There are ten of us. Whatever their reasons for welcoming me to the squad, I’m profoundly grateful.

  Practicing with the squad every day after school plus Saturdays and every night on my own is so grueling, I tumble into bed early. I barely even see Derek. During the school day, he hangs out with the rest of the football team. It’s his first year playing varsity. Me being on the dance team wasn’t a problem for him—until today.

  “Let go,” I shoot back, pulling my elbow out of his grasp.

  “You’re actually going through with this?”

  Ah, now it makes sense. He’d been betting that I’d quit. “Yeah,” I sneer at him while pulling my hair into a ponytail. He still hasn’t noticed I cut off about a foot of it. Derek can be downright dumb sometimes, and this is definitely one of those times.

  “Okay, listen. You can’t be on the dance team or the cheerleading squad.”

  I look at him sideways. “Uh. Yeah. I can.”

  His frustration is pretty obvious. He grits his teeth and flings out his arms. Yep, Derek is about to blow his top.

  “Ash, can’t you just go home? I don’t want to hang out with you, and you being on the dance team isn’t going to change that. What part of that is so hard for you to grasp?”

  I hold up my hand. “Don’t blame me. If you hadn’t ditched me on the first day of school, I wouldn’t have met these girls.”

  The look on his face goes from anger to outrage to profound frustration. It really is hilarious, but I manage not to laugh.

  “Quit. Right now. Tell them you don’t want to dance.”

  “I do want to dance.”

  “No. You don’t. You’re a terrible dancer. You say it yourself all the time.”

  “I’m not terrible anymore. I’m not quitting. Just stop being such a poop head.”

  Derek’s fair skin is flushed, and his blue eyes pop wide. “Oh my God, will you stop with the baby words? It’s shithead. Just say it. Shithead.”

  I’m totally shocked, so he waves his hands. “Oh, forget it. Just…just stay far away from me. With luck, nobody’ll know we’re related.”

  “I will!” I shoot back. “Dance team is for me, not you. Besides, you should be happy. Making my own friends is what you’ve wanted ever since you started high school.”

  “Yo! Lawrence!”

  We both turn and see Vic approaching. I smile, and Derek curses, ignoring him and stepping right up to my face. “God, Ashley. You are so dumb sometimes.”

  He strides off, totally oblivious to the way I flinch at that barb he shot at me like a bullet. I stand there, feeling like I’m bleeding, until Brittany and Candace put their arms around me.

  “Come on, Ashley. It’s his problem, not yours.”

  How could it not be my problem? He’s my brother.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Vic promises with a smile, holding his helmet under his arm. He’s sweaty and messy, and still, that smile shoots straight to my heart.

  “I got a hundred!” I suddenly blurt out.

  He cocks his head and frowns. My mouth opens, and the words tumble out.

  “On Mr. Wilder’s pop quiz. I read ahead. Like you told me.” Oh my God, shut up!

  He laughs. “Good job.” And then he winks. “Go do your thing. I’ll catch you later.”

  My thing?

  So that’s what I do. I take my place and dance. I make the motions big so they can be seen from the freakin’ moon, let alone the top row of bleachers. I smile like nothing hurts, nothing’s wrong, but Derek’s words still sting.

  “Oh, wow,” Deanne says much later, with a new and different pitch to her voice.
“Chest candy.”

  We all stop what we’re doing to watch the boys strip off their gear, douse their heads with water bottles, and jog by us to hit the showers.

  Chest candy. Yeah. I get it now. I lick my lips, my eyes glued to one chest in particular.

  “Uh-oh,” Candace says, seeing where my gaze is aimed. “Vic the Dick has another admirer. Don’t even bother, Ashley. He’s a jerk.”

  I shake my head. Vic’s amazing. Besides, it’s not like I had half a shot with him anyway. He’s a senior. I’m a freshman. I probably have, like, a .0001 chance of a shot.

  “Come on. We’re having a team meeting. You can stay around longer, right?”

  I shake my head. “I have to catch the bus.”

  “No problem. Brittany can drop us off.”

  Inside, I tingle. I have a friend who can drop me off. How cool is that? I follow Candace back to the other girls. They sit in a circle on the field around Marlena, who’s handing out sheets of orange paper. “Okay, so the homecoming game is in a few more weeks.” Groans go up from the older girls. I blink, wondering why this is bad news.

  Candace holds up her hands. “We’ll use that time to practice the hell out of that new routine because we’re dancing the half-time show.”

  This news is met with squeals of delight. Another tingle shoots through my system. I’d do my thing because I totally have a thing now.

  “Cheer squad, color guard, and dance will share the field, so we’ll be putting in long hours practicing.”

  I can do that. Long hours are fine with me. You know, for my thing.

  “Now, let’s move on to the hunt.”

  Another groan. Marlena jumps to her feet. “I am not putting up with that shit again this year.”