Spiked (Blocked #3)

by Jennifer Lane

  “Yeah?” I blinked at her. I wasn’t prepared for a performance.

  “Do it.” She nodded.

  I aimed for the highest falsetto I could muster and squeaked, “Me, I want a hoooola-hooooop.”

  They all cracked up.

  “Definitely don’t sing that in the shower, Matty,” Lucia said.

  “Yeah, it sounds like someone’s squeezing your balls,” said a male voice from behind me.

  I spun around in my chair. “Itch!” Fitch stuck his head out from behind his roommate. “Hey, Fitch.” I stood. “What’re you guys doing here?”

  “We had band practice tonight, remember?” Fitch said.

  I inhaled. “Crap, I forgot!” Weston couldn’t make it this time, but I was supposed to meet them at the warehouse after dinner. Jessica’s heavenly presence had thrown me off.

  “No worries.” Itch gestured to the front of the house. “We called Johnny, and he came to pile our equipment in the SUV. We can practice here.” His black eyes checked out my three companions. “What’re you playing?”

  “The Game of Things—it’s dumb.” Lucia said. “Matty and Jessica are kicking our butts, so I’m out.”

  I frowned. “Already?”

  “I’ve got morning practice tomorrow.” When she stood, she was the same height as Itch, and he gaped at her as she stuck out her hand. “I’m Lucia, Mateo’s sister.”

  “Ichiro.” In a star-struck daze, he shook her hand.

  “And this is Ryne Fitcherson.” I pointed to my classmate in the royal blue Cubs hat. “He plays drums.”

  Lucia smiled at him. “Hi, Fitch.”

  When Dane hopped up on one foot, Itch’s eyes widened. Dane crutched over to Fitch. “Your parents named you after Ryne Sandberg?”

  Fitch looked up at Dane, who was over a foot taller than him. “Best second baseman ever.”

  “I know!” Dane grinned. “He’s my grandfather’s favorite player.”

  As they rattled off baseball statistics, I noticed Jessica standing to the side. I walked over and slipped my fingers through hers. “Want to meet the guys in my band?”

  Her hand tightened in mine, but she nodded. “Sure.”

  “Hey, Itch.” I brought her over to him. “This is Dane’s sister, Jessica. She’s on a swimming scholarship here.”

  “Nice,” he said. “What year are you?”

  The prettiest pink colored her cream skin. “Freshman. You, too?”

  “Yeah. You stuck in a dorm, or in a sweet house like this one?”

  “I’m in Canfield,” she said.

  He flinched. “That’s one of the oldest dorms at Highbanks! The showers must be disgusting.”

  She chuckled. “I won’t be licking the tile any time soon.”

  Itch paled.

  I laughed. “At least no one’s taken a dump in your showers, right?”

  “Yuck.” She shoved my shoulder.

  “Hey, Jess.” Excitement laced Dane’s voice. “Fitch’s dad caught a foul ball hit by Ryne Sandberg at Wrigley! Grandpa would be so jealous.”

  “Really?” She stepped over and joined their conversation.

  Itch appraised me with a Cheshire-cat grin.

  “What?”

  He leaned in. “Now I know who inspires your love songs.”

  Chapter 13

  DR. VALENTINE SMILED AT DANE AND ME. “Hello, Monroes.” Her voice was low, presumably to avoid others in the waiting room overhearing her.

  When I didn’t get to my feet, Dane nudged me. “Your turn, ganja girl.”

  “You’re hilarious.” I glared at him as I followed the psychologist to her office.

  “Does Dane tease you a lot?” she asked after we sat.

  “Yes.” I looked at the ceiling. “Stoner Sally’s another of his favorites.”

  But she didn’t crack a smile. “If he only knew the whole story.”

  My lips pressed together. “Which he won’t.”

  “You don’t want him to know?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want anyone to know what Blake had done to me. It was disgusting.

  “How have you been feeling?”

  “So much better.”

  Her head tilted like she was surprised. “You have?”

  “Um, I’ve had fewer nightmares, I guess. Or maybe I don’t remember them as much.”

  “You don’t have to tell me you’re all better just to please me, you know. You’ve been through a lot. How are you really feeling?”

  I pondered her question. “I’m still jumpy, and my sleep isn’t great. I…don’t want to think about that night. But when I hang out with Mateo, it’s not as bad. He relaxes me or something.”

  “You’ve been spending more time with him?”

  A light feeling entered my chest as I recalled that ridiculous game we’d played almost a week ago. Mateo had texted that he wanted to play again, calling it Game of Things: The Squeakquel.

  “Occasionally.”

  I wished he’d been with me last Saturday night after the football game. My smile faded. Maybe I would’ve acted more responsibly then. He wasn’t as stupid as I was.

  “You saw Dr. Cabela?” asked the psychologist.

  My face flamed. The gynecological exam with my team physician hadn’t been fun, but I’d gotten through it. I wouldn’t know about HIV for another couple of months, but the other tests had come back negative, thank God. “Yes.”

  “Good job. You didn’t avoid it.”

  Yay for me.

  “So is there anything in particular you want to discuss today?”

  I swallowed. I wasn’t sure what to say. She would probably want to hear about Saturday night, but I didn’t want to admit how I’d behaved. “Uh, I didn’t do so hot on my psychology test yesterday.”

  “That sounds disappointing. What happened?”

  “I tried to study, but I couldn’t focus. I kept thinking about…” I snuck a glance at her. “You know.”

  She nodded. “Flashbacks to the trauma.”

  Fucking flashbacks.

  “Let’s talk about trauma some more, okay?” She waited for my nod. “It can feel like you’re going crazy when you’re here in the present, but your mind’s back in the past, reliving the trauma through flashbacks or nightmares. So why does that happen? I use a metaphor to explain it.

  “Imagine a screen door in your brain.” She held up her hand and spread her fingers. “When we feel threatened, hormones like adrenaline and cortisol flow through the screen to mobilize our response to the threat.” She mimed the hormones flowing through her fingers. “The fight or flight response is important for our survival. But when something traumatic happens—say, sexual assault, severe car accident, physical abuse—the body can become overwhelmed. Hormones fly through the screen so fast that they bust a hole in it.” Her other hand flew past her face to mimic the speedster hormones.

  She studied me. “You following okay?”

  “So far, yes.”

  “Good. The trauma ends, but the trauma survivor is left with a hole in her screen. So anything that reminds her of the trauma—a person, a place, a certain smell—”

  There had been weed at the party on Saturday, and the scent had freaked me out.

  “—can trigger the hormones to zip through that hole in the screen, making her feel like she’s back in time. It’s hard to distinguish the past from the present. Her heart races, her chest tightens, her body freezes.”

  “Exactly.” The word came out breathy. “That happened Saturday night.”

  “What were you doing at the time?”

  I bit my lip and stayed silent.

  After a beat, she said, “It was frightening, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “There are techniques you can learn to help you return to the present when you’re experiencing flashbacks or nightmares. They’re called grounding skills. First, what do you notice about your breathing right now?”

  When I exhaled, I realized I’d been holding my breath. “It’s not gre
at.”

  “That’s normal—part of the fight, flight, or freeze response. An important grounding skill to calm your body is diaphragmatic breathing.”

  She taught me how to breathe into my belly, which eased the trembles vibrating through my chest.

  “You can also use your five senses to observe the present moment. I mentioned this last time. What do you hear?”

  “Your voice.”

  She smiled. “What does my voice sound like?”

  “Um, it’s a little lower than most women?” When her brows pulled together, I added, “But not manly or anything.”

  She grinned. “No judgment here. Grounding skills involve observing nonjudgmentally—observing without judging as good or bad. For example, I might notice myself getting angry when my computer crashes. If I judge that observation, it’d be, ‘I shouldn’t be angry about this.’ But the goal is just to notice without judgment, like ‘My face feels hot when I have computer problems.’”

  I had listened more carefully to her voice as she spoke. “Your voice goes up and down a lot.” I held up my hand and let it undulate like a dolphin riding the waves. “It’s expressive.”

  “Huh. I’ve never noticed that before, but that makes sense because I’m an emotional person.”

  “You are?” I’d been told I was emotional, too. “You must hate it.”

  “I used to. I’d get all embarrassed when I cried, and I’d try to shove down my feelings. But it didn’t work so well.”

  Bummer.

  “Our feelings are part of who we are. Feelings are not to be suppressed or fixed—they’re to be acknowledged.”

  I let that sink in.

  “Are you emotionally sensitive, Jessica? Do you feel things deeply, express emotions more easily than others?”

  “I think so.” My club coach, Gary, had often claimed I overreacted to bad swims and team drama.

  “How does that help you?”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t help me. It turns me into a basket case.”

  “Really? What’s your major, again?”

  “Art.” She nodded but didn’t say anything, so I asked, “And?” She still didn’t speak. “You’re saying my emotional sensitivity helps my art?”

  She shrugged. “You tell me. When have you created your best art?”

  I’d been shocked by my first college critique of the curlicue sculpture I’d made two weeks ago in my 3D class—the one representing my nightmares. Man-bun Van had been one of many who’d loved it. Professor Schneider had taken me aside after class and said, “You’re clearly a student to watch. Excellent job.” And, I’d won an award in high school for the painting I’d created after Mom lost the presidential election. She’d cried when I gave it to her. “So much sadness and longing, but hope, too,” she’d told me. Maybe Dr. Valentine and James Joyce were right: the deeper the emotions, the better the art.

  “I see what you’re saying,” I told her.

  “So what else do you notice?” she asked. “What do you taste?”

  I ran my tongue across my teeth. “Scrambled eggs.”

  “Have you been eating more?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Well done. And what do you smell?”

  I sniffed. “Maybe coffee?”

  She took a sip of hers and nodded. “These are all grounding skills. Take deep breaths, observe with your five senses, and reorient your mind to the present by repeating statements like…” She glanced at her watch. “It’s Wednesday, September twelfth, at nine twenty-six a.m.” She looked at me. “Go ahead, say it.”

  I repeated the date and time.

  “I’m an adult,” she said.

  When she kept looking at me, I said, “I’m an adult.”

  “I can use my voice to stand up for myself.”

  I repeated that as well.

  “I want you to practice these skills, Jessica. They won’t stop the flashbacks right away, but over time they’ll help you cope better, get back to living your life. I’ve got a handout for you in case you don’t remember.” She opened a file cabinet and handed me two pieces of paper. “Here are some sleep tips, too.”

  “Thanks.” I folded the papers and stuffed them in my backpack, hoping Mackenzie wouldn’t find them and ask about them later. She’d seemed mad at me lately, and I didn’t want my issues to push her further away. I’d already been avoiding our dorm room because of her questions about Blake. She couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to date him. The thought of that made me want to puke.

  Dr. Valentine watched me, and I shifted on the sofa. Was I supposed to talk?

  “I’m wondering,” she said, “have you thought about reporting the rape?”

  My heart hammered. Since I’d figured out what had really happened only about a week ago, I hadn’t yet decided what to do. I just knew I didn’t want anyone close to me to find out. They’d view me differently. “Do you think I should?”

  “I want it to be your decision. We can definitely talk through the pros and cons.”

  I licked my lip. “What’re the cons?”

  She tapped her notepad. “The way things happened, I’m guessing you don’t have any physical evidence, right? Other than the texts, which probably won’t make a case.”

  I gulped and shook my head. The bruises on my wrist and ankle had faded, and my shower the next morning hadn’t helped my situation, either. If he had drugged me, I hadn’t taken a drug test until the athletic department had forced me to. I inhaled. “The drug test. Would it show if I’d been roofied?”

  “How much time had elapsed since the rape?”

  “It happened on a Friday night, and I was tested the next Wednesday.”

  She shook her head. “I’m guessing the drug would be long gone by then. And if there was a sedative in your urine sample, Ms. Farris would’ve told you.”

  My stomach twisted. He’s going to get away with it.

  “You asked about the cons. When it becomes a he-said-she-said case, the prosecutor might not press charges on your behalf. I’m not an attorney, mind you, and I don’t know all the specifics—just what I’ve experienced with other clients. Even with a rape kit, sometimes the guilty go free. Plus, the survivor can feel re-traumatized in the process. Her honesty will be questioned. It can get ugly.”

  I grimaced. “Why would anyone report it, then?”

  “The chance for justice. The opportunity to speak your voice, to tell your story. It can be a way to seize back the power that was stolen from you. For some survivors, reporting the crime is a path toward healing. When others know, they can support you better. And there’s one more pro I can think of.” She met my eyes. “Reporting may decrease the chances the perpetrator will offend again.”

  Oh, God. I knew she was going to say that. The fear that Blake would hurt someone else—maybe a teammate, maybe a friend—absolutely haunted me. I’d feel horrified if he did this again because I hadn’t spoken up.

  “It won’t be on your shoulders if he rapes another woman.” It was almost like she’d read my mind, and I looked up. “He’s responsible for his behavior, not you. You should only report if you’re ready.”

  “What if I never report?” My voice sounded small.

  “Life goes on. Some survivors decide not to pursue the legal route. But I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep it a secret from loved ones.”

  My chest tightened. “Why?”

  “Like I said, they can’t support you if they don’t know what happened. You’ve been all alone in this, Jessica. You don’t have to be alone.”

  I felt tears press at the back of my eyes, and trembling in my lips.

  “You said you haven’t been acting like yourself, right? People who love you are probably worried about you.”

  Where was my cheerful disposition? I’ve lost so much. The thought started the tears flowing.

  She handed me a box of tissues. “I’d be crying, too. It’s okay to cry.” She waited while I wiped my nose. “Have people expressed concern ab
out you?”

  I sniffed. “Elyse.”

  She squinted.

  “She’s my teammate.”

  “What has made her concerned?”

  I wondered if I’d get in trouble with my coach if I admitted the reason. Dr. Valentine had said this was a no-judgment zone, but could I trust her? I balled my hand into a fist. “Elyse chewed me out on Sunday. For…drinking too much Saturday night.”

  She didn’t even blink. “I see. How much did you have?”

  “Not sure. I blacked out.”

  “So a lot, then.”

  I cringed as the cloying sweetness of peach schnapps came to me. It had tasted even worse on the way back up. I wished the vomiting had been part of my blackout that night.

  “Were you…?” She paused. “Safe?”

  “Yes. We were at Elyse’s apartment, and she took care of me. Apparently I made a mess in her bathroom and spent the night in her bed. She was pretty ticked off.”

  “And worried?”

  I nodded. “She said two blackouts in less than a month is bad. And I guess at some point in my drunkenness I told her about my positive drug test, so that also made her nervous.”

  “Jessica, I’m concerned, too. You’re at risk for additional traumas right now, and alcohol only increases the risk.”

  I shrank back into the sofa. “More traumas?”

  “We need our emotional brain—our amygdala—as an alarm system in order to protect ourselves. But PTSD is a raging fire in your amygdala. It over-fires so much that it’s like a fried circuit board, and it doesn’t work well to detect danger. Some people get sexually assaulted multiple times as a result.”

  Once is quite enough, thank you very much.

  “What made you drink so much that night?”

  “Some guys were there—not swimmers, or I wouldn’t have gone. They were NARPs.”

  She angled her head to the side. “NARPs?”

  “Non-athlete regular people. Highbanks students.”

  She smiled at the lingo.

  “Anyway, they were smoking weed. As soon as I smelled it, I…” My body tensed.

  She nodded. “You started remembering the rape.”

  “I didn’t want to think about it.”

  “So you drank yourself into oblivion.”