by E. K. Blair
“Nothing.”
“It isn’t nothing when the police show up at our house and ask us to go to the station so they can question you. Now, I’m going to ask you one more time: What is going on?”
“Someone at school apparently started a nasty rumor that I doubt is even true.”
“What kind of rumor?”
Heartache returns, and my voice comes out uneven as I try to temper its flaring. “I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me.”
“They? Who?”
“The principal and an officer,” I tell her as she looks at me with an expression of concern I’ve been void of for so long.
“I need you to tell me exactly what is going on before we go down to the station.”
But I can’t. I made a promise to David, so I tell her what I can. “Mom, I don’t know anything. Just that on Monday, I was called to the office. The cop told me something about an allegation being made. I asked what it was about and who it was that said something, but he wouldn’t tell me. That’s honestly all I know.”
“Okay. Well, go get cleaned up so we can head down there.”
Apparently, the fear of having the cops show up on our doorstep has her acting more like a mom than she has for this whole past year. And thank God for that, because I don’t think I can go through this on my own.
I take a quick shower and throw myself together as anxiety builds with every step I take. When we hop into the car and start driving, I mentally prepare myself for what’s about to come. But how can I possibly prepare for this when I have no idea what I’m walking in to? David told me not to admit to anything, and that’s exactly what I’ll do. I will lie until my last breath if I have to, just to protect him.
When we arrive, we are led to a small room with nothing but a table and three chairs in it and are offered something to drink. We both decline.
“Detective Banks will be in shortly,” we’re told before being left alone.
My mother and I don’t say a word as nerves shock my system into overdrive, ramping up my heart rate. I look around the room, spot a small video camera mounted in the corner that overlooks where we’re sitting, and my palms begin to sweat.
After a couple more minutes of silent torture, the door opens and a woman walks in wearing a badge clipped to the waistband of her pants.
“Good morning,” she greets before taking the seat adjacent to me. “I’m Detective Banks, and I’m just going to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay with you?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“What is this all about?” My mother stops Detective Banks’s first question before it’s even asked.
“First and foremost, I just want you to know that this is a voluntary interview. I understand that this can be a very stressful situation, but I assure you that your daughter has done nothing wrong. There was an allegation made, and we just need to ask Camellia a few questions,” she tells my mom before turning her attention back to me. “Just so you are aware, we will be recording this visit by audio and video,” she tells me before informing us of a few more details about my rights and so on.
Feigning calmness as best as I can, I tell her that I understand, and she begins questioning me, “So, Camellia—”
“Cam,” I correct.
“I’m sorry. Cam, can you tell me how this school year has been going for you?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“Senior year,” she notes, “you must be getting excited to graduate.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re a swimmer? Can you tell me about that?”
I’ve watched enough television and read enough books to know exactly what she’s doing. Getting on to my level so I’ll trust her enough to tell her whatever she needs to know isn’t going to work with me. If she thinks she can manipulate me, she’s wrong.
I answer her trivial questions, telling her about my swimming and about my plans for college, plans David and I made together, plans I’ve never shared with my mother. She stays quiet, but I’m sure she will bring it up later.
“And who is your swim coach?” she finally asks, forcing me to say the name that still tastes so sweet on my lips.
“Coach Andrews.”
“Is that David Andrews?”
I nod, and she continues to scribble notes on her notepad, which she’s been doing all along.
“Were you in any of his classes?”
“English Lit.”
“Now, with you being his student and one of his athletes, would there be any contact about school or swim-related information that he would send through email?”
“Yes.”
“What about text messages?”
“No.”
“Phone calls?”
“No,” I continue as my pulse races, and I fight to keep myself from fidgeting.
“Have you ever received an email, a phone call, or a text from David Andrews about anything other than school or swim related information?”
“No.”
“Never?”
I shake my head as a thousand memories of staying up late and talking to him on the phone and texting him all throughout my days swirl through my mind. For the first time, I’m thankful I deleted every single one of them. If she asks to see my phone, she wouldn’t find a single trace of him.
“I want to remind you, Cam, that no matter what you tell me, you are not in trouble. But it’s important that you tell the truth here.”
“I am telling you the truth.”
She nods and then continues, explaining, “I’m going to ask you some questions that may be uncomfortable, but again, I need you to answer them honestly, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Has David Andrews ever touched you in a sexual manner?”
“Are you accusing my daught—”
“Ma’am.” Detective Banks addresses my mom. “Again, we are just trying to collect information that will help us confirm or negate this allegation.”
“Well, I suggest, before we move forward, that you explain exactly what allegation has been made that concerns my daughter.” My mother’s patience finally snaps, and I warm a little at her protectiveness of me.
And finally, it’s disclosed what’s been said when Detective Banks reveals, “We are currently investigating a claim that was made that you and David Andrews have been engaging in a sexual relationship of some sort.”
“That’s insane!”
I sit silent, frozen in my seat.
“It may be,” Detective Banks tells my mother, “but we take these claims very seriously. And in no way has your daughter done anything wrong.” She then asks me and my mother if she can continue with her questioning, and when we both agree, she asks again, “Has David Andrews ever touched you in a sexual manner?”
“No.”
“Has David Andrews ever touched you in a way that made you feel uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“Has David Andrews ever kissed you?”
“No,” I state, standing firm as beads of sweat form at the nape of my neck.
“Have you ever had oral sex with David Andrews?”
“No.”
“Have you ever engaged in vaginal sex with David Andrews?” she presses, and I wish she would stop using his name the way she is, as if he’s some inanimate object instead of the warm loving man who has the biggest heart of anyone I know.
“No.”
“Have you ever engaged in anal sex with David Andrews?”
“This is ridiculous,” my mother murmurs under her breath.
“No.”
“And you’ve never texted with David Andrews in a sexual nature?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been to David Andrews’s home?”
My mouth goes dry, and every nerve ending in my body feels like it’s being plucked as I answer, “No.”
Detective Banks sets down her notepad and pen and leans forward, resting her arms on the table. “Cam, I can’t stress the importance of you telling the truth here.”
“I am telling you the truth. I’ve never done anything with Coach Andrews,” I argue.
“You’re not protecting him by lying.”
“I’m not lying.” My voice octaves up in defense, and I know the woman who is ripping my world apart right now can see right through me.
“We have a witness that says they saw the two of you kissing. We also have evidence that’s been collected that suggests what you are telling me isn’t the truth.”
Holy shit.
My blood runs cold, but I stick to my promise. “Again, I am not lying.”
Even my mother backs me up. “If she says she’s telling you the truth, I can assure you, she is.”
“Who was it that said they saw something?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” she tells me. “But I can share this with you.” She then opens the file that’s been tucked under her notepad and pulls out a stack of papers that are clipped together. “These are text messages between you and David. Do these look familiar?”
Oh, God. How did they get these? David assured me that he deleted everything off of his phone when I last saw him. But here they are.
“These are not my texts,” I lie, but then fear cripples me the moment I see my cell phone number highlighted in yellow at the top of the page. “Where did you get these from?”
“I’ve obtained a search warrant that allowed me to pull the text history from David’s cell phone carrier.”
Panic crystalizes, and my gut churns in shock when I read a few of the texts that have been highlighted as well, texts that are so intimate they made me blush when we exchanged them. My mother leans in, reading words that were never meant to be shared with anyone. Then I go stone silent when the realization hits.
We’ve officially been caught.
How the hell am I supposed to lie my way out of this? Lie David’s way out of this?
“No more talking, Camellia,” my mother barks before snapping at the detective, “We’re done.”
She immediately pulls out her cell phone when she grabs my arm. “Come on. We’re leaving right now.”
The room spins in a hurricane of fright, and I can’t even focus on what the detective is saying as my mother pulls me out. All I hear is static in my head. I’m not even sure how I’m managing to walk right now when my heart is consumed with what’s going to happen to David.
How can I save him from this?
How can I spare him when I should be next to him, taking this fall with him? Because I’m to blame too.
Mom rushes me to the car, and as we drive home, she starts making calls, but I’m so far gone. I curl into myself and stare out the window, trying to deal with the fact that I am completely helpless. That there is nothing I can do to protect David. They already know. If they have dozens of pages of our texts, they probably have hundreds of pages of our call logs that show countless hours worth of conversations.
Pulling into our driveway, Mom hangs up the phone. “Marlene’s husband is an attorney,” she says of one of her old tennis club friends. “He is going to make a few calls and will stop by later this evening.”
And as soon as we step into the house, my mother slams her purse onto the kitchen counter and kills all hope I have that she would snap back to the supporting and loving mom she used to be.
“How could you be so stupid?”
HER WORDS SHOULDN’T SHOCK ME, but they do. And I realize that, in a moment of weakness, I opened myself up to the idea that maybe she cared.
“My God, Camellia, what were you thinking? He’s a grown man!”
“Nothing happened.”
“Those text messages tell a very different story,” she lashes out. “How could you be so naïve to let this man take advantage of you?”
Her unjustified words fuel my anger, but still, she keeps going. “If this gets out, do you have any idea how this will make our family look?”
“Are you serious right now?” I lose it. “And what about you? Are you blind to your own reputation in this town?”
She shifts in her stance and glares at me. “I’m not a child opening my legs for an older man—a teacher that works in the same school your father did. Thank God he isn’t here to see the disgrace you’ve made of yourself.” She then swings open the door to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of wine.
“I’m a disgrace? Me? Well, if you think what I did is disgraceful, I can only imagine what he thinks of what you’re doing!” I seethe as I stand here, clenching my fists.
I step out of her reach the moment she rears her hand back to slap me. “You can’t do this to me anymore!” I yell, growing emotional with words that crack as they fight their way out of me. She drops her hand, but I keep going. “You haven’t been a mother to me since Dad died. You left me all alone and forced me to pick up the pieces of this family. I can’t even properly mourn him because I’m too busy taking care of all your shit!”
“So this is my fault? It’s because of me that you . . .” She tosses her hands up and then braces them on the countertop when they drop. “I’m still not even sure what you did with that man exactly. How far did this little tryst go?”
“Do you really think, that for one second, I can trust you with anything about my life?”
“Well, I think it’s pretty clear you don’t trust me.” She pulls out the wine opener and starts unscrewing the cork. “I had to find out in a police interrogation room that my own daughter is moving halfway across the country to go to college, and somehow failed to tell her own mother. You’d think I’d be included in the decision if I’m going to be footing the bill.”
“Footing the bill? You really think I would depend on you to pay for anything? Who do you think keeps our electricity on and our water running? Dammit, Mom, because of you, we could’ve lost this house!”
She takes a big gulp from her wine glass, and I have to bite my cheek to keep myself from totally going off on her.
“The house is fine, so you can tone down the dramatics. We have bigger things to worry about, so I suggest you cut the teenage attitude and fill me in on what the hell has been going on between you and that teacher.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Nobody is worth breaking my promise to David, not even her.
She sets down her glass and steps toward me. “This isn’t something you can lie your way out of. Do you understand how serious this is?”
“I was just questioned by a detective, Mom. I get the seriousness of the situation, but there is no situation. Nothing happened.”
“You’ve always been a terrible liar. It’s time to start telling the truth.”
But I don’t. I’m so done with her that I just stare into eyes I don’t recognize. She is not the mom I used to know.
“So you’re not even going to say anything?”
I shake my head in defiance.
She picks up the wine bottle by the neck and says, “Silence is incriminating, dear,” and then turns her back to me and walks away.
Unable to stand still in a storm of rage, fear, and sadness, I lose restraint and scream. With my eyes pinched shut, I scream so hard it’s like knives in my throat. Cords ignite in gritty fire as I try to release the pain and anger that’s eating me up inside, but I know it’s a wasted effort, so I give up and drop my head to my open palms.
I wonder which one of us my father would be more disappointed in: me or her?
What’s the point in wondering though?
We’ve made our choices, and here we are, broken with our own vices to run to—hers alcohol, and mine cutting—but I refuse to believe I’m anything like her. Yet, in this moment, it isn’t the blade I crave, it’s David. He’s so close, so within my reach, only a five minute drive away, and knowing that he’s never been more forbidden than he is right now breaks me. Breaks me down to the point I have nothing left but the blade to seek comfort from.
So, that’s what I do.
Knock-knock-knock.
“What?” I drone in annoyance from behind the locked bat
hroom door.
“Randall, the attorney, just called. He’s on his way over.”
I drag myself off the floor when I hear my bedroom door close and then look at my phone, which reads 6:43 PM. Fatigue weighs me down as I clean the crusted blood off my stomach and then attempt to make myself presentable. I don’t move very fast, not wanting to face anything on the other side of this door. When I finally dredge up the courage to go downstairs, Randall is already here.
My mother was clearly able to practice restraint with the bottle today as she stands here, dressed in a nice cashmere sweater and a simple strand of pearls.
Who does she think she’s fooling?
But I go along with her charade, pretending as if we were the same happy mother and daughter from before the accident.
“Camellia, it’s nice to meet you,” Randall greets when I walk into the living room. “I wish it were under better circumstances, but it’s still good nonetheless.”
We all nod, recognizing the awkwardness in the room.
“So, what are we dealing with here?” my mother asks as she sits next to Randall on the couch and I take a seat across from them on the loveseat.
“Well, with Camellia being a minor, her name won’t be public knowledge,” he informs. “Now it’s up to you if you choose to comply and work with the DA in the prosecution—”
“No,” I blurt.
“Camellia, listen,” he addresses cautiously. “After talking with the detective assigned to the case and Mr. Andrews’s attorney regarding the evidence so far . . . well . . . it doesn’t paint this man in a good light. The text messages alone make it clear that he crossed a line.”
“You saw them?”
“I saw enough.”
My neck scorches in embarrassment, and I can’t even look at him.
“This is not your fault. Guys like this prey on vulnerability, and with your father’s passing, he took advantage. No one is blaming you or accusing you, but these guys, they don’t stop. It’s a sick compulsion.”
I want to bite back, call him a liar, tell him he’s wrong, because he is. He doesn’t know David like I do. None of them do.
“That man should be locked up,” my mother says in disgust.
“He is.”
