by Mariano, Sam
He bought the gift card for me?
Chapter 7
Payday is the best day, but it’s even sweeter this week. Instead of hoping against hope there’ll be something I’ll want to read in the clearance section, I browse the full-price aisles. This week, I get books from the very top of my to-read list, and when I hit the clearance section just to make sure I’m not missing anything, I have the extra funds to pick up a book for my younger brother. It’s satisfying when my manager rings up my selections and instead of paying with a portion of my hard-earned income, it’s as easy as swiping a gift card.
I did briefly consider the moral ramifications of using a gift card Carter Mahoney bought for me. On one hand, it could probably be looked at as selling myself out for $50 worth of books. But I haven’t sold myself out at all. I don’t like him any more for leaving the gift card behind; I just figured since he did, I might as well put it to good use.
I meet Grace for iced coffee after I pick up my check. She shows me more pictures of her new puppy, shares snippets of Bible study at me, and takes a two second video of us drinking iced coffee and flashing peace signs. It’s a thing Grace does—she takes a quick two seconds out of every day and records it, then at the end of the month, she reviews them and tells everyone in her youth group about all the blessings she has experienced.
As she reviews today’s clip, she shakes her head and tells me, “I’ve already experienced so many blessings this month. Mama giving me Scout, coffee dates with my best friend. I wonder what else the month has in store for me.”
“All good things, I hope.”
Beaming up at me, she puts down her phone. “Have you had many blessings this week?”
Have I? If I didn’t have to explain, I would probably count my bookstore gift card a random blessing that I appreciate, but the deliverer poses a moral dilemma and I don’t want to lie.
“Here’s a quandary for you,” I tell her. “Hypothetically, say the devil sent me a blessing. Would that still count? Would I be ethically compelled to forfeit said blessing?”
Frowning, Grace sits backs, sips her drink, and mulls it over. “Well, are you sure the devil sent the blessing? Some blessings come in disguise.”
“I’m fairly certain. In this scenario, let’s say the blessing came from a very bad person. A gift from someone who wronged you.”
Her tone is immediately more dismissive. “Oh, well, I wouldn’t say that’s from the devil at all. I’d say that sounds more like…” She pauses, trying to find a way to word her thoughts. “Sometimes good things come from unexpected places. Sometimes a blessing might be rooted in evil intent, but there might be an opportunity to reclaim grace and glory, to lead someone onto the right path.” Barely missing a beat, she leans forward and meets my gaze. “Is Jake tryin’ to make amends for what he did?”
Shaking my head, I watch the trail of condensation on my cup rather than look at her. “No, it’s not about Jake. It was just a hypothetical.”
“Well, it sounds to me like maybe you have a chance to act with love and make a difference,” she states, stubbornly. “There’s nothing wrong with standing up for yourself, Zoey, but sometimes forgiveness does more good for everyone. I know he behaved so inappropriately, but maybe this is his chance to learn something, to start on a path toward being a better person. You should invite him to church. I know he already goes to one, but… well, that didn’t stop him from groping you, so maybe it’s not such a good fit for him. Maybe he’d like ours better. Pastor James is younger, more relatable. Maybe he’d get more out of our services than the one he goes to now.”
“Again, this is not about Jake,” I tell her.
Grace frowns. “Well, who else has wronged you?”
I shake my head, grabbing my iced coffee and taking a sip. “Like I said, it was just a hypothetical. A situation from a book I’m reading, not about me. I just like to dig in and think about what I’m reading, you know?”
Grace doesn’t know, because if it’s not assigned by a teacher, about Jesus, or a devotional in her journal, Grace isn’t reading it. That’s why it’s the right excuse though. She immediately loses interest, nodding at my silly reading hobby and jumping topics, telling me all about these new canvas paintings she’s thinking about buying to hang up in her bedroom.
* * *
After I get home and changed into some comfy pajamas, I do maybe the least productive thing I could do—I quietly stalk Carter Mahoney’s social media.
It starts out as mild curiosity, the thought that maybe I could find out more about what kind of person he actually is by looking at what he takes pictures of and shares with the world, but it’s just more bullshit. From the looks of Carter’s profile, he’s a typical golden boy. I almost choke on some of the bullshit captions, envisioning him choking on laughter as he types them out.
“Such a privilege to have the governor show up for my team tonight. #GoLonghorns #Longhornlife #blessed”
“Oh, my God, you are so full of it,” I say to no one, shaking my head. I’m lying tummy down on my bed with my feet in the air, perusing this stream of lies.
A picture of him eating fries with Jake, Shayne, Erika, and some other girl whose name I can’t recall is captioned “Good food, good friends, good times.”
“How long did it take you to come up with that one, Kerouac?” I mutter.
His latest post is a shaky ten second video of the football field, then he turns it around and flashes it his practiced troublemaking grin. Despite being posted only an hour ago, it already has nearly two hundred loves and 42 comments from lovesick girls who go to our school. Like me a few weeks ago, Carter probably knows none of their names.
Before that picture, he posted a moody black and white shot of him on the field in his letter jacket, just his back and stony profile visible. That one looks the most real, like maybe someone caught him off guard and he wasn’t performing for his audience when the shot was taken.
Why are you always performing, Carter Mahoney?
I hate that question, because it has to have an answer. Even if it’s a shitty answer, there must be one.
Unless he really is just a monster. I suppose some people are born broken, with brains that work differently, with impaired empathy and a literal inability to function the way most of us do without even thinking about it.
I remember a saying I heard once, some trite, throwaway phrase: Hurt people hurt people. Did someone hurt Carter Mahoney? What is his home life actually like? I suppose I don’t know. He has one of those families where everyone knows of them, but who actually knows them? Do the people in Carter’s life see beneath the bullshit façade he puts out in the world, or does he keep that side of himself hidden even from those closest to him?
Perhaps most curiously, why show it to me? If he doesn’t have a trail of victims behind him, why make me his first? Was it just an opportunity he couldn’t pass up? I’d like to believe the situation spun out of control and he just got carried away, but I know that isn’t true. I think that’s exactly what happened to Jake, but not Carter. Carter knew exactly what he was doing, and he didn’t so much as hesitate. He struck me down without consideration, without care, and I have to wonder why?
Normal, healthy people don’t have impulses like that, do they?
Rather than listen to the echo chamber in my mind, I steer away from Carter’s pictures and open up my Internet app, attempting to ferret out answers that way. I get lost down a rabbit hole, researching fantasies common to both men and women, speculation as to why some people have such fantasies, conjecture that perhaps it’s related to a wider sexual repertoire—more sexually open-minded people may be more inclined toward a greater variety of fantasies. History of abuse, gender roles, luck of the draw—lots of theories, but no solid explanations.
None of these are helpful in understanding what he did though, they’re mostly about rape fantasy. A common fantasy, apparently. Huh.
This isn’t the way I saw my Friday night going, but hell, I lik
e to learn new things.
I research outright rape next. The reasons people might do it. There are a lot of stances and theories. Could he, in some way, for some reason, be “getting back” at women? That seems unlikely, given that he’s popular and girls love him, but I don’t know about his home life. He’s far from the ugly guy in the back of class, watching the other guys clean up and feeling left out. The power motive seems feasible. Carter admitted he liked having me vulnerable and afraid, begging him. I don’t know if he’s ever committed that crime, though. I know he forced himself on me in the classroom, but has he hurt other girls? If not, why now? I try to research that, too, but it’s murky and difficult to wade through all the information, then pick out relevant pieces without even knowing much about him.
I lose the whole night that way, traversing rabbit holes about a decidedly unpleasant topic. I feel so desensitized, so academically removed from the situation by the time I stop researching, that I’m able to relive that experience in the classroom in a detached way, without feeling as uncomfortable as I usually do when it crosses my mind. The one article was quite thorough, and it suggested that men who do these sorts of things generally start right around this age—high school or college. Some may commit the crime once or twice, while others are serial offenders.
But why? What makes the difference?
I could probably spend years studying this and not know the simple answer, but to be honest, right now, I only want to know the answer in regards to Carter Mahoney. I don’t like to let Grace’s words hang around in my head, and I’m by no means some angel of outreach, trying to save every soul I come across. That’s more Grace’s arena than mine, but knowing what I know about Carter, I can’t deny feeling a certain level of culpability. A responsibility for his behavior, because I know about it, and maybe no one else does. I’ve already sworn I wouldn’t tell anyone what happened in that classroom, and I meant it, mostly because I’m afraid of him. But I need to know some other innocent girl isn’t going to be hurt because of my silence. I want to know why Carter wants to hurt me, but I need know he won’t hurt someone else.
The problem being, of course, that’s not the kind of information I can collect in a group-hang or from dissecting his social media posts. To keep myself safe, I can’t be alone with Carter, but I don’t know how else I can communicate with him. I don’t think he’s dumb enough to discuss any of this via text, because then I would have evidence to use against him.
I wish I could just divorce myself from this whole situation, but I can’t. It’ll drive me crazy wondering. I’ll lose sleep every night worrying about every other girl who ever crosses Carter’s path. What if he has the taste for it now? What if his inability to further abuse me only frustrates him, and he find someone easier to victimize? I’m not one of them, but there were 42 eager girls commenting all over his shit. It wasn’t because they found the football field so compelling.
Carter is perhaps the most dangerous predator around because he can attract prey so easily. How many girls might be uncomfortable by things he wants to do sexually, but rather than voice that, they would feel pressured to go along with it and keep their mouths shut because he’s Carter Mahoney?
My imagination is running away with me and by the end of my pondering session, I’m so hyped up, I feel like I need to tie a cape around my neck and go protect every woman in town from the presumed predilections of the damned quarterback.
Why does he think it’s okay that he did what he did? Nobody thinks they’re the bad guy, right? In his mind, he must have some justification for his behavior. When I asked him what I ever did to him, asked what his excuse was in the classroom that day, he was blasé, told me didn’t need one, but he was bullshitting me.
There is a reason, there has to be, and I won’t find peace until I know what it is.
Chapter 8
Weekend slips away and before I know it, it’s Monday morning. Time to start a whole new week.
I worked both days of the weekend, but when I wasn’t studying for school, I was studying for my pet project—my Carter Mahoney project. I did more and more research online, trying to peg him. It’s useless to try to understand his actions separate from him, so I’ve made understanding him my mission. A tricky project with perilous research that I can’t conduct easily, but at least research is something I’m comfortable with.
Given a sense of purpose, I find it much easier to get through the days. No longer a numb bundle of feelings wrapped up in a blanket without the ability to feel safe anymore, now I am a woman on a mission. Now, I have an objective. Once I have achieved that objective, I can let this whole thing go and move on with my life.
I don’t even see Carter until history class today, and he doesn’t get to class until seconds before the bell, so there’s no chance for interaction until afterward.
And of course, because I’m curious, he pays no attention to me whatsoever and leaves class talking to his friends instead of harassing me.
Tuesday morning I show up to a renewed chorus of “Zoey the ho” chants, and Carter is right there at the center of the asshats doing the chanting. He doesn’t add to the noise, but he leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me hear it. He looks like a king holding court, and his subjects are all assholes.
Definitely not going to approach him when he has an audience to perform in front of. I might be curious about Carter, but I’m still sensible enough to be wary of him. Whatever he’s like with me when we’re alone, I know he won’t be the same person in front of them, and I have no interest whatsoever in their Carter.
Since I caught his attention on the way in the building today, after history class, Carter falls into step beside me as I’m leaving.
“Missed you at the game,” he remarks, like we’ve lost no time.
Glancing over at him as I hug my books against my chest, I remind him, “I told you I wouldn’t be there.”
He shrugs casually. “Could have changed your mind.”
“No offense, but I honestly could not care less about football. I know that’s a sacrilege in this town, but it’s not my thing.”
“Your friend Grace was there,” he states.
I didn’t even think he knew Grace’s name, and the way he says that, like he knows it will unsettle me… well, it does unsettle me. It sends chills of caution dancing across the nape of my neck.
He probably wants a reaction, so I don’t give him one. “I don’t go everywhere my friends go; I’m not you.”
His tone is amused, and as he speaks, he reaches his arm out and drapes it around my shoulder. “Yeah, you have a mind of your own, don’t you, princess?”
It shouldn’t be an accusation, but I know it keeps me from fitting in with my peers, even some family members, so it feels a little like one. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”
“I like that,” he tells me casually enough, but it feels real. “I like smart girls who navigate their own paths instead of following everyone else’s. You strike me as that sort of girl.”
Excitement shouldn’t jump within me, but he just gave me a free puzzle piece, and I grab it up with greedy hands. “Yeah?” I ask, with genuine curiosity. “Do you know many women like that?”
He nods his head, and I begin making mental notes. Doesn’t look down on/disdain all women. “My older sister is sharp as a tack. You’d like her.”
“What about your mom?”
His lips curve up faintly, but he doesn’t respond. “I just answered a question, didn’t I? Your turn. Give me something about you.”
“I don’t know what you’re lookin’ for. What I like in a woman?” I ask lightly.
“Hey, if you roll that way, I am all ears.”
I know he’s joking, but I answer him anyway. “I don’t. I mean, girls are pretty, but I seldom have to resist the urge to corner them in classrooms and grope them against their will, so… I’m probably not that into them.”
“Is that the barometer?” he asks, amused.
“Se
ems to be.” My heart speeds up, but this is such a perfect opening to ask the one question I need an answer to, I don’t see how I can resist. Shoving down my doubts, I ask, “Have you… have you ever done that before? To anyone else, I mean? Before me?”
Predictably, he falls silent. His arm feels heavier around my shoulder, but he doesn’t move it. When he doesn’t want to answer a question, I notice he ignores it. I expect him to change the subject altogether, but instead he asks, “Why do you want to know?”
My pounding heart tells me I should stop, that I should break away, cut my losses, and flee his company. My gut tells me maybe giving him something real is the way to go. I go with my gut. “I… I can’t help wondering if my silence is endangering other girls. Telling isn’t just about consequences for the sake of myself, for some sense of justice, it’s about correcting the behavior. I assumed when I told on Jake, he would be punished, then if he ever thought about behaving that way again, he would remember the consequences he faced and choose differently. Obviously it didn’t work out that way, but it wasn’t all about satisfying my own ego. It wasn’t just that someone dared wrong me, and my fury had to be sated. It was about more than that. It was about making sure someone more vulnerable than me wasn’t hurt. Maybe someone who… who wouldn’t be able to handle it the way I did.”
I feel stripped bare, having said that to him. My insides are shaking with the vulnerability of exposing myself to a known predator, my gut roiling with dread as I wait for him to strike me when he knows he can land a good hit.
The moment stretches on forever, bile rising in my throat as I wait. When he continues to hold his silence, I finally work up my nerve to look at him, half-expecting him to look amused at my little speech. He doesn’t, though. A small measure of relief courses through me because he looks pensive, the way I must have looked when I was perusing article after article, trying to understand him and his behavior.
