A cold breeze made Quinn shiver. “And what Noë said—people think I should be ashamed? Is that what everyone’s saying behind my back?”
“She probably just meant those comments on Gazer.” He pulled tight on the loops of the bow and then looked up at her. “Didn’t you . . .?”
“No. I didn’t.” Comments? Her father hadn’t told her there was a comments section. She hadn’t thought to even look. She reached into her bag for her phone.
“Quinn,” he said, grabbing her arm. “Don’t.”
She shook him off. For a moment, she thought, Don’t do it. Listen to Jesse. It’s out of your control. But she couldn’t help herself from pushing the button and watching the screen light up.
SuperSleuth: Didn’t take long to figure out the pregnant daughter. Cutler. 9th district. That writer guy.
DD17: It’s not even her boyfriends? Appalachia comes to Park Slope. Ha! Love it!
ToniB: Who cares? He’s running not his daughter.
Sarasilbert22: I care if I might vote for the guy. Should have spent less time writing his elitest books and more time at home raising kids he could actually be proud of. Not like she can’t afford birth control.
LMAO: Yeah, Brooklyn probably has an artisanal organic condom store she could have gone to.
Xocticbrand: Serves Cutler right for thinking his kids r too good for the NYC school system. The guys a douchebag.
Paula142: She’s going through with the pregnancy? At 16? Please tell me Cutler isn’t anti-abortion. I voted for him! He’s a liberal Democrat! WTF?
Kizarrj: I don’t know if he’s anti-abortion, but he’s clearly anti-parenting.
And more.
Across the kitchen table from Quinn, Taylor Bernstein—her father’s campaign manager—tap-tap-tapped on her phone. The seriousness of her expression was emphasized by her tight bun and crisp blouse. Gabe was at a meeting and had asked Taylor to speak to Quinn about “several issues.” She was the only person who worked for Gabe who knew the truth about the pregnancy.
Katherine was supposed to be there with them, too, but she was asleep and Quinn didn’t want to bother her. She’d seemed completely blindsided by the paternity test result yesterday, like she hadn’t even considered that the baby might not be Jesse’s. Quinn was upset enough by her father’s anger and disapproval; overhearing her mother sobbing in the bedroom was a million times worse.
“So,” Taylor said, setting down her phone, “as you know, Quinn, we already issued the brief statement. And later today, your father is giving The Lead an exclusive interview. He’s only going to talk about your family’s personal issues a bit. He’ll touch on how he and your mom expected you to want to terminate the pregnancy, but that you thought it through carefully, and that they support you in your choice.”
She took a sip of coffee, her elegant, manicured hand out of place holding the childishly lumpy mug Lydia made in pottery class last year. Poor Lydia . . . She’d been so confused when they explained the situation to her. Of course!
Taylor continued. “He’s going to steer the conversation to the fact that you’re lucky to have had the luxury to make a decision at all. That you have good health insurance for prenatal care, live in a state where termination would have been accessible, and have a good support system.” She went on about how he’d mention different issues relating to women’s health, that the government needs to make services more available, etc. “He’s still not going to address the issue of who the father is, except to say that it’s a private matter.”
Quinn nodded.
“So,” Taylor said, “you can help by being a part of damage control.”
“How?” Quinn asked. She’d do anything she could to stop people saying bad things about her parents. It hadn’t even occurred to her that anyone would blame this on them until she read those comments.
“Well, we’ve already disabled all your social media accounts—Instagram, Tumblr, Facebook . . . Whatever you had.”
“What?” Quinn said, taking out her phone to check. “You did that already? How?”
“Not my area,” Taylor said. “Our tech guy, Hassan, did it. We didn’t want other people posting on your accounts.”
Sure enough, when Quinn tried to go to Instagram, she couldn’t log in.
The same happened with Facebook as Taylor was saying, “Hassan did a thorough search and couldn’t find any problematic photos posted anywhere. But have you sent anything to anyone privately we need to worry about?”
“Photos?” Quinn said, looking up. “You mean, like, naked?”
“Or whatever. Anything compromising or inappropriate.”
“No. Nothing.” She hadn’t, had she? Something in Taylor’s laser gaze made her heart beat a little harder, anyway.
“Good,” Taylor said. “Also, it’s good that you’re staying close to your boyfriend. If people see that you’re still together, it makes you more sympathetic. Avoid being seen alone with other boys.”
“Are you serious?” Quinn said. “Who would even notice? Or care? Why does anyone care about any of this? They don’t even know me. Lots of girls get pregnant!”
“Reasonable people won’t care. But your dad is a public figure. And there will always be tabloids. So until this is off people’s radar, better to be safe.”
“Maybe we should just tell everyone the truth,” Quinn blurted. “Tell everything, so people know I didn’t do anything wrong and neither did my parents.” For a moment, it seemed like a good idea.
“I assume you’re kidding,” Taylor said, alarm in her eyes. “Absolutely not.”
“Are you sure?” Quinn said.
“Look, Quinn . . .” Taylor leaned forward. “If you take one thing from this meeting, let it be this: If the truth gets out . . .” She shook her head. “Trust me. This mess is nothing compared to the shitstorm we’ll be facing.”
EMILY CLEMENTS
Emily Clements sat on her couch in her Windsor Terrace apartment with a spoon in one hand and her phone in the other, wearing a purple lace bra and her scrub pants. Her u4me.com date had canceled at the last minute, leaving her alone on a weekend night. Asshole.
As she was taking a quiz—“What Type of Handbag Are You?”—and making her way through a pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk, a message came in from Marissa, the med tech she worked with.
U c this??? Its your virgin, rite?
Emily clicked the link, saw a blurb and picture of a handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair with a teen girl she vaguely recognized, read the blurb. Holy shit.
Yes!!!!!!!!!! she wrote back.
Oh, man. It was her! The daughter of a politician? And she was keeping the baby?
Emily put down her spoon so she could use both hands and went straight to the “Freakers” chat thread, where she’d already told the original story.
Guys!!!!!! she typed. Guess what? She pasted the link. This is the freaking virgin!!!!
QUINN
Sunday night, Quinn dreamed that she was underwater, surrounded by the lights of those deep-sea lanternfish. At first, she swam among them, happy. Safe. Until all of a sudden she realized the lights weren’t fish, they were flashbulbs. She was swimming naked and people were taking pictures. And somehow she knew that they were going to show her father the pictures, and she panicked, trying to cover herself while swimming, and then she realized she’d been underwater too long and was going to drown and began flailing while the lights flashed and flashed.
She woke up, gasping for breath.
In the shame-coated dark came a memory.
The bumpy car ride with her father, but even clearer now. Her arm and shoulder throbbing, pain shooting with each jostle of the car, her cheek numb from the bag of ice she was holding against it. The smell of saltwater tinged with the scent of pee. Shame heating every inch of her from the inside out.
And her father’s voice coming from the front seat.
Your grandmother died in the ocean, Quinn! Drowned. Do you want that to happen to you? It was t
he first time she’d heard that her grandmother drowned, Quinn remembered now. Do you want to be like her? Do you want to end up like her and die in the ocean?
Of course she hadn’t wanted that. She knew almost nothing about her grandmother, but she knew she was bad. Knew her father hated her.
When we get to the doctor, don’t say a word, Quinn. No more lies!
But then he had lied. Made up a story about how she got hurt, while she kept her mouth shut. Because he’d told her not to lie, but the truth wasn’t okay, either. They couldn’t know . . . what? That she’d been swimming in the ocean even though her parents had told her not to? That she was a bad, disobedient kid? That must be it.
She’d done something very bad, and she deserved the pain.
She deserved to feel guilty.
Her breaths were still tight, as if there wasn’t enough air in the room. She got up and opened the window wider, leaned out into the night’s soft arms. As Haven jumped up on the sill and head-butted her side, something caught Quinn’s eye—ambient light reflecting off a spot on the fire escape. She leaned farther out, holding the window frame for balance, and grabbed what she now saw was a phone with a black rubber case. Ben’s. He must have left it behind after smoking earlier in the night. She ducked back into her room and tossed it onto the floor. She’d give it to him tomorrow, not now; let him wonder where it was for a while. Punishment for making her and the baby and Haven breathe his stinky smoke.
QUINN
In the morning, Quinn was running late, rummaging through her clothes for something that would fit and not cling, but still look okay, so she’d have one less thing to worry about at school. After not sleeping well, she felt edgy and brittle. And it was only Monday.
“Quinn?” her father said. He was standing in the door to her room, already in a suit, but with a face that still had the crumpled look of having been recently pressed against a pillow. “Have a minute?”
“Uh, okay,” Quinn said, stiffening.
Do you want to be like her? No more lies, Quinn!
He came in and sat on her bed, patted the spot next to him.
“Your mother told me you want to pick back up with your tutoring sessions for Spanish?”
“Just to stay on top of it.” No way did she want to tell him how hopelessly behind she felt already, even though the school year was only two weeks old. Didn’t want to give him more reasons to think she’d been wrong to go through with the pregnancy.
Gabe nodded. “Okay. But I want us to find another tutor. I got a recommendation through the alumni association for a girl who goes to Columbia.”
“Why? Adrian helped me get that A-minus last year.”
“I don’t want you alone with Adrian, Quinn. Not with any boys from school, other than Jesse.”
“I know,” she said, restraining herself from rolling her eyes. “Taylor told me. But we can meet somewhere private, where no one will see us.”
He looked confused. “I thought Mom and I had been clear about this. About safety.”
Quinn was about to ask what he meant when it hit her like a fist to the gut. “Oh my god,” she said. “Are you serious? It wasn’t Adrian. Adrian didn’t do anything to me.” This was what her parents had meant when they gave her a talk about avoiding dangerous situations and not being alone with men?
“Unfortunately,” her father said, “if you really don’t know what happened, we can’t be sure of that.”
“Yes, we can! No one at school did anything to me. Especially not one of my friends! God, Dad. Why would you say that?” Heat surged into her ears and cheeks.
“It’s the reality of the situation, Quinn. I’m just trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need to be protected from Adrian. That’s disgusting!”
The squeak of a floorboard came from the hall. Lydia stood in the doorway, clenching the fabric of her dress in tight fists.
“How could you say that?” she asked their father, eyes wide.
“Lydia,” Gabe said, standing again. “I don’t know what you heard, but whatever it was was out of context.”
“You said Quinn can’t be friends with Adrian!”
“That’s not what I said. Why don’t you go to your room? I’ll be there in a minute.”
Her body was rigid with anger. “Don’t lie. You said she can’t be alone with him!”
“Please, Lydia,” he said tiredly. “I realize this is confusing, but please just finish getting ready for school. I’ll come talk to you in a minute.”
“You’re horrible!” she said. “I hate you!” She ran back into her room and slammed her door. The noise ricocheted down the narrow hallway.
“I didn’t know she was listening,” Gabe said, rubbing the back of his head. He shut Quinn’s door quietly and then sat down next to her again.
Their thighs were almost touching; Quinn resisted the urge to shift farther away. “Wouldn’t I know?” she said. “I mean, if it were someone I’d seen again, after it happened, wouldn’t I know?” How could she have sat in a class with someone and not realized he’d done that? Or even just passed him in the hall?
“I have no idea. But isn’t it better to be safe?” her father said. “The majority of sexual assaults are by someone known to the victim. Think about it. Date rape, kids at parties where there’s drinking, coaches . . . Family members, but of course—”
“Ugh!” Quinn said, covering her ears. She knew that incestuous rape happened, obviously. That didn’t mean he needed to say it out loud.
He gently pulled her hands back down. “I know, I know. I was saying that’s not what happened here. But we can’t rule out other people you know so easily. Including people at school.”
She had seen some statistics. But . . . it hadn’t even occurred to her to consider it.
“Look,” her father went on, “just hang out in groups, with other girls along, too—okay? That way we won’t worry.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Between the roar of blood in her head and the heat on her face, Quinn felt like she’d been standing next to an explosion.
“Someone I know?” she repeated. “Someone I’ve seen since it happened?”
“You really hadn’t considered it?” he said. “I would have assumed you’d have discussed it with Dr. Jacoby by now.”
She shook her head. No. Of course she hadn’t. If she was raped, it was someone in the park, someone on the street . . . One of those dangerous, nameless men out there. Not . . . not this.
She tried not to obsess over her father’s words, but it was impossible. Adrian sat next to her at advisor check-in, and she couldn’t stop looking at his hands (medium-size and strong, calluses from playing the guitar, one fingernail painted sparkly blue, probably by his little sister, a thin white scar at the bottom of his left thumb) and trying to picture them on her body. It was true that she’d had a couple of tutoring sessions with him during those weeks. And what about that night of the music festival? Maybe Adrian was the one who walked her home. (But she would know if he’d hurt her. She would. Wouldn’t she?)
In every class, she couldn’t stop herself from considering the boys in the room through this horrible new lens. Kevin Barnes? Scraggly red hairs curled down the back of his thick, pale neck in front of her. He was so shy. Too shy? Hiding-his-true-evil-nature shy? Or what about Raj Patel? He was hunched forward, drawing in his notebook. Supposedly he drank a lot and got out of control on the weekends. But he’d never given Quinn a second look. She went back and forth between telling herself it was sick to think like this and telling herself she was lucky that her father had snapped her out of her willful blindness. There was no way she was going to get any answers if her mind wasn’t open to the ugly truth. That’s what was wrong with her to begin with—her inability to face up to what had happened; her imagination telling her It was beautiful.
When she went to the library during a free period, supposedly to do research for a history project, she ended up using one of the computers to look up the stat
istics her father was talking about. The first site she found said: “Two out of three rapes are committed by someone known to the victim. Thirty-eight percent of rapists are a friend or acquaintance. More than half of all rape/sexual assault incidents were reported by victims to have occurred within one mile of their home or at their home . . .” Two out of three . . . that still left one third, of course, but he was right that the numbers were high.
She kept exploring the site, reading victims’ accounts, looking for anything about a case like hers. There was one written by a girl who’d been roofied and passed out, but when the girl came to in the morning, naked, she recognized that she had blacked out those hours. Quinn couldn’t find any stories where the girl couldn’t even pinpoint the night when it had happened. She couldn’t help feeling like reading a story more like hers would help her feel less like a freak. Less like this was happening because there was something wrong with her. But there was nothing.
As she padded across the library’s carpeted main space, it was so quiet she could almost hear peoples’ eyeballs moving in their sockets as they watched her. She sucked in her gut, hoping to minimize any bump that was showing. And then she started to wonder: Maybe the guy who did it was watching her right now. Maybe that’s why she was feeling the stares so strongly. Maybe she was picking up on some sort of vibe he was sending.
Don’t be ridiculous, Quinn. Still, she was about to venture a look at the nearby tables and carrels when, all of a sudden, a noise broke the silence. The screaming sound of a cellphone. From right near her. She turned around, looking for the idiot who’d leave their phone on in the library of all places. It screamed again. Now everyone’s stares were openly directed at her, and she realized that it was coming from her bag. But it wasn’t her ringtone. Crap. She reached in and felt around until her hand grasped Ben’s phone. She’d put it in there that morning, meaning to leave it for him downstairs. Crap, crap, crap. When she brought it out of the bag, it was even louder. It rang in her ears as loudly as a fire alarm as she fumbled to turn it off, the librarian striding across the room like he was going to arrest her. The call was coming from Foley Cavanaugh, Marco’s older cousin.
The Inconceivable Life of Quinn Page 11
