by D. A. Maddox
What he would give to know who had ratted him out. People should be able to trust their fucking friends. He’d been sitting in this damned building for fucking hours, waiting for this meeting, dreading it. Somebody was going to pay for this shit. Oh, when Kevin learned the truth, he’d—
“This really should be a matter for campus police,” Dean Turner mused, studying him for a reaction.
And that would be bad. It wouldn’t matter, if only he hadn’t shared the damned video with his treacherous “friends.” He’d go down hard, all because of that trust. Lesson learned, if only he could avoid that. He wouldn’t make the mistake twice.
He kept silent. But his brain, in the voice of his ten-year-old self, said, Please, don’t do that. Please, Dean Turner, please—
“But you know,” she said, leaning closer to the desktop without putting her elbows on it, “I’d really rather not have this school make the news again for producing a transitional student who needed to be brought up on charges of sexual mischief, Mr. Carter. You’ll need to tell me the names of everyone who watched that stream with you, of course, so I can make a judgment as to whether or not we can actually keep this quiet.”
Kevin nodded his assent. He practically started spewing names that very second.
“And,” she went on, hard emphasis on the word, “I need to know from you that this is the last we’ll hear of it. Your face is not entirely dissimilar to another one I’ve seen rather too much of lately. Particularly the lower half. You’ve had a dangerously narrow shave, and you’re not quite through the woods yet. Do you understand how careful you must be?”
She knows, he thought. She could ruin your life on a whim. Do what you gotta do.
“Yes,” he promised her. “This is it. I promise.”
“Prove it,” she said, clicking buttons on her laptop, which was turned away so that Kevin could not see the screen. “Tell me everyone you showed that link to. We’ll see if it lines up with my list.”
Without hesitation, Kevin gave the names, one by one.
****
Three miles away, the campus police got a tip of their own, and it didn’t come from the dean.
****
Buddy had no idea what time it was when he watched his timer expire at last. His back felt like strained wood, the muscles a solid sheet of agony. Every bone in his neck seemed to crackle when Matron and Officer Garcia drew him back up to his feet. He nearly fell—and would have if Officer Garcia hadn’t caught him under the arms.
“Go ahead, son. Let it out. Anything you want to—”
“Jesus!” Buddy yelled. “God! Fuck!”
It hurt that much. But equal to that was the relief, the flow of blood returned to something like regular from better posture, and the blessed knowledge that he and Emma Jo had both made it without incurring any discipline on top of it.
As soon as he could steady himself, he quietly said, “I’m sorry.”
Laughter throughout the room—but not from Emma Jo, who had let out a wordless cry of similar sentiment when she’d been let out of the stocks five minutes before him. No, that came from both of the Garcias—and not unkindly. It was more that they seemed to understand. But it also came from the eight transitional men and women who had been let in to witness the second half of the punishment: three women, five men.
“They do that, sometimes,” Officer Davies said, coming around to Buddy to give him the same post-punishment treatment Emma Jo had received and was still getting.
That involved being cuffed at the back, presented to the Scared Stiff participants, and having a sign hung about his neck and over his chest that read This Could Be You.
Emma Jo hung her head, sobbing. Buddy didn’t feel at all self-conscious about joining her.
Five minutes later, the visitors were led away. Buddy and Emma Jo were allowed to clean up—they passed Peter and Cassidy on the way to their separate showers—and the Punishment Club was reunited for their evening meal.
Again, discipline had run late. The other inmates in protective custody had already had dinner.
****
Sierra saw it happen through her second-floor dorm window: Kevin Carter, taken out through the front door of Delta Kappa Epsilon in handcuffs. A whole hell of a lot of other people saw it, too. Apart from the police cruiser, where one cop waited with the passenger side back door open, there were no fewer than two dozen of Kevin’s fellow Dekes out on the lawn. Quite a few of her sorority sisters, too, waited in front of their own porch on their side of the Tree of Knowledge.
Was he crying? In front of people?
He’s going to tell on me. I sent him text messages. I…
What the fuck had happened?
Still leaning over her desk for the best possible view of the last thing she had ever wanted to see, Sierra drew her phone from her back pocket and reluctantly surrendered her attention to it. She started deleting messages. Had a passing thought that she was glad Beatrice, her roommate, was out at the movies with that girly-looking boyfriend of hers.
Sierra’s breath went short. Her eyes were watering. She did not look her best.
Scroll, delete. Scroll, delete. There were too many of them. With her mom, too.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
I did everything you told me, just like you said. I didn’t tell a soul, not even Daddy. Mom, you swore this wouldn’t happen. You said it couldn’t happen.
The only one who’d known anything was Kevin, and he’d promised to keep quiet.
Scroll, delete. Scroll, delete.
“Fuck!” she shouted at no one, finding the sea of messages too vast, too wide. And it didn’t matter, anyway—not unless Kevin had deleted his messages and her mother had deleted hers.
Another quick blatting of siren. Closer. Right under her.
Sierra looked again, hand over her mouth, finding her vision suddenly blurry and all too clear at once. There was a second cruiser out there, right on her lawn. Her sisters parted to make room for it. And those were female police officers inside of it.
“Oh, no,” she moaned, heedless of her own crying, now scrolling her contacts down to the only person who mattered. Her thumbs quivered out a text. She had to backspace twice to get it right.
Mom, I’m in trouble.
It wasn’t the brightest thing to do, maybe. Texts had a time stamp. If the police noted exactly when they’d arrived, they’d be able to demonstrate in court that Sierra had known right away they were coming for her.
On her phone, nothing, not even an ellipsis to promise an incoming response.
Conversation one floor below her now. She recognized Farah’s as one of the voices, having a polite exchange with an older woman. It came to Sierra, then, how familiar this whole scene was. Just eight days ago, the unfolding of this drama had been high entertainment, a tragedy to be savored with the lights out, her fingers…
This cannot be happening to me. This is a bad dream.
My mugshot will be on the Internet. Next year, they’ll show freshmen the video of me being taken from here in cuffs. They won’t show it here at Chesapeake, but probably everywhere else. Day one of Making the Transition class…
Sierra took a breath, hardened herself. Went to the mirror, dried her eyes, fixed her hair.
Mom will take care of it. She knows people. She knows everybody. Everyone important, anyway. She’s even met the president.
Sierra was just finishing salvaging her makeup when the drama and tragedy came to her door and knocked on it.
“It’s open,” she said, finding her voice steady as the door opened.
Out in the hall, a low, murmuring tumult of whispers.
Sierra recognized the cop standing in the doorframe. Her nameplate read T. Maynard. She didn’t come inside. “Sierra Lavallee,” she said, “I have a warrant for your arrest. Step into the hall, please, or remain where you are and place your hands behind your back, emptying your pockets first.”
“What?” she asked, feigning innocence, letting some of her ac
tual fear shine through, flavoring it a little. “Officer, you can’t be serious. What am I being—?”
“You get one repeat,” Officer Maynard said, her tone flat and unchanging. “That’s it. After that, you dumb cunt, if you don’t do as you’re told, I’ll do it for you.”
Out in the hall, gasps. The hint of flashes. Were her friends taking pictures of this?
If so, Officer Maynard didn’t give a shit. “Turn out your pockets and show them to me. Then, either stay in the room with your hands behind your back or come out into the hall. It ends the same way no matter what, so let’s not waste any more time. I’ll inform you of charges once your hands are secured. You get your rights in the vehicle so that we have it on record they were given to you.”
Sierra had on her very best pair of City Slicker jeans, which meant the pockets up front weren’t big enough to carry a cold and the back ones were just deep enough to accommodate her phone—which was on her desk, unnoticed, she hoped. Sierra turned out her pockets and stood there like a pair of rabbit ears stuck out from her hips. An unaccountable heat rose in her cheeks.
Happy?
“This is your one opportunity to lose the jewelry—necklace, rings, earrings, anything else. Otherwise it’ll be bagged and tagged at the station.”
Sierra set to unpinning her earrings, tears already threatening again. Who did this woman think she was? “I didn’t do anything,” she said, sliding her watch from her wrist.
“Outstanding,” Officer Maynard said. “Later, you’ll tell someone who gives a fuck.”
Inwardly, Sierra fumed. How did this woman dare? She pressed her hands flat on her desk, her lips thin with indignation, her heart palpitating. She stared at herself in the mirror. Wiped an eye. “Have you any goddamned idea who my mother is, you stupid bitch?”
“I do,” said Officer Maynard, coming inside, advancing on her. Wrenching her hands behind her back.
“Hey!” Sierra shrieked. That fucking hurt. Her shoulders—
Metal on her wrists, encircling them, cinching tight.
“Stop! I’m—”
“Going to shut the fuck up, if I know what’s good for me,” Officer Maynard finished for her. “It’s one of your rights. Enjoy them while you’ve got them. No doubt your mother’s explained this to you.”
Sierra glared at the cop over her shoulder.
But she was cuffed. She could do nothing. “Please,” she started again, feeling real panic now, thinking of what horrors awaited her in the hall—her sisters, waiting. Watching.
“This,” Officer Maynard said, ignoring her, sweeping the phone off of her desk, “is coming with us. It’s in the warrant.”
It lit up in front of both of them, right where Maynard could see. It was Mom.
Tell them nothing. Say NOTHING. Delete this. Delete EVERYTHING.
Sierra’s eyes went wide. Tears fell freely.
“Oh, honey,” Officer Maynard said, shaking her head, holding it up so that Sierra could get an even better look at it, “you’re fucked.”
Chapter Twenty
Counseling
“Interview stuff,” Emma Jo said. “That’s all you’re getting from me for now. Should have seen it coming. Maybe I even did. You?”
Dinner, on her menu, was a garden salad and sourdough toast with a side of Cracker Jacks. It was an upgrade from the veggie loaf. She was actually surprised to find the vegetarian options at Huntington had, so far, provided as much variety as the carnivore options.
“Interview stuff, yeah,” Buddy solemnly agreed, warily eyeing the thing their server had called “meatloaf” as though it might defend itself. “Things they made us admit to. Plus, a lot of research on their end, I bet. Best not to talk about it—until we’re out of here, anyway.”
Quiet all around the table.
“If we’re all still talking to each other by then,” he added.
Oh, hell, Emma Jo thought. First move is not coming from him. Whatever.
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “We will be,” she said. Buddy smiled, went a little pink. To Cassidy and Peter, she prompted, “We all will. Right?”
Peter shrugged, forcing down some mystery meat. “No secrets here. I got put out to stud and rode around on the roof. Nightmare bitches from my childhood beat my ass with a riding crop. So, yeah. Horses ruined permanently for me. This dude is fucking scarred.”
That nearly made Emma Jo snort her milk. Guilty laughter from everyone.
“But if you guys want to wait, that’s cool.” He raised his own milk carton. “I’ll be there for you when you’re ready—all of you.”
“So,” Buddy asked, “anyone seeing the doctor tonight?”
It was suddenly a good question. Certainly, it made more sense today than yesterday. Emma Jo would never forget finding Mr. Hadley waiting for her in the classroom theater—the cameras, the anonymous young men, being made into an object for instruction. Strange, the conflicting feelings it had drawn out of her, the responses she hadn’t been able to help. It would almost make sense to want to understand it, to understand herself and the effect this punishment was having on her. Almost. Maybe.
“Why?” she said at length. “Were you thinking about it, Buddy? It’s okay if you were. Gotta do what you gotta do.”
Buddy shook his head. “Unnecessary. Feel like I already saw one.”
Emma Jo nodded, thinking, You had Madam Reyes-Garcia. I get it. Kind of.
Peter’s tray was clean. He set his utensils down. “Seriously, they’re part of this system. Why would anyone in our position want help from them? Cassidy?”
Of all of them, Cassidy surprisingly seemed the least concerned. “I don’t need a shrink to deal with what happened,” she said. Then, thoughtfully, poking at her food with her plastic fork, “Priest, maybe.”
****
The parking lot settled as the sun set. Cars were re-parked. Small campfires went up. The screen played on. Post-transitional adults of all ages huddled before it in blankets, sipping brews from coolers or root beer floats from the concession stand. A sizable group in the middle was roasting marshmallows.
They were silent, for the most part. It was a dialogue scene. But they cheered when Emma Jo kissed Buddy; they laughed when Peter recounted his ordeal; they let out a collective “oooooh,” at Cassidy’s coy response. The people were in love—again.
There were twenty million people watching from home on a goddamned Saturday night, and it wasn’t even an impact or an action segment. Might be a record breaker tomorrow. Probably not, but maybe.
All of this, thought Paige Lavallee, watching from her window, I did.
The crowd was too thick for her to get through, even if she had a mind to try. She was recognizable now. After the triple-crown success of the McNeal, Schulsky, and Cruz episodes, she’d given interviews, worked her brand a little. It had been hard not to. Fame was fun.
She put back the last of her slug of whiskey, head thrown back, then set the glass down on her desk. Checked the monitor cam.
I didn’t hurt anyone. It was all for the show. People love the show. Those kids—they’re okay. Just look at them.
Peter hugging Cassidy. Emma Jo hugging Buddy. Then separating again, the young women going off with Alejandro, the young men with Helena. A night of contemplation. They might have been comforted, if anyone had bothered to tell them: The great and benevolent Nurse Reyes-Garcia had pulled the plug on the arena for the climax of the show this time.
“Their crimes do not rise to it,” she’d said simply. “They are two-day inmates, which we don’t generally subject to—”
“Veronica was a two-day inmate,” Paige had argued, and both Doctors Cossack and White had agreed with her.
“Yes, well, that was Veronica,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia had retorted with finality. “This decision is mine. I will not put these young people through a punishment they have not earned simply because it is your Big Two Hundred, Ms. Lavallee. You need not worry. There will still be a fourth session. They will serve
their full—and just—sentence.”
Paige poured herself another drink. She should have let the argument go at that.
It was seven o’clock. No way to call a chopper to the helipad until morning—and only then if she had a scheduled interview at the given location. And even if she could run, would she? Hard to say. One didn’t abandon her husband and only daughter lightly. People needed time to think such things through, weigh the potential benefits against the losses. Usually, Paige quite enjoyed having a family.
She’d only do it, she decided, if Sierra stood no chance, with her or without her.
Because Paige would not be facing one to five days in a play dungeon. What she had done, at her age, would land her in federal prison for ten years, minimum—five with parole—and on the outside, thirty.
If Sierra did as she was told, if she’d gotten to that other one, Kevin What’s-His-Name, in time, there was still a chance they were okay. She could only wait. She dared not reach out. One way or the other, the call would come from a police station. That much was guaranteed and more than a little horrifying.
She could only hope that their tracks were sufficiently covered. Justice, if it came for Sierra, would not be pretty. But, Paige reflected, it rarely was.
“The people want the arena,” Paige had insisted.
Why had she done that?
To which Nurse Reyes-Garcia had replied, “Doubtless there will again come a time when we shall need it.”
All Paige had wanted to do was deliver the best possible show she could.
Odd. If her daughter came here, no one would ever doubt Counselor Lavallee had delivered.
****
Paige hadn’t paid all that much attention to the original court case as it was happening. And so she didn’t know about the video—the faces in the Dare Dungeon. Sierra and Kevin were supposed to have been a digitally combined and scrambled voice spoken through a simple computer graphic. They hadn’t been told to get creative.
