by Kelley York
“Right now, the police have several people who saw you go upstairs with Callie.” Mr. Mason shakes his head. “But a few others saw you come back down, and when asked about the times, there are a few who can verify you simply weren’t up there long enough to have done something to her.”
“What about others?” I ask. “Other p-people who went upstairs…” I passed by three guys—one of them from my school—even just coming back down after leaving Callie in that room.
“It was a party, Vic. A lot of people went up there at some point to pass out or use the bathroom. I promise you aren’t the only one being questioned—several boys from your school are—but you are their primary suspect because you were the guy everyone saw with her and the only one she could name. Besides that, you’re the easiest one to pin the blame on. She named you, people saw you going upstairs… Some of the other witnesses have said you’re kind of a loner, too. I hate to say it, but this precinct is known for being lazy on the evidence-gathering end of their rape investigations.”
I have a lot of questions that I can’t stomach actually asking. Like, what does Callie remember? How did she not see the person’s face? Was she just that out of it? These are details Mr. Mason might know, but the words won’t make it past my awkward tongue. I just say, “Okay,” and listen in silence while he directs me. Don’t speak to the police without him present. Don’t try to contact Callie to clear the air. I’ll be going to court in a few weeks, since they’re serving me with a restraining order and I need to follow it to a T. Don’t discuss the case with others. I’m guessing Brett is exempt from that rule, all things considered.
When I finally leave his office, I’m drained. It’s barely been a week since the party. Every day, it gets a little worse. Like bags of sand are steadily being added to my joints, making every limb heavy and hard to move. Someday I’m going to wake up and not be able to get out of bed from the pressure pinning me down.
Brett is waiting for me when I come upstairs to his room. He sets his tablet aside and looks at me over the top of his glasses. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s perfect,” I mumble, sinking to his floor and sprawling out. It’s almost painful to will my muscles to relax. “I hate this.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“G-guess at least no one at school knows I’m the suspect.”
Brett averts his gaze in a way that makes me uncomfortable. “Mm.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says.
“You’re lying.”
He heaves a sigh and slides off his glasses to clean them. “No, it’s just…I mean, Aaron knows. And some other people.” There goes any hope I had of getting my body to relax. I stare at Brett but don’t say anything, waiting for him to continue on his own. He adds helplessly, “The cops questioned everyone they could who went to the party, Vic. They asked about you specifically since Callie pointed you out, so…it’s not hard for them to put two and two together.”
I slowly turn my eyes to the ceiling and pick out the pattern of a kangaroo and a cat in the stucco. “So when he talked to us at lunch…”
“He knew.”
“And you th-thought it was smart not to tell me? Thanks.”
Brett points at me with his glasses and frowns. “Don’t do that, man. I was trying to protect you. You’ve got enough on your plate to have to worry about dealing with whatever people like Aaron might be saying.”
What would Aaron be saying, I wonder? He looked at and spoke to me so casually the other day. What was he really thinking?
Then I remember that Aaron was at the party, and if he saw me take Callie Wheeler upstairs, that makes him a suspect, too.
Chapter Six
By Monday morning, everyone knows.
And I say “everyone” because if I’ve noticed people are talking about something, then enough people know that it might as well be everyone.
When we get to school, I ask Brett, “Should I try talking to Autumn again?” He laughs and punches my arm.
“You’ve so got a thing for that girl, don’t you?”
I slide open my combo lock to my locker, frowning around the heat rushing to my face. “I d-don’t know what you mean.”
“You’ve already talked to her a couple of times and she hasn’t had anything nice to say. So either you’re a glutton for punishment or you’re just infatuated with her. Which I would totally understand; she’s hot.”
Infatuation: foolish or all-absorbing passion.
I wouldn’t go that far. Sure, I think Autumn is gorgeous and I like that fierce loyalty of hers, but that doesn’t mean I’m infatuated with her. Besides, she hates my guts and I can’t formulate a coherent sentence to her that doesn’t involve Callie, so— “Just meant to s-see how Callie’s doing.”
Brett shrugs. “Frankly, I doubt she’ll say anything to you one way or the other. Didn’t my dad tell you to avoid talking to anyone about the case?”
“Yeah,” I agree sullenly, shutting the locker door and slouching against it. Brett pats my shoulder with a sympathetic smile before turning to head to class. I wish I could handle things the way Brett always does, with this effortless sort of confidence that everything is going to be all right. Me? I lose sleep and can’t focus on tying my own shoes, let alone struggling to make sure I don’t have a nervous breakdown between now and graduation.
While I head to class, I open my ears to the people around me instead of trying to tune them out like usual. In particular, I pay attention to Aaron’s group near the bathroom, which consists of five other guys who all know Brett but probably couldn’t tell you my name.
Yet the moment I come within hearing range, Aaron stops in midsentence and makes no move to hide that he’s staring at me. His friends turn to do the same and I keep my gaze on the floor, mesmerized by the way my shoelaces hit the linoleum with each step. I don’t get far when Aaron calls out, “Hey, Vic.”
My shoes squeak to a halt. I feel like my body has shrunken in on itself, like my shoulders could collapse forward and fold into my rib cage and I could sink into the floor, because when I turn around, all six of them are looking right at me. Aaron smiles. “C’mere a sec, would you?” he asks, inclining his head toward the bathroom.
This is a bad idea. I shove my hands as deep into my pockets as I can, taking a step away. “I’ve g-got to get to c-class…”
Patrick Maloney, who I last saw at the party heading upstairs with Jacob and Eric, moves toward me and swings an arm around my shoulders. “It’ll only take a minute. Aaron wanted to let you in on something the police told him.”
I know the cops have been speaking to anyone who was at the lake house, so it’s plausible Aaron knows something that I don’t—especially since his brother was the one who threw the event. Still, there’s a heavy ball of dread rolling around in my stomach as Patrick ushers me into the bathroom, and that feeling does not lessen when I’m standing there against the wall with all of them around me and Aaron is a foot or so in front of me, no longer smiling.
“I heard the cops brought you in for some kind of test.”
Where did he hear that from? Only Brett knew, and there’s no way he would’ve said anything. Unless—no… Mom wouldn’t have said anything to Ruthie Biggs, would she? They’re friends, but no way. What’s more, Ruthie wouldn’t have told her son when she has to know he’s got a big mouth and wouldn’t keep it to himself. Right? I have to swallow hard to make my dry mouth cooperate. “Uh, y-yeah.”
He crosses his arms, legs posed slightly apart like he’s trying to make himself look casual and instead comes across as intimidating. “Huh. What’d they have you do, jerk off into a plastic cup?”
“N-no,” I mutter, looking down at the floor. “It’s r-really none of your b-business. I’ve got to go to class.”
Trying to move past them is a bold move and it backfires. Patrick slams the palm of his hand into my chest, shoving me effortlessly back to the wall where a light switch jabs uncomfortably into my sh
oulder blade. “You screw a girl while she’s unconscious and that’s all you’ve got to say for yourself?” He pushes me again.
My vision is blurring. I can’t seem to get a proper breath in. I am teetering on the verge of an anxiety attack and no longer am I stuttering…I simply can’t speak.
“Easy, Patrick. Come on now, Vic,” Aaron chides, “let’s hear it. Tell us what happened. Make it a good enough story and maybe we won’t tell the cops. Honestly, I didn’t think you had it in you, but I guess if it’s the only way you were ever gonna get laid…”
My fingers bend, curling into tight fists just itching to hit him. Six against one aren’t great odds, though, and I’m already shaking. I just want to get away. Patrick pushes me again, and again I hit the light switch, but this time, I slide down a fraction of an inch until the switch clicks off…and thanks to the lack of windows in the bathroom, we’re plummeted into darkness. I take the chance while they’re startled and cursing and searching for the switch to duck beneath Patrick’s reaching arms and dart out the door.
I don’t wait to see if they’ll follow. I run down the hall, around the corner, and into the adjoining halls where Callie’s locker is because I’m hoping they won’t think to look for me here. In retrospect, once I reach the courtyard near the library and I’m trying to catch my breath as I drop to a bench, I realize I could have gone to class. I would’ve been plenty safe there.
No, I don’t want to face anyone in class. I want to know how Aaron found out about the police taking me to the clinic. I want to know why my mother would tell anyone that kind of information…even her best friend. She had to have known what a terrible idea it would be. Because now if Aaron and his friends know, the information is fair game. Anyone can know that the police think I raped Callie Wheeler.
It takes me thirty minutes to sneak off campus past the guy who monitors the parking lot and get home. If I were eighteen I could sign myself out of school for the day, but I’m not there quite yet. Mom is at work still and will be for another two hours, and I’m cool with that. I’m exhausted and I haven’t been sleeping well over at Brett’s, despite the comfortable bed. The couch is familiar and with the TV on low and my bare feet kicked up onto the coffee table, it doesn’t take me long to doze off.
The sound of Mom’s keys in the door jolts me from a dream I can only vaguely remember, wherein I was back at the party, trying to will myself to go upstairs to check on Callie again…like doing so could prevent all of this from happening.
I sit up and shake off the sight of those stairs in my brain, twisting to look as Mom comes in through the front door. She pauses when she sees me, and then sighs and slips off her shoes by the door and hangs up her keys. “You didn’t tell me you were going to be home.”
“I live here.” Meaning I shouldn’t have to give her warning.
She gives me a sour look, stepping into the living room. “Why weren’t you in school?”
Yeah, I sort of figured she’d know. They would have called to report my absence. “Bad day.”
“That’s not a reason future employers are going to accept, Victor.” Mom stops at the end of the couch, crossing her arms with a frown.
I look down at my hands. “Um. D-did you tell Ruthie Biggs wh-what was going on?”
Mom is silent long enough that I immediately know the answer. “Why?”
Knowing she totally spread my business around makes me want to crawl under the couch and not ask anything further. “B-because Aaron and all of his friends know. They were asking about it.”
“I really don’t think Ruthie would have told her son anything I said to her in confidence,” Mom scoffs.
“No one else knew, Mom.”
“Well, it wasn’t her. Now drop it.” She turns to walk into the kitchen.
I should drop it, but I don’t want to. Normally when Mom gets mad, I’m quick to back down and change the subject, but now I’m being attacked from almost every other aspect of my life. The least my mother could do is be on my side. That being said, I get up to follow after her. “Wh-what exactly did you tell her?”
Mom keeps her back to me, setting her purse on the island counter and opening the fridge to find herself something for dinner. “I don’t see why that matters or why it’s any of your business. Remember, you got yourself into this mess. You have no idea what it’s like to have everyone looking at me like they have.”
Mom and I have fought plenty before. Or rather, her passive-aggressive tendencies have tripped even my temper and I’ve snapped at her until she was reduced to tears, and by some turn of events, I was always the one in the wrong who ended up apologizing whether it was actually my fault or not. I’m not sure Mom has ever said sorry to me. For anything. Yet I’ve been apologizing all my life.
I’m not feeling in a very apologetic mood at the moment. “What you’re going through? Are you kidding?”
She turns to me finally, a package of defrosted chicken and a bag of salad in her hand. Her expression is neutral but the typical sheen of tears in her eyes is present, telling me she’s about to let loose the waterworks. “I could lose my job over this, Victor. What were you thinking? Haven’t I raised you better than that?”
My jaw falls open but the words won’t come beyond, “Wh-what?”
“I taught you to be a gentleman. I told you never to touch anyone unless she asked you to, didn’t I?” The first few tears begin to slip down her cheeks and my gut twists. Yeah. I have been raised like that. It’s always been common sense, to be gentle, to be patient and kind, and although I’m not perfect, I like to think I try my best. I’ve never hit anyone. I’m not intentionally mean.
“Mom,” I start, taking a step closer. Maybe I am being selfish. I’ve been so wrapped up in what this meant for me that I didn’t stop to think what people will do or say to her. Because if kids from school who were questioned know I’m a suspect, then their parents know, and our town is not all that big.
Like I’ve done a hundred times before, I try to reach out to hug her, never knowing the response I’m going to get. Will she bury her teary face against my shoulder and sob, or will she turn away? It’s always a guessing game. Sometimes my apologies aren’t enough to make her happy.
She steps back. “Don’t touch me.”
That’s a new one. I go still, letting my arms fall to my sides. Mom hiccups and wipes at her eyes, trying to look stern and only succeeding in looking more of a mess than she is.
“Go to your room, Victor. I don’t want to look at you right now.”
Ah. That part isn’t new. Not really, anyway. I don’t want to look at you. That started around my early teens and the first time the words left my mother’s mouth, my heart about shattered. There is nothing anyone has ever said to me in all my life that aches quite like that.
Which is why I say nothing. I retreat to my room as instructed and sit on my bed, fingers in my hair, eyes closed, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when my mom stopped loving me.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday morning, I call Sherrigan and he tells me, “The process takes several days, Victor. That’s assuming they don’t have a backlog at the lab. And let me tell you, they always have a backlog.”
Come Friday, I’ve still heard nothing. With my restraining order hearing approaching, I had been hoping I’d have some good news by now. I try calling Sherrigan again as Brett and I get to school, but no one answers. I close my eyes and drop my head back against the passenger’s seat of Brett’s car. He’s parked outside of school but hasn’t abandoned me to go inside. I can sense his eyes locked onto me worriedly while I hang up with a defeated sigh.
Any moment, the lab could be sending my DNA results to the detectives, and they’re sure to hear before even Mr. Mason does. Amjad told me when I went in to work last night that he’s never seen me look at my phone so much in all the time he’s known me. I still can’t bring myself to tell him what’s actually going on. If he wants to believe I’m having girl problems, I’m okay with that. Wo
rk is the one place I can go where I get to pretend to be normal.
“Nothing?” Brett asks when I lower my phone.
I shake my head and get out of the car. Brett follows, but thankfully doesn’t press me for info. I can still sense his concerned gaze on me, though. That’s just Brett for you. Maybe he isn’t the greatest at verbally expressing that he cares, but he has his ways of showing it. The only fights he’s ever been in growing up were ones where he was defending me, and the last few days, when we walk down the halls, I feel like he’s tense and ready to snap at anyone who says anything to me.
We don’t speak as we head inside. Brett goes his way and I go mine, though he does fist-bump my shoulder gently before he goes. He prefers to keep his books on him at all times, and I prefer to cram whatever I can into my locker and get it as needed. There are usually people getting into their lockers all around me at any given time, so I don’t notice her at first. Not until I realize she’s leaning her shoulder against my locker and staring right at me when I lift my eyes.
“Uh, h-hey Autumn.”
Autumn has her hair twisted up into a messy bun today. Her leggings are slashed at the knees, probably violating dress code, and her thigh-length tank top has a skull and crossbones on it with the disclaimer underneath: this is not gang-related. Cute.
She doesn’t smile. “I want to talk to you.”
Great start to my morning. Somehow I doubt she’s here to apologize for treating me like a leper. “O-okay. Here?”
“Outside.” She inclines her chin in the direction of the nearest double doors leading outside to a section of picnic tables where some students eat lunch. I follow her to a table where I remain standing, afraid any sudden movements will provoke her. She sits on the table itself, feet planted on the bench, elbows on her knees, and stares at me. “So.”
