Honor Code

by Kiersi Burkhart

  “What was she like, when you lived together?”

  “Smart. She got good grades. Great artist, too—we did Drawing Club together. She got me into playing tennis.”

  “If she’s so smart, and has such good grades, do you know why she got tutoring that night?”

  Gracie shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe she was falling behind.”

  “Don’t you find that strange?” asks Turnquist. “That she went in for tutoring when she didn’t need it?”

  “No. Scully and she were friends. They went on dates or whatever. She probably just wanted to hang out with him.”

  Turnquist hmms.

  “Did you notice anything strange after Sam’s tutoring session with Scully?” he asks.

  “No,” says Gracie. “Everything seemed normal. But I was very stressed out at the time.”

  “I see.” Turnquist can’t help the smile that bites at his lips. He turns to the judge. “Everything seemed normal, huh? You must have been close, doing all those activities together, living in the same room. But nothing seemed off? She said nothing about Scully?”

  Gracie’s not fazed by the way Turnquist talks down to her. “No.”

  “Thank you,” Turnquist says, waving a hand. “The witness is—”

  “I didn’t notice because I was pretty preoccupied,” Gracie interrupts. “Considering he had tried to rape me the night before.”

  I’m frozen to my seat as the courtroom explodes into noise.

  This is the last thing I expected her to say after last night. What is she doing?

  The judge lays into his gavel. “Order, please!”

  “Can you repeat that?” says the floundering Turnquist.

  Gracie is the only one in the courtroom who’s holding it together. “It wasn’t just Sam,” she says. “Scully Chapman tried to rape me, too.”

  “Your Honor,” says Turnquist. “Hostile witness.”

  “She’s your witness,” the judge says. Turnquist searches for something to say, and the judge asks, “Are you done, defense?”

  “No, not at all.” He exhales. “How come you told no one about this before now? It seems very calculated.”

  Gracie snorts in derision. “You’re the one who contacted me.”

  Turnquist, speechless, waves a hand at the judge and walks back to his table. Scully has sunk deep into his chair, one of his hands over his face.

  I can’t believe her. Gracie. She is just as amazing as I’ve always known.

  “Your witness, prosecution.”

  Tasia comes up to the bench. She and Gracie seem to exchange some silent words with their eyes. “Can you describe to the court what happened the night of the seventh?”

  “I asked Scully for help, and went to his room for tutoring.”

  She recounts exactly what happened to me.

  “He . . . he tried it out on me first. I asked for tutoring, and he took advantage of the situation by inviting me up to his room. He shut the door. Forced me down and pulled up my skirt and—” She covers her face with her hands. “He made a mistake. You know how he makes the tea?”

  “You mean the way he made tea for Sam?”

  “Yes, exactly. He put in the teabags and set the mugs next to the couch. When he was trying to pull off my underwear . . . he hit a mug with his arm, knocked it over. Got boiling water all over himself. He fell off the couch just long enough for me to run.”

  It’s my story. Coming from her . . . does this mean she believes in what I’m doing? Does she finally want to see him put away, too?

  “Harrowing,” says Anastasia. “Why did you never come forward before?”

  “I was terrified. Embarrassed. I didn’t even tell Sam because I was so ashamed that he’d almost gotten away with it.”

  Anastasia nods. “No more questions,” she says, and returns to her counsel table. Turnquist is given a chance to re-examine, but there aren’t any holes to poke in her story.

  I glance over at Harper, and find her looking back at me. Will she write about this? She can’t possibly print a retraction now—not after Gracie’s testimony. She’d be throwing both of us under the bus for perjury.

  She just shakes her head and looks away.

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  I spend the whole night and next day obsessing over what Harper might do. I don’t know which testimonies we can expect next—until early the next morning, when my victim advocate calls.

  “The defense won’t bring Scully to testify,” Melissa says. “There’s so much out there already, they’re letting his original statement stand.”

  “The one where he says he never touched me?” I ask, filling the words with as much derision as they can hold.

  “Yep, that one. Think about it this way, Sam: It’s over. You don’t have to go anymore.”

  “The whole trial is over?”

  I hear a breath of air hit her microphone. “No. There’s closing statements, character reference letters, all that. But no more testimony.”

  “Do you know how long until a verdict?”

  “No idea. But I’ll call you as soon as I do know. In the meantime, you can write a letter of impact, if you want.”

  “A what?”

  “A letter about how this has all negatively affected your life. Changed your relationships, your parents, school—anything you’d like. And the judge will take it into consideration when he makes his ruling.”

  Sure he will.

  “I’ll think about it,” I tell her.

  But I immediately send Gracie a text. It doesn’t bounce back—I must not be blocked anymore.

  Small steps.

  You were amazing yesterday.

  I don’t get a response, so I send another one.

  The trial is going to be over soon. They’ve asked me for a victim impact statement. I think it should come from you.

  I expect not to hear back—or at least, for her to wait a while.

  But her reply comes immediately.

  What’s that?

  You tell the judge how what happened changed your life. Or messed it up. How you feel. Whatever you want. Do you want to write it?

  There’s no response for a long time. I go back to watching a show on my computer, keeping an eye on the space on my phone screen where her text will appear. Finally, I see that she’s typing a reply.

  Okay. I’ll email it to you.

  -----------------------

  Melissa wasn’t kidding about the defense dragging things out. In April, I go to the courthouse one last time to read the statement that Gracie prepared. Harper’s not here today. We agreed I’d just send her a copy of it so she wouldn’t have to drive out here for the millionth time.

  Gracie said to read it straight to the judge. It was meant for him.

  “Your Honor,” I begin, my voice shaking, “I address this to you instead of to the defendant, because nothing I say has ever mattered to him anyway. No amount of no, please don’t, please stop has made a difference. So maybe instead, you will listen.

  “I don’t know if you know what it’s like to have your voice stolen. When you have no voice, you stop speaking. You stop trying. I was used and discarded, and then robbed of my ability to talk about it. And then I was told by a lawyer in this very room that what happened to me was my fault. That the reality I experienced wasn’t real. But the desolation, the isolation, the inability to exist inside my own skin without chafing—that is still very real. What Scully Chapman has done to me can never be undone. His father said that his life is over. But what about mine? I would like what he did to my life to matter to someone.”

  I shut my eyes and fold up the paper. “That’s all. Thank you.” I return to my seat in the gallery with my parents, my hands trembling. Scully stares at me as I walk by.

  He must know those are Gracie’s words. I hope he does.

  I’ve been the worst friend ever. I took her voice, too. Giving some of it back is one very small thing I can do.

  -----------------------

  Since
Scully’s expulsion, the school has slowly started to forget about me. By May, the fact that Scully ever attended Edwards Academy, that I ever accused him of rape, is forgotten. The soccer captain caught two of her players making out in the dressing room, and it’s all anyone can talk about until school gets out.

  Gracie doesn’t come back to school. After she raked me over the coals in her bedroom that day, I didn’t expect her to. She still isn’t ready to talk to me, and I’m giving her the space she wanted all along. I’ll wait forever if I have to.

  Word got out that Olivia had testified, and she gets special permission to change rooms. It’s unorthodox for a First and Third Year to live together, but it works.

  I don’t miss having that big, two-person room to myself. I way prefer sharing it with Olivia. She’s so much more awkward than the cool, collected girl she seems like—all she ever talks about is swimming. She wants to go to the Olympics.

  I make it all the way through finals, to the end of the year, before the judge reaches a verdict. I move out of Edwards for the summer the same day we’re scheduled to go hear the judge’s decision.

  I could have waited for a news report, or Harper’s article—if she’s going to write one—but I want to hear it for myself.

  Gracie’s waiting when we arrive at court. It’s incredible to see her.

  “You’re here!” I say, charging up to her, but not throwing my arms around her.

  “Hey,” she says. She looks . . . fantastic. Her eyes are bright, and she seems strong.

  “Have you been working out?” I ask.

  “Yeah, actually. I play tennis at the rec center.”

  “It shows. I bet you could beat me at a game now.”

  Mom waves at me as she and Dad find their way to a group of open seats.

  “Want to sit with us?” I ask Gracie. “It’s about to start.”

  “Sure.” I know she hasn’t forgiven me, so it’s the best gift she could give me.

  I notice Harper arrive behind us, too. She takes a seat on the other side of the courtroom.

  The judge picks up his glasses and balances them precariously on his nose as he reads the verdict. He glances at Scully and Mike just before he begins. Scully has his hands clasped in front of him like a prayer.

  Bullshit.

  “Due to a lack of substantial evidence that, beyond a reasonable doubt, the alleged crime has occurred, I am forced to strike down the charge of statutory rape in the first degree,” the judge says, but he doesn’t sound the least bit repentant.

  I have to cover my mouth to hold in a cry. How could he do this? After Olivia and Gracie testifying, after the statement I read?

  “I do, however, believe that sexual contact occurred between the defendant and the victim, and thus charge Scully Chapman with the felony of sexual exploitation of a minor. I sentence Mr. Chapman to thirty days in minimum-security detention and an addition of his name to the Sexual Offender Registry.”

  A month.

  That’s it. That’s all he gets for what he did to us.

  “What the fuck?” Dad hisses, and I’ve never, ever heard him curse like that.

  I squash my eyes closed to stop tears. I did everything I could—everything within my power. Next to me, Gracie is already crying.

  -----------------------

  HARPER

  Thirty days. Just one month in low-security detention for raping two girls and trying to rape another. White men are still great at protecting other white men in power.

  Still, a misdemeanor. It’s something. The registry—that’s also something that will follow Scully for a long time. He’s branded now, so at least any school he tries to attend will know what he’s done. He’s been expelled from Edwards, and won’t be going to Berkeley.

  Harper flips on the TV when she gets home. They’re running a story about the trial. It’s a sanitized interview room with soft lighting—and in it is Mr. Chapman.

  The interviewer starts by asking, “As his father, what do you think of this case getting such wide national attention?”

  “Scully is sick to his stomach constantly,” Mike says on the TV. “Filled with anxiety and worry. Just because of some high school drama, he has started obsessing about what prison will be like—”

  She shuts off the TV as quickly as she turned it on.

  Just some high school drama. That’s all it is to them. What about Gracie’s months and months of anxiety?

  It feels like an open wound in Harper’s chest left to bleed. If only she’d listened to her instincts and just said, This story’s too fragile, and refused Mark’s push to go after it, she wouldn’t feel like this.

  She wouldn’t yet again be seeing the cracks in the system, the gaping holes. Why did she think it would work? How did she get suckered into believing it would serve any kind of justice, when it never does? The court failed Sam, Gracie, and Olivia, just as Sam had once predicted it would.

  Harper shouldn’t be surprised. The system is doing exactly what it was designed to do: protecting people like Scully, at the expense of everyone else.

  She wants to write that piece—an incisive study of the failure of the court to find truth, to mete out justice, to protect the people who are the most at risk. But writing that piece would be untruthful, too.

  Harper starts typing.

  Stick to the facts. Cover the official statement from the school. Leave the opinions to the readers.

  If only she could headline it:

  Well, Whatever. It’s Something.

  The next day, Mark’s not the happiest with what she’s written.

  “Where are all the interviews you did with the victim?” he asks, face red. “You mentioned the hashtag once. I thought you were going to do a whole insider exposé.”

  That would’ve been the story Sam wanted. And probably the story the world needed.

  But Harper can’t put her name on that piece.

  The sanitized result ends up on Page 3D. An emotionless follow-up with no conclusions about truth or guilt—simply what the judge ruled.

  At least it’s over.

  The story prints the next day. Harper calls Sam to let her know. At the end of the call Sam says, “I’m sorry it happened this way.”

  Harper doesn’t respond for a while. Is she apologizing for using Harper? For lying? Or for everything?

  “Thank you,” Harper says, not sure that she wants to know. She just wants to rinse her hands of this and be done. Sam says goodbye, and they hang up.

  At least now she can move on.

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  http://girloficeandspice.tumblr.com

  June 22, 2018

  Hello.

  This is my second blog on here, because my first one had to be deactivated. It’s . . . it’s a long story.

  I’m an aspiring artist living in Long Island. I’m posting my pictures here to hopefully build up a portfolio and get into art school in the city in a few years. Please feel free to share things I post, but don’t repost without giving credit!

  It was a long, hard school year this year, but finally, school is out. Even my online school lets us go for a month, though I’ll have to be back at it in August.

  I like online school, but let’s face it—sitting at home on your computer all day is lonely, and makes you feel like a loser. The worst part is my only friend lives, like, hours away, so we hardly get to see each other. I can’t wait to go off to college. Meet people like me. Actually get professional training in my art.

  Maybe by the time college rolls around, I’ll be able to handle dorm life again. Anyway, that’s enough about me. I’m just a girl with some scars. I may not always like the marks they’ve left on me, but they make me the artist I am now.

  Since this is supposed to be an art blog, here’s a drawing of my friend. You might recognize her. She has scars, too.

  Don’t we all.

  Acknowledgments

  I have to start by thanking my incredible partner and husband, Dan, for walking this
long, hard road with me. Honor Code was a difficult book to write, a difficult book to revise, and a difficult book to edit—you sustained, supported, and loved me through all of it. Thank you for those many trips to the corner store at midnight, and hand-washing all my dirty dishes because we didn’t own a dishwasher then. (How things have changed.)

  Huge thanks to my agent Fiona Kenshole, with Transatlantic Agency, who’s believed in me as a writer from the very beginning. You’ve helped me out of so many fixes and worked so hard to make my dreams come true—I look forward to whatever comes next for us!

  This whole project was possible because of Alix Reid—my talented editor with a brilliant idea and a heart of gold. How many conversations about this book started with us celebrating some new life event? What a journey we’ve had together creating this challenging, wonderful story.

  I couldn’t have written about the courthouse as truthfully or realistically without my two on-call lawyers: my life-long friend Tim Kelly and the incredible Tracy. Thank you so much for all of your fast reads, knowledgeable advice, and steady encouragement—this last year and all the years before it.

  And of course, all the thanks in the world to Kate Brauning, writer/editor extraordinaire—my friend, champion, and confidante. I couldn’t have done this without your expert guidance.

  I must thank the gifted team at Carolrhoda Lab and Lerner Books for all the hard work they’ve put in to make this book a reality. And a big shout-out to our expertise and sensitivity readers, Sarah Corsa and Kelsey Keimig. And finally, Heidi Mann, for taking my rough words and making them shine like diamonds.

  Sending enormous thank-yous to my two best friends in the world: Meredith Feiertag and Sione Aeschliman. Meredith, for the many, many hours we’ve spent on the phone discussing this book—your wisdom is everything to me. And Sione—you always seem to magically conjure up an hour to soothe my troubled soul. I would move continents for you.

  Finally, Amber—who dropped everything and anything at a moment’s notice to help me untangle a plot problem, or rip apart and rewrite a major scene, or even read the whole manuscript in a matter of days. This book wouldn’t exist if I hadn’t met you.

  Topics for Discussion