……….
Even with a few answers to my mountain of questions, like why Harris used me the way he did, I do not feel one bit better about my situation. I do feel like I need to do something — but what? What can I do to get some resolution? Some peace? What will bring an end to this pain? Or will I wear my cloak of sadness for the rest of my life? I know I should take an active role in making things better, but I don’t know what to do.
So instead of doing anything, I continue my zombie-girl routine, going through my days like a walking dead girl, avoiding all conversation, any confrontation, simply going through the paces and wishing I could turn back the clock or sleep for a few years.
On Friday, I feel like an outsider watching a circus. Everyone, it seems, is hyped up over homecoming. Football players are wearing their jerseys, cheerleaders are in their uniforms doing routines in the cafeteria, and there’s a pep assembly that I sleep through. Rah-rah-rah — school spirit blah! I’m so not into it.
After school I head to the art room to work on my pottery. I want to trim and clean up my pieces and sign them so they can be fired next week. I’m just finishing up when Ms. Flores comes into the pottery room. “I thought I heard someone in here.”
I make a weary smile. “Just getting them ready for their bisque firing.”
“Great. I plan to run the kiln on Tuesday or Wednesday.”
I set down the last bowl and look at Ms. Flores. “I, uh, I wonder if you’d want to do some listening today?” I ask nervously.
“Of course. Come on into my office.”
With my heart pounding wildly, I follow her to her office. I hadn’t really planned to do this — it just popped out of my mouth. But maybe it’s for the best.
“Have a seat.”
I sit down, then nod to her door. “Would you mind closing that?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks.” I take in a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
“So, I know this has to do with a boy, Haley. A certain boy who has a bit of a reputation with the girls, correct?”
I nod. “Harris Stephens.”
“You were going with him?”
Again I nod. “Just barely. But I thought it was more … more than it was.”
“And now you’re brokenhearted?”
A lump grows in my throat and I will myself not to cry. “Yes,” I say in a gruff voice. “But there’s actually more to it than that.”
She nods. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
So I tell her about how I was teaching him guitar and how it seemed we had something really special. “It’s the first time I had that with a guy. I mean, I’ve kissed a guy before. But this was different. I felt like I loved him … and I trusted him.”
“First love.”
“I guess.” Now I bite my lip, wondering if I can really say this out loud. “You see, I’d never really been with a guy, you know. I’d barely even kissed a guy before Harris. And on our second date, which was so perfectly wonderful … magical … I didn’t see how anything about that night could go wrong.”
“But something did go wrong?”
I nod.
“What happened, Haley?”
Tears are coming now; it’s useless to hold them back. “Harris wanted to come up to the condo after our date, to play guitar, so I said yes. My dad was on a date, so we were alone.” I swallow hard.
“I see.” She reaches over and puts her hand on my arm. “Don’t worry, Haley, there’s not much I haven’t heard.”
“Harris brought some kind of alcohol with him and he wanted to make us drinks. I’ve never had alcohol before and I really didn’t want any, but he insisted … and I gave in.”
“Did you get drunk?”
“Yes. I think I actually kind of passed out. And then we were in my bedroom … and well, he forced me to, you know…. I told him no over and over, and I told him not to do that. But he wouldn’t listen.”
Ms. Flores leans forward in her chair. “He raped you?”
I nod, looking down at my lap.
“Oh, Haley.” Her voice is laced with sadness. “I’m so sorry.”
Now I’m crying hard and she hands me some tissues. “I … I haven’t told anyone. I … I didn’t know what to do or who to talk to.”
“So you didn’t report it?”
I shake my head no.
“When did it happen?”
“Last Saturday.” I can’t believe it’s been only a week. It feels like a lifetime.
“And you didn’t even tell your parents?”
Without going into all the details, I explain about my parents.
“How do you feel about reporting this, Haley?”
“No! I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“It would be so humiliating. And he’d deny it. Then it would be my word against his. I just couldn’t go through all that.”
“How do you feel about him going around like he’s done nothing wrong? I mean, he’s put you through so much and he’s not being held accountable for any of it.”
“I know.” I look at her. “I hate that.”
“But if you don’t speak out —”
“I just can’t. It would be too hard.”
“But what if Harris does this to someone else? How would you feel about that?”
I sigh. “Horrible.”
“And what if you’re not the only one he’s hurt?”
I tell her what Zach told me about how there’s a pattern, how Harris and Emery go together and then break up. I even tell her what Emery told me in the restroom.
“Oh, Haley, that’s terrible. Don’t you want to try to do something to stop that boy?”
“I wish there was a way to stop him, or punish him, or whatever … but without me being involved.”
“I don’t know how. But I do think you should talk to the counselor. Mrs. Evanston is very easy to talk to. And she’ll know how to help you with this.”
“I don’t think I can do that,” I say nervously. “It was hard enough to tell you.”
“Mrs. Evanston is very understanding, Haley. I really think you should speak to her.”
I blow my nose and just shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Well, I’m glad you at least told me. And now I can understand why you’ve seemed so different. This is much more than just a broken heart.”
I nod and throw the used tissue in the trash can. “I just want it to go away. The pain, I mean. I just want to be who I was before, you know?”
“Before Harris stole from you.” She frowns. “I want you to understand that what he did was a crime. Just the same as if he stole your car, only far worse. Tell me, Haley, if Harris had stolen your car, you’d report him, wouldn’t you?”
I stand, ready for this to end and wondering if I was wrong to tell her. “I guess. But this is different.”
“Please, think about talking to Mrs. Evanston.”
“Okay….” I force a wobbly smile. “And maybe you’re right. I do feel a tiny bit better getting it out into the open….” I want to plead with her not to repeat this to anyone, but that might sound like I don’t trust her.
She stands with a sad expression. “I hear so many sad stories from my students. Kids can be so hard on each other. I wish I could do more than just listen.”
“I appreciate your time.” I glance at the clock and am surprised to see it’s already past five. “I should probably get home now.”
Of course, even as I say this, I know it won’t matter when I get home since Dad’s going out with Estelle tonight. But I’m guessing Ms. Flores, unlike me, has a life.
...[CHAPTER 15].................
Naturally, I don’t go to homecoming. I no longer have any interest in football or in being around a bunch of kids from my school. Most of all, I do not want to see Harris … or Emery. They both make me sick.
Of course, even as I’m thinking about how much I despise them and how I hope our team loses the game tonight, I still
have a hard time believing Harris really did that to me — and that he doesn’t still care about me. Sometimes I have an even harder time convincing myself that I no longer care about him. But then I remember that thick black line that divides my feelings about this guy right down the middle. On one side of the line stands pre-Harris and on the other side looms post-Harris. Pre-Harris is a sweet gentleman; he is fun and thoughtful and interesting. Post-Harris is a horrible monster. I suppose it’s a bit like the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, but I can’t remember how that book ended.
Did Jekyll kill himself to destroy Hyde, or did Hyde destroy Jekyll?
……….
By Monday I have the assurance (as well as the cramps) to verify that I’m not pregnant. I didn’t really think I was, but it’s a relief knowing for sure that I am not. Life is complicated enough without having something like that to deal with.
The weather this morning is reflective of how I feel — low gray clouds and chilly drizzle. By the time I get to school, my hair is limp and damp and I probably look like something the cat dragged in. Not that I care.
As usual I try to keep a low profile. I’ve gotten good at staying below the radar. I take the less traveled routes, get to class early, avoid eye contact, and, continuing my zombie-girl routine, make it through another day. Even in art class, I keep to myself. Despite Zach and Poppie’s best efforts to engage with me and be “social,” I keep a small wall built up around me. I think eventually they will either get the hint or get fed up … and find another place to sit.
It does bother me that Harris and Emery seem to live in a protective bubble of friends and popularity (and, yes, they did win their stupid football game last Friday, and, yes, Emery was crowned homecoming queen and Harris escorted her). But it irks me to no end knowing they are totally oblivious to the pain I’m in — the pain they continue to heap upon me simply by breathing the same air.
In fact, today I had to leave the cafeteria before I threw up when I saw those two spoiled brats dancing together (actually it looked like dirty dancing to me). They were obviously showing off in front of their friends, who were clapping and laughing.
Truly, it was nauseating and I went directly to the restroom in the fear that I was about to lose what little lunch I’d been able to consume. But after a bit, I realized I was okay — or as okay as one can be under the circumstances. Will I ever really be okay?
And in moments like that little scene in the cafeteria, I really want to tell the world about the real Harris — I want everyone (even his parents) to know what kind of person he actually is. I want everyone to know that Emery’s boyfriend is a rapist — and that even though she’s aware of this, she still goes out with him, pretending he’s her wonderful Prince Charming. They should’ve crowned her the Homecoming Queen of Denial.
But what can I do about anything? It’s not like I want to go public and suffer even further humiliation. Besides, who would believe me? A newcomer’s word against the golden-boy football hero? Still, if there was a way to anonymously blow this whistle, I feel fairly certain that I would.
By Thursday I feel a tiny bit stronger. I’m not even sure why. Unless it’s like the old saying that “time heals all wounds.” But a little bit of the sting is gone, and I feel like I can walk with just a tiny bit more confidence.
Part of this is the result of Ms. Flores’ praise and appreciation for what I’m contributing to the fall art fair, which is next week. My pottery went through its final firing and the glazes I chose turned out very nicely. Even I felt proud. Also, my water-color of the old truck in the field is finished and Zach helped me cut some mats that really show it off nicely. All things considered, it is an okay sort of day.
But then Friday comes, and for some reason I feel a sense of foreboding as I go to my first class. I have no idea where this feeling is coming from, but by second period I know my instincts are accurate when I am asked to report to the office. I don’t know why I feel so uncomfortable (almost guilty) as I walk down there — I have done nothing wrong. But when the receptionist sends me to the office of Mrs. Evanston and two other adults are already waiting there, I have cause to be distressed.
“Hello, Haley,” Mrs. Evanston says. She has kind dark eyes and what seems a sympathetic smile. “Please take a seat.”
I barely nod, then sit in the chair across from her desk, my knees shaking. I have never been in any kind of real trouble, but for some reason this feels like something very serious.
“You’re probably wondering why we’ve called you down here.”
Again I nod, swallowing against the hard lump in my throat.
“Let me introduce you to Detective Harbick.” She points to the middle-aged man in a gray blazer. “And Detective Dorman.” She points to a younger woman in a navy suit. Both of them smile stiffly at me.
Suddenly my stomach feels like I swallowed a brick for breakfast. “Wh-what is going on?” I ask in a mousy voice.
“According to California law, teachers are required to report it if they believe a crime has been committed.” Mrs. Evanston clears her throat. “Ms. Flores spoke to me on Wednesday. She explained to me about what happened to you.”
“She told?” I peer helplessly at Mrs. Evanston. “Why?”
“As I said, according to California law, teachers are obligated to report it if a crime against a minor has been committed. If it makes you feel any better, she didn’t want to tell. She knew you were trying to deal with it on your own, Haley. But it was her responsibility to report it. Her job could’ve been at risk if she hadn’t.”
“And what you may not understand,” the woman cop steps in, “is that by not reporting a crime, you are essentially allowing a perpetrator not only to go free but also to possibly commit the same crime again on another victim.”
“Detective Dorman’s right,” the man confirms. “And crimes like rape, particularly date rape, are sometimes committed by repeat offenders.”
I feel slightly dizzy now. Leaning over, I put my head in my hands and tears slip down my cheeks. “I can’t do this,” I mutter into my lap. “I cannot do this. Please do not make me do this.”
I feel a hand on my shoulder and glance over to see that it’s bronze colored, which tells me it’s Mrs. Evanston. “I know this is going to be hard, Haley, but hasn’t it already been pretty hard on you? I’ve spoken to all your teachers, and a number of them confirm that you’ve been acting differently these past couple of weeks. You’re obviously in pain.”
I look up at her with tears running down my face. “But it will be so humiliating,” I whisper. “How can I talk about that to — to anyone?”
“We’ll try to do this in whatever way makes you most comfortable, Haley,” Detective Dorman tells me. And Mrs. Evanston hands me some tissues.
“If you like, I can step out,” the man says quietly.
I just nod, looking back down at my lap and feeling like a bug under a magnifying glass as I blow my nose.
“They wanted to take you to the station to get your statement,” Mrs. Evanston explains to me, “but I encouraged them to do it here. However, if you’d prefer to go down —”
“No, I don’t want to go to a police station.”
Mrs. Evanston tips up the blinds on her windows so no one can see in. I take a deep breath, and for the first time since my ordeal began, I feel like whispering a prayer to God. However, I do not. Partly because I have a feeling he’s not listening and partly because Detective Dorman is asking me if I mind if she records my statement.
“I guess not.”
She turns on a small device, sets it on the desk, then asks me to state my full name, address, and parents’ names. I give her that information as well as answering some other perfunctory questions. Mrs. Evanston gives me a bottle of water.
“Now tell me about you and Harris. Were you and he a couple? Or was this just a one-time date?”
I explain about how we were friends, how he wanted guitar lessons, and then about how he and Emery bro
ke up. “He seemed to really like me. We were together at school and he gave me rides, and I thought we were a couple. But we only had two actual dates. I mean, where we went out, you know, and had dinner and stuff. But we’d done some other things together too.”
“During this time did you ever have consensual sex with Harris?”
“No, never!”
“But you were romantic together?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe your relationship? Did you kiss or touch each other?”
My face gets hot. “We kissed. I guess you could say we kissed a lot.”
“Anything else?”
“Harris would kind of try some things … you know …” I glance at Mrs. Evanston and she just nods as if encouraging me to continue. “And I would kind of make him stop.” Then I tell them about the time we were in his car at the lookout point. “I was relieved that the cop came. It felt like too much.”
“Have you had any other boyfriends?”
“No. I had an almost boyfriend at my other school, but all we did was kiss, and then my mom found out and that was the end of it.”
“I spoke to the counselor at your other school,” Mrs. Evanston says. “She said that you were considered a very serious and academic student there and that you never got into any sort of trouble.” She frowns. “But she also mentioned that your mother worried quite a bit about you getting into trouble.”
“My mother is a little … well, she’s kind of fearful about a lot of things.”
“The counselor said something to that effect.”
“If my mother had her way, I’d be dressing like a nun and going to private church school,” I confess. “That’s why I petitioned the court to live with my dad and it’s why the judge ruled in my favor.”
“So back to Harris,” the detective says. “When did he rape you?”
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