by Patty Blount
Justin was rarely very serious.
Now he’s always serious.
In this picture, he has a bruise on his jaw and a cut on his nose. He never did tell us what happened. Derek thought Justin’s battle wounds were cool. I hadn’t given them a thought until now, and that was only to wonder whose business he stuck that nose into.
There’s a strange feeling inside my chest. It’s not pain exactly. More like an open wound that’s been numbed, the space where something used to be. Only whatever used to live there has been gone for so long, I’m not even sure what it is I miss.
With a snap, I slam the album shut and shove it to the end of my desk.
One more video.
Yeah. I think I have to shoot one more video for the pledge rally.
I sit in front of my laptop, take a deep breath, and press Record.
ONE YEAR AGO
BELLFORD, OHIO
I’ve been looking forward to Victor’s trial for months. Imagining the righteous sense of justice I’ll feel when the judge declares him guilty. I’ve been preparing for it, planning life around it. I’m waiting, anticipating, salivating for the judge’s gavel to come down after declaring Victor guilty, but first, I have to endure the whole stupid trial. It’s almost a year to the day since I was raped, and I think it’s kind of poetic that the trial will take place at homecoming time.
Time.
It’s funny how time plays tricks on you.
It goes by so fast when you don’t want it to, but when you’re looking forward to something? Oh, then it drags by, glacially slow, infusing you with all these superpowers of epic proportion. I can hear the ticks of a clock on a wall clear across the courtroom, smell the body odor on somebody sitting a few yards away and the lemony-scented wax used to polish all the wood. I can count the beads of sweat pooling at an attorney’s hairline. Random thoughts fill my brain at warp speed, like: Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. I can’t remember where I saw or heard that quote, but it keeps replaying in my mind. Tolstoy? Maybe.
I’m suddenly an expert at reading body language. Sneaking glances at my family’s faces, I note Mom’s expression, like she’s frozen in a silent sob. By the direction her gaze darts, I can tell she’s thinking about Victor’s mom, sitting on the other side of the courtroom, wondering how her son could have done this thing, this horrible thing to me, and if he did it because she was a bad mother. But Victor’s mom doesn’t look like a bad mother. She looks just like my mother. And that expression on my mom’s face? I can tell her heart’s breaking.
Across the courtroom, Victor’s mother sits like she has no bones and might spill over the sides of her chair. She missed a button on her blouse. She sits just behind Victor and his lawyers, her hands coming up in a jittery motion whenever he moves, like she wants to catch him in case he falls. Next to her is Victor’s father, wearing a crisp suit and sitting with his foot propped on his knee, like sitting in a courtroom is no bigger deal than sitting on his backyard patio. Every few minutes, he shakes his head and shrugs, glancing my way, which makes the rest of my family react in ways that make my stomach hurt.
Dad’s jaw is clenched so hard, the cleft in his chin vibrates. Next to him, Justin and Derek wear identical expressions of tension. They keep their eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to look across the room like Mom. They hate Victor, hate his family, hate what happened to me so much, it takes all of their self-control to keep that tension from fraying at the edges. All it’ll take is one more sneer, one more glance from Vic’s father in my direction, and I’m afraid all three will attack, descending like animals on prey.
I swallow hard, wincing at the pain. There’s this sour lump stuck in my throat, but it’s not because of that tension.
It’s the distance.
Maybe that’s why that quote is on my mind. I’m not sure where I read it. It’s just this odd piece of trivia that got stuck in my brain some time over the past year, when my family realized we weren’t happy anymore. Maybe we never were. It’s not like I paid attention to what made us happy.
Until now.
Somewhere, somebody’s tapping a foot to a beat only they can hear. It’s in sync with the ticking of the clock across the room and gives me a soundtrack for all the tension and random thoughts circling my mind. I’m suddenly painfully aware that my heart is keeping time, too, and try not to believe it’s some kind of omen.
A hand grips mine and gives it a squeeze. Mom. Our eyes meet, and she manages a fairly convincing smile. Dad sits up a little straighter. Justin adjusts his glasses, and Derek rolls his wide shoulders, joints cracking like gunshots. The tapping stops, and for a second, I’m afraid I might fade away without that beat to hold on to. I shut my eyes and drift, not sure if five seconds or five minutes pass.
“It’ll be okay, Ashley. We have a strong case,” Carol Bryce, the assistant DA, assures me. She’s told us that repeatedly. “We have eyewitnesses, and the rape kit evidence was positive for Victor’s DNA, which proves penetration, plus it shows the various bruises and scrapes you suffered during his assault.”
Carol told us the legal definition of rape requires proof of penetration, and God, I hate that word. Penetration from the Latin root penetrare. The dictionary says it means to enter by overcoming resistance. The thesaurus says words like invade, enter, insert, pierce, perforate, and force are synonyms, so I hate those words, too, because none of them tell you the object of the stupid verb was me.
Victor penetrated, invaded, entered, forced me.
“We got this, Ashley. Just breathe,” Carol says, squeezing my hand.
But breathing, it turns out, is hard to do under the circumstances, so I grip the smooth waxed wood of the railing—the bar—in front of me, hold my breath, and don’t let it go because if I do, I’ll have to feel that greasy knot of grief lodged just under my heart. Or maybe it is my heart now.
Carol makes her way to the jury box and talks about that legal definition of rape.
I tune her out, and somewhere, in all the random firing going on in my nervous system, it suddenly hits me that no matter what happens in this courtroom, I still lose.
I lose.
Because real justice would be for what happened to not have happened, and that isn’t possible. Real justice would be for me to have my brother back, my family back the way we were. Real justice would make it possible for me to sleep through the night, to dance again, or even look at that stupid warm-up outfit without wanting to vomit. Real justice would reset my life.
Suddenly, my name is called. I’m supposed to stand up and walk across the courtroom, but my legs have disappeared. But I do it. I put my hand up, swear an oath, lean toward a microphone, and answer all of Carol’s questions.
Then I answer the defense attorney’s questions. I hate him. His name is Barry Young. He’s a little man, bald with a large nose, and reminds me of a cartoon character. He asks the same questions in different ways, and a few times he ask questions that make me see red, but Carol immediately objects.
“You let Victor kiss you, correct?”
“Yes.”
“You let Victor touch your breast, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you let him have sex with you?”
“Objection, leading.”
“Did you say no to sex?”
I don’t know how to answer this question. “I couldn’t.”
“You couldn’t say no or you didn’t want to?”
“I couldn’t say no. He—”
“So you didn’t say no.”
As soon Victor’s lawyer says he has no more questions and sits down, Carol is on her feet. “Redirect, your honor.” She approaches me. “Ashley, you just told Mr. Young you couldn’t say no. Why not?”
“Because Victor put his hand over my mouth.”
“For how long? For how long did Victor keep his han
d on your mouth?”
“Until Sebastian found me.”
Question after question after question. I could feel the eyes boring into me. I could smell the disapproval from everybody watching. It’s her fault, they were thinking.
“Ashley, you need to step out now.”
Oh. Right.
I stand up on shaky legs and leave the courtroom. I’m not allowed to be present while witnesses testify because I’m the complaining witness. Carol says it could somehow taint testimony, so I have to leave. Outside in the corridor, I wonder where I’m supposed to wait. Before I can figure that out, the door opens again, and as Dad steps out, I hear a voice say, “Victor Patton to the stand.”
My heart stops as the door shuts with a soft click.
“Hey, princess.” Dad slings an arm around me and leads me to a bench. I sink down beside him and try not to think about it. It turns out testimony takes a while, so Dad takes me home. I remain home for days. But I’m back in court to read my victim impact statement.
I’m there when Carol, a worried look on her face, explains Victor’s claiming it was consensual.
I’m there for the closing arguments, when Victor’s attorney tells the court he doesn’t believe Victor should be treated like a criminal for a few minutes of fooling around.
I’m there when the jury returns a conviction on Victor for sexual assault, not rape. What’s the difference? About ten years of prison time.
I’m there when the judge decides two years in prison is plenty for the boy with such a promising athletic future.
I’m there when Carol tries to explain that even with the eyewitnesses, DNA evidence, and the cuts and bruises, the court believed Victor, not me. Victor, who said we just got a little too carried away.
After the trial, we go home, take off our fancy clothes, and just sort of stare at each other. It’s been a year, and now, it’s over. We’ve done all we can. And now we move on.
Yeah, right.
Justin disappears. Derek changes into sweatpants and grabs the TV remote. Mom and Dad sit in the kitchen with cups of coffee, repeating the same stupid sentiment. “At least we got some justice.”
By the way, I hate the word justice most of all.
Life goes back to what’s supposed to be normal, except it’s anything but. Justin doesn’t want to, but Dad makes him go back to school. Derek avoids me. Mom and Dad tiptoe around me. School is sheer torture because the cancellation of football also means everybody hates me. Funny how nobody hates Victor.
Mom or Dad, sometimes both of them, pick me up immediately after school, to protect me. But one day, at the final dismissal bell, I head for the parking lot and start walking toward my father’s truck. Suddenly, a woman appears out of nowhere, sticks a microphone in my face, and asks me what I think about my brother’s testimony. Mom and Dad both run from the truck, shouting at her to leave me alone.
“What testimony?” I ask when we get home.
Neither answers me.
“Mom. What did Derek say?”
“Ashley, there was a reason you were not permitted in the courtroom during testimony,” Dad reminds me.
“The trial’s over, Dad!” I shout. “What did Derek say? Whatever it was, that reporter thinks it’s her next big story.”
They refuse to tell me.
As soon as we get home, I hole up in my room, start web surfing, and find the truth.
Brother of Bellford High School Rape Victim Says, “Don’t Jail for a Game”
I click the link and read the story, which claims that during questioning, the brother of the Bellford High School rape victim, which would be me, couldn’t be sure the crime in question was real rape.
Oh my God.
The words blow a hole straight through me. My breath hitches, and my head swims, but I read every damn word.
Bellford, Ohio—For the seventeen-year-old Bellford Bengals football player accused of raping a fourteen-year-old freshman, testimony from teammates, including that of the victim’s sixteen-year-old brother, could exonerate him of all charges.
Appearing as a witness for the prosecution, the victim’s sixteen-year-old sibling testified during direct examination that the crime the seventeen-year-old defendant stands accused of was the result of a scavenger hunt gone bad. However, during cross-examination, the witness testified that the high school senior wasn’t a real rapist and shouldn’t have to go to prison for a dumb game.
I close my laptop and slowly move away from the computer, folding my arms over my churning stomach. Oh, God, Derek. I slap a hand over my mouth and run to the bathroom in time to lose my last meal. I retch for ages, and when I’m finally empty, I slide to the floor next to the toilet, arms wrapped around my middle to stop that gaping hole inside me from swallowing me alive.
When I’m able to stand again, I return to my computer and set up a blog. The first thing I post is Victor Patton’s mug shot. The second thing I post is my victim impact statement. And the third thing I post is a question.
Why is my promising future worth less than Victor’s?
I get lots of answers. And then I disable commenting.
14
Derek
NOW
LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK
“Derek? You okay?”
I stare at the phone in my hand and remember where I am. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry, Sebastian. I was just thinking of something.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
“Well, good luck with your BAR thing. It sounds great.” It does. I’m not blowing sunshine about that.
I end the call and am just sitting there on the bench, staring off into the distance, when my eye gets stuck on a swatch of blue. Another rally sign. My bag sits on the ground near my feet where I dropped it. I search for the flyer that guy gave me and find it at the bottom of the bag. I read every word this time about secondary survivors needing to find meaningful ways of handling their own emotions.
And then I call the number on the business card.
“Hello?”
“Yeah. Hi. Is this Ian? Ian Russell?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Um. Derek. Derek Lawrence. We met on campus at Rocky Hill. You gave me your card.”
“Yeah, I remember you. You were sitting on a bench trying not to puke.”
I wince. “Yeah. That would be me.”
I hear him mumble something that sounds like Be right back, and then he asks, “You okay?”
I laugh once. Am I okay? I’m not sure if I remember what okay even feels like. “Sure. Fine. I just…”
“Talk to me, Derek.” His tone changes. “How can I help?”
Suddenly, I forget how to talk, how to string words into sentences. I’m silent for so long, Ian asks again, “Derek? It’s okay. You can tell me anything. That’s why I gave you my number.”
So I do. I tell him about Ashley. And Vic. And me. I tell him how I feel like I broke my whole family. That I’m afraid to go home because I know my parents and Ashley—they blame me.
“I need to do something, man. Anything. I made my sister feel like she doesn’t matter, and she does.” More than anything. “I don’t know what I can do.” My words feel thick and salty from the tears I’m swallowing back.
There’s a long heavy sigh on his end of the phone. “Derek, you need to understand something fundamental.”
“Okay.”
“This isn’t about you and your feelings. It’s about your sister’s. There’s a real possibility nothing you ever do will be enough in her eyes.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. She’ll probably never talk to me again. But I still need to do something. I joined GAR,” I blurt out.
“Yeah? That’s great. Guys Against Rape is a great organization. I’m a member, too. That’s where I learned about secondary survivors.”
I just read that in the fl
yer he gave me. “I don’t feel like a victim.”
“I didn’t, either.” Ian’s tone was definite. “But you are a victim. We both are. When someone we love is hurt, like it or not, we’re affected by it, too.”
I do. Believe him, I mean. And that surprises me. I don’t know this guy, but there’s something about him that’s…I don’t know…real, I guess.
“Here’s what I mean,” he continues. “Rape is a power thing. Everybody has this power inside them…what to wear, what to say, what to do. You never think about it. It’s just there. And when it’s taken, you do a lot of shit to try to convince yourself that you still have that power. This is why some rape survivors go on self-destructive binges—changing their appearance or getting wasted a lot, maybe even having a lot of sex with different people.”
“Yeah. Ashley, my sister, she did that. Changed her appearance, I mean. She locked herself in her room, wouldn’t open the door. Dad finally got it open, and we rushed in, found her hacking at her own hair with a pair of pink Hello Kitty scissors. I…um. I don’t really know if she’s, uh, doing the binge thing.” Or the other thing he mentioned. God.
“Derek, this is pretty normal. And it’s okay.”
“Okay?” On what planet is any of this okay?
“Yeah. It’s important that survivors find ways they can take back control—ideally, healthy ways instead of ones that can lead to more trouble. Your job is to do whatever she needs to help her heal. If she seems to deliberately lash out at you, shut you out, whatever, you need to not take that personally because—”
“Because she needs to feel like she’s back in control.”
“Yeah. Pretty much,” he says on a sigh. “You have to sort of prepare yourself for that. You have to understand it may be part of her process, and that your own process is gonna be a lot different.”
Process? “Jeez,” I say on half a laugh. “You sound just like the shrink my parents dragged us to after it happened.” Not to mention Brittany and Julian, shrinks in training.
“You should still be seeing one,” he shoots back, all serious. “Your whole family should be. I wish I’d started seeing mine a lot sooner because she would have saved me and my girl a lot of pain.”
