The second one was a piece of folded notebook paper, which I unfolded and smoothed out. It was my own handwriting, said: “I’m deaf; can’t hear you bitches.” Underneath that, Sarah had drawn a picture of me, doing fake sign language with one hand and flipping off her and Molly (stick figures) with the other. I was little, with huge hands, especially the one with its middle finger up. She had colored the picture in with crayon, including a brown belt around Molly’s stick waist. I laughed, in spite of myself.
Last was a shiny pink envelope with my name on it. I opened it carefully, found a glittery card with hot pink and silver flowers on it. I opened it up:
Dearest Judy, I have been thinking about you since I heard the news about what happened at school. I am so sorry, and am sending healing energ y every day. Love, Mimi Mews (Ginger’s mom).
I could feel eyes prickling across my back, people I knew and didn’t know slowing as they walked by. I also heard the regular shuffle of shoes and chattering, giggling, shouting, making out, singing, dancing sounds of another morning at D’Arts. It wasn’t all about me, I reminded myself. I wondered what Mimi Mews had thought of Ginger coming forward about the video of herself and Kyle, whether she thought her daughter was a hero. Maybe she was horrified or angry. I doubted it, given the note to me. Maybe she wanted to be friends with my parents now, so they could console each other about their little girls becoming unwitting porn actresses. I hung my jacket, folded Molly and Sarah’s note up and put it in the pocket of my jeans. Ginger’s mom’s note I put in my backpack and left in my locker. I slowly collected my books and turned to walk purposefully down the hall. Elizabeth Wood and Stockard Blumenthal were coming toward me. I sucked in as much air as I could right as they went by.
“Hey, Judy, welcome back,” Stockard said. I didn’t hear any sarcasm in it.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Yeah, welcome back,” said Elizabeth, and then they were on their way, in a conversation about whatever was actually present tense: breaking up, rehearsal, something I knew nothing about. I mean, the thing is, even if you’re naked on a video one moment at school, sleeping with three boys, by the next moment everyone is back to thinking and talking about themselves. Sarah wakes up underwater every day about Eliot and the foreign exchange student. And Stockard just broke up with Greg. I bet in her view that’s almost as painful as what happened to me. And in a way, she’s right. Because suffering isn’t always relative. And now she has to have laser surgery to have her OATS tattoo removed, which will probably really hurt. I keep thinking of the weird way Bill said, “That’s a good story,” like now that it’s over, that’s all it is.
I walked down the hall, turning to look when I passed Kyle’s and Chris’s and Alan’s lockers. They had been ripped bare, probably by the custodian, Mr. Nicks, but I imagined instead a mob of my loyal friends shredding the stupid movie posters and reel-to-reel tapes that had been on Kyle’s, the Lakers crap on Alan’s. I didn’t remember what had been on Chris’s, but now they were all utterly undecorated. I gave myself a minute to dream of the movie version: all my supporters, getting rid of every scrap of evidence that those guys had ever even been at D’Arts. In the movie, there would be no digital copies, no viral version online, just DVDs my friends would be throwing onto a giant bonfire in the backyard of the school, out by the track. They would incinerate every last copy of that wretched thing until it might as well never have existed. We’d all be in it together. I would walk into that scene, head held high, and fling my copy, the final one, onto the flames. Then everyone would cheer and carry me out on their shoulders.
I realized suddenly that I had been standing at Kyle’s locker an uncomfortably long time, and that I didn’t want anyone to see me there, so I pretended to be preoccupied with my right boot. I bent and fussed with the buckle while secretly looking up at that blank metal door one final time. It makes sense that stripping your locker is the way D’Arts would expel you: erase. In a way, it’s the opposite of what happened to me, but also creepy and terrible. I stood up, and Mrs. O’Henry, the counselor, was standing there, her arms hanging at her sides like they hurt, or were really heavy.
“Hi, Judy,” she said. I stood up quickly, straightened my sweater.
“Hi, Mrs. O’Henry.”
“Your parents called to say you’d be back today. I’m so glad to see you.”
I thought I should say thank you, but couldn’t. Why had I thought that driving myself to school without my parents would help me prevent this encounter? Somehow I’d assumed that if they weren’t with me, I could have a day of people my own age, and not also have to contend with the adult world. One at a time seemed punishment enough.
Mrs. O’Henry said softly, “Can you join me in my office for a talk? Of course, I’ll write you a pass if you’re in danger of being late to class.”
The thought of a hall pass or late pass or any kind of pass had always struck me as ludicrous and patronizing, but now it seemed absolutely comical. I wanted to ask Mrs. O’Henry if she would write me a pass for having been videotaped naked with three guys, and oh, while she was at it, could I have one for running away to a filthy motel and missing two weeks of school? I smiled politely.
“Of course,” I said, and followed her down the hallway. She seemed uncomfortably aware that I was behind her, and kept slowing down, parting the hallway crowds, insisting that we walk side by side. I was worried she would take my hand. She was wearing an enormous gray skirt, a white button-down shirt, and a cardigan with pink, black, and yellow flowers on it. She smelled nice, and it occurred to me that she was probably somebody’s grandmother. When we got to the main office, I couldn’t look up, lest I make eye contact with any teacher who happened to be standing at the mailboxes, or worse, with Mr. Grames, who had probably done nothing but watch the video and field calls from reporters for what must have felt now like his entire tenure at the school. Even the secretaries seemed to be staring. Maybe they had been at the hearing.
Mrs. O’Henry put her hand on my shoulder for a moment to lead me into her small office. She closed the door behind us and gestured for me to sit in a chair facing her desk. I hoisted myself up and looked at her.
“Judy,” she said, and I could see that there were pictures of kids all over her desk, and a grown-up who looked a lot like Mrs. O’Henry, and was probably her daughter. There was no guy in any of the pictures, so I thought maybe she didn’t have a son. Maybe her daughter was divorced. I looked at Mrs. O’Henry’s hand; she wore no wedding ring. Maybe all the women in her family got divorces.
“Let me first say how sorry I am about what happened. This is the sort of occurrence that we, as an institution, never like to see happen at our school. And it is the responsibility of every member of the administration, faculty, and student body, to make sure that nothing of the sort happens again.” She paused, maybe realizing how stilted and bizarre she sounded, and slid her half-glasses off of her nose, rubbed her eyes for a minute. “Judy, you’re such a bright and promising student, and we’re delighted to have you here. We hope you’ll finish your education with us, and that you will feel that Darcy is doing everything in our power to make things right.”
I tried to nod in a way that looked grateful.
“First of all, do you have any questions? Is there anything you’d like to ask or tell me now? About anything at all.”
I shook my head no.
“Well, feel free to interrupt at any time.”
We both waited.
“You may know already that there was a hearing held to determine accountability and suitable disciplinary action against Christopher Arpent, Kyle A. Malanack, and Alan Sarft, and that the school has expelled all three young men.”
I wondered if it was because her job required her to do a lot of paperwork that she listed them like that, in alphabetical order. She kept talking like a recorded court document.
“You may also know already that there was a thorough investigation into what happened.”
I said, “Oh,” and looked
at her questioningly.
She smiled comfortingly. “In a case like this one, where what happened didn’t happen at school—and because force and consent are always murky areas—we, and especially your parents, were unequivocal in our desire to protect you from . . . any further suffering.” She gathered herself, sighed. “Everyone, even the prosecutors, frankly, agreed that a trial would be unlikely to lead to a punishment more severe than the school itself was able to dole out—and would benefit no one, least of all you, Judy. Because as unfair as it is, you would have been on trial too. And your parents urged strongly that this be dealt with as privately as possible, by the school community. In fact, they were quite forceful.”
I had an image of my dad shoving cops and reporters down onto the lunchroom floor and stepping on their heads.
Mrs. O’Henry had put her glasses back on and been peering down through them, but now she took them off again. A nervous habit, I guessed. Her eyes looked suspiciously red. “I have a daughter,” she said, and I glanced helplessly over at the photo of the grown-up on her desk. “I hope it isn’t presumptuous for me to say how brave and loving I think your parents have been.”
“What about the video?” I asked, partly out of curiosity and partly because I realized suddenly that I could ask Mrs. O’Henry certain questions with an impunity I didn’t think I’d ever have around my parents. “I mean, wasn’t that—I don’t know, was it a—” I couldn’t muster whatever was required to articulate the word crime.
“Honestly, Judy, two years ago, the state might have leveled pornography charges against the boys for making that video. But these days, this kind of thing is deemed an ‘educational issue,’ and schools have to assess each case on an individual basis.”
“Why?”
“Mainly because of sexting,” she said, sighing, and then we both sat there, grossed out that she even knew that word. She waited to see if I would ask why just because these days lots of teenagers send naked pictures of themselves and their friends over cell phones means that making that video wasn’t criminal. But I put a blank face on and out-waited her, so she continued. “We did feel it was essential in this case to notify the colleges the young men were planning to attend, of their behavior and expulsion. We have also required that Christopher, Kyle, and Alan issue formal apologies.”
At this, I thought I might drown. I forced my mouth open, felt the water rush in against my words: “To me, you mean?”
“Yes, dear. Each will write a—” Kyle’s letter had been part of his punishment. Part of his punishment. I thought of this clause several times, imagined saying it into a microphone, popping each p. Maybe he had meant some of it. Maybe he was sorry, and glad they’d asked him to write, because it allowed him to say he had cared about me.
Mrs. O’Henry was talking, but I had tuned out entirely until there was a knock on the door. I jolted up in my chair, turned to see Mr. Grames standing there, sweating.
“Good morning, Caroline,” Mr. Grames said to Mrs. O’Henry. “Good morning, Judy.” He paused, perhaps wanting to acknowledge that “good morning” didn’t suffice since I’d been missing for weeks, but unable to think of what else to say.
“Hi, Mr. Grames.”
He said, “Well, Judy, I’m so pleased to see that you’ve returned to school.” He seemed to mean it, even cleared his throat once while he was talking. Then we all sat there, dying. I started chewing on my bottom lip like it was a piece of gum. I wished desperately that I had put some in my mouth before this horrific meeting happened.
Mr. Grames, seeing that no one was going to come to his rescue, continued: “I hope you will feel free to ask me any questions you need to in the coming weeks, and that Mrs. O’Henry has helped you understand our response to the events of recent weeks, as well as the options Darcy Arts Academy will continue to make available to you.”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Grames.” I was thinking, two more letters on the way. Two more fake letters. What would they say? “Dear Judy, Sorry! From, Alan. P.S. See you at Fuller Pool in our bathing suits this summer”? Maybe Chris would write his as yet another dazzling scene in his screenplay: “Chris: Sorry, Judy. Judy: No prob, Chris, thanks for the great letter! Blackout.”
It was typical that Kyle had already written his and those two other deadbeats couldn’t even get their letters done on time—he was always a better student. I was glad for the letters, in a way, though. I mean, at least I would have it in writing that they’d been wrong, and now if I ever wanted to, I could write back. Or call. And say whatever I decide I want to: Fuck you. Or: I forgive you. Or: I’ll never forgive you. Or I could not reply for the rest of my life. Because if someone writes to you, even if D’Arts makes them do it, then never responding is a meaningful gesture. It will be up to me forever now whether to give them any relief or forgiveness. Any words.
Mr. Grames was nodding at Mrs. O’Henry and me. He turned to leave, unable, even from behind, to hide his relief at escaping. Mrs. O’Henry and I looked at each other in a moment of odd intimacy at having been interrupted and then left alone again.
She started up. “We would like, if it’s agreeable to you, Judy, to have you evaluated. And we will offer as much counseling as you feel you would benefit from, either at school or with a professional of your and your family’s choosing. But it’s our hope that you will take us up—at least once a week. And if you’d like, you can meet with me once a week as well.”
Maybe I looked like I might faint, because she added, “You don’t have to decide anything now. You may take your time and come back to me whenever it suits you.”
“Evaluated for what?” I asked.
Now Mrs. O’Henry looked at me evenly. “What you’ve been through would be—well, difficult for anyone, Judy. Darcy—and I—care first and foremost about our students’ health and wellbeing. And we want school to continue to go well for you. All of your teachers are ready to have you back, and prepared to discuss strategies for how you’ll make up any work you missed.”
Had they had a meeting to talk about me? My life snaked out hideously on the horizon, an endless series of weekly meetings with shrinks and Mrs. O’Henry, forced forever to talk about what had happened, when my plan was to forget about it or file it in the folder in my mind marked, “Consider when you’re thirty and can potentially tolerate.”
Mrs. O’Henry seemed to be waiting for something, so I said, “Thank you.”
“Do you have any questions for us?”
I tried to pause long enough to appear to be thinking it over. “Not right now.”
Mrs. O’Henry put her glasses back on. “Are you okay going to class this morning?”
“Yes,” I said.
“What do you have next?” she asked. We both looked up at the clock. It was too late to walk into precalc.
“American lit,” I said.
“Oh, good,” said Mrs. O’Henry. I smiled, thinking, “Oh, good,” too. She stood up and I practically leapt to my feet. She kept talking as she came out from behind her desk to open the door for me. “I will check in again tomorrow; perhaps we can schedule your evaluation session for this Friday and your first counseling session for the following Monday? And maybe a sit-down with me to check in either next Wednesday or Friday. In the meantime, please come by my office anytime, even if we have no meeting scheduled. My door is always open.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said. I was thinking—if Chris and Alan were about to write me letters, then that meant they were alive. This felt oddly surprising. If they were alive, then they would work it out, maybe spend a year sorry, and then be okay, go to college, have lives. We’d all grow up, and this would have happened, but someday it wouldn’t even be recent—for any of us, including me. Maybe they’d even have daughters some day and—“Judy,” I could hear Mrs. O’Henry saying as I turned to go, “I hope you’ll let us help.”
I nodded without looking back, walked out of the office with my eyes pinned to the floor. The hallway felt full of oxygen, and I was breathing thirs
tily when I looked up and saw that Ginger was standing outside the door, waiting, against the giant rainbow zebra mural. I looked up at her. Her eyes were watering, and she made no move to wipe them. A tear actually dropped on the floor. I imagined it splashing, as if our lives were happening in a slow motion close-up.
“I heard you were—so I—” She was wearing a gray zip-up sweatshirt with a picture of a bridge on it, and black running tights that had a pink band around the waist. Her hair was a mess. Dozens of people were walking by in a colorful blur, but I couldn’t make out any of them individually. I was watching Ginger cry, her shoulders folded inward like origami. I wanted to put my arm around her or something, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m glad you’re—” she took a breath and put her hands out, palms flat down, as if to steady herself, or maybe break a fall. “I should be asking you—are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, emboldened by how not-fine she seemed. Someone had to pull it together; maybe it would be me. “Hey, Ginger, so thank you for, uh, for—” I didn’t know where I was going with this. For fucking Kyle too? For getting humiliated a little bit less than I did but still badly enough to have diluted my humiliation? For letting everyone see whatever degrading video there was of you, too? For defending me?
I settled on “Sarah told me.”
Ginger nodded and put one of her raggedy, bitten hands on my arm. She had stopped crying. “So, hey, do you and Sarah want to, you know?” she made a little smoking gesture with her index finger and thumb.
I smiled, hoping someday we’d talk about what happened, thinking she had probably loved Kyle too. I could certainly forgive her that. Maybe Ginger and I would keep each other company, long after it no longer felt so incredibly terrible to have loved him.
“We could do it at your house again,” she suggested, still holding the imaginary joint, and I thought wow, had she liked coming to my house, eating the dinner my mom made us, watching Sam do his ridiculous dance on the rug? Maybe she wanted to share my family.
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