by Harper James
“That was an excellent date,” I say, leaning against him, stifling a yawn.
“I’m glad you liked it,” he answers, kissing the side of my forehead. We’re back to the car, now; Sebastian opens the door on my side for me, then dashes around to slide into the driver’s seat. I’m going to be sore again, I know. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to his size?
“I liked it too, actually,” he says as he buckles his seatbelt. I lift my eyebrows at his tone— did he think I was under the impression he didn’t enjoy himself? He laughs and shakes his head, turning the car on, reversing from the parking spot. “I liked the library, I mean. It’s nice, a big beautiful place like that that’s all about right and wrong and justice. Making sure the innocent stay out of jail and the guilty are punished. It’s a nice reminder that my family isn’t alone in this whole mess.”
I cringe, and am glad Sebastian doesn’t see it.
“You’re so confident that your father is innocent,” I say cautiously, warily. I know we agreed to pretend that the murder didn’t happen, but Sebastian was the one to bring it up…
“Well, he’s my dad.”
“Is that enough of a reason?” I ask.
Sebastian frowns, and for a moment, I think he’s angry. When he looks over at me, though, I see that it’s not anger— it’s confidence. “Of course. If someone accused your parents of doing something terrible, would you assume they did it?”
“No, but…I mean, if there was evidence,” I try, stepping carefully. “Is there?” I ask this to throw him off my trail, should he be on it at all— the truth is, I know every shred of evidence linking Dennis Slate to my aunt’s murder. I know it backward, forward, in the dark, upside down.
Sebastian takes a breath, and I realize that he knows all the evidence just as well as me— only, instead of wanting to highlight it, he wants to pretend it doesn’t exist. He says, “There is. Some.”
“But not enough for you to be convinced,” I say, shaking my head in disappointment. I can’t change who Sebastian is, or who I am. If Sebastian were to realize that his father is guilty perhaps I wouldn’t feel so guilty about wanting to be with him.
Sebastian pauses as he turns onto the interstate, then exhales. When he begins to speak, his words are careful and deliberate. “So, he was having an affair with the lady— with Tessa Miller. That part I know is true— and he sucks for cheating on my mom like that.”
I try not to let myself audibly wince at my aunt’s name. The truth is, I hardly ever think of her name— it’s a self-preservation method. If I think of her name, I think of singing it at her birthday parties, and seeing it signed on holiday cards, and hearing my mom say it into the telephone. I try to think of her simply as “my aunt”— in the same way that I know Sebastian usually thinks of her as “that lady”. A name is a person. “Aunt” and “lady” are just words.
“Okay,” I say, nodding, trying to keep my words as simple and direct as possible so I don’t break. “What else?”
“Is that your lawyer voice?” Sebastian asks, giving me an affectionate look that, given how many lies by omission I’m telling him, I’m not sure I deserve. He goes on. “She was found three days after she was killed— that’s what the coroner says. So it she had to be murdered on February 18th. On the 18th, one of my brothers— Tyson, the youngest— and I had spring training games. My dad came to both of them, which means he spent basically the entire day driving to and from those games. There are photos of him at them.”
“What about after the games?” I ask.
“That’s where it gets tricky,” Sebastian says, frowning. “He doesn’t have an alibi after five o’clock. Except for my brother, Carson. Carson met him for dinner that night. But there isn’t any evidence other than Carson’s word for it. There’s a traffic video of Carson’s car when he’s driving to meet my dad, but dad isn’t with him. And since they’re family, people seem to think Carson is covering something up.”
“And you know he isn’t,” I say. “You’re sure he isn’t.”
Sebastian nods. “Carson wouldn’t make that up. But Carson also isn’t always the most responsible person. He doesn’t really remember where they went to eat, and he doesn’t know what time they left. It just looks like a story with holes in it, when really it’s just a story that Carson’s telling. And plus, there was no reason for him to remember it, after all. It was just dinner. Just another night.”
“Right,” I say, nodding. There’s plenty more I’d like to bring up, but it’ll make it obvious that I know far more about the case than I’ve let on. Like, for example, the fact that the traffic video doesn’t definitely show Carson behind the wheel of the car— it’s his car, but it’s not so clear that it’s him. Or the fact that Carson named three restaurants they went to that evening, but employees at all three said they hadn’t seen him come in, and noted that someone as large and eye-catching as Carson would be hard to forget. Or the fact that it’s totally possible— sick, but possible— that Dennis Slate killed my aunt before going to dinner with his son, managed to keep it cool while they were there, then went back to move her body afterward.
But I can’t say any of that, so instead I settle on this: “Sebastian…what if he did do it?”
“What?” Sebastian asks, eyes widening. He can’t believe I’ve said this, and the air in the car seems to grow instantly thicker, darker.
I take a breath to steady myself. “What if he did it? What does that mean for you? Have you even considered it?” I ask, voice a near-whisper but words clear and desperate all the same. “What if he confessed. Would you still forgive him?”
“He’s my dad,” Sebastian says after a long moment. “I guess I’d have to.”
“How? If he’s a killer, how can you forgive that? How can you just sweep that under the rug—“ I have to stop myself, because I feel the threat of tears, I hear the way my voice is growing high and hurt. There’s one more thing, though, one more question I have to ask. “Would you lie for him?”
I have to know because this, to me, is the real danger. Sebastian isn’t his father— I know that. But if Sebastian would lie for his father, would let a guilty man go free, would let my aunt’s murder go unpunished…then he’s not his father, but perhaps he’s just as guilty. My breath catches as I wait for Sebastian to answer; each second that goes by makes the pit in my stomach expand.
Finally, Sebastian shakes his head without looking at me. “Ashlynn, I don’t need to lie for him. My dad is the man who got me into football. Who coached every team I ever played on. Who made me everything I am. If he’s a murderer, then what am I? I’m all his doing,” Sebastian says.
“If he’s a murderer, then you’re just his son,” I argue. “You aren’t a bad person because your dad might have done a bad thing. I just— Tessa Miller died, Sebastian. A woman died. And that woman’s murderer needs to be put in jail forever.”
“Then it won’t do anyone any good if my father is put in jail— because he didn’t do it,” Sebastian says firmly.
He believes his father— he believes in Dennis Slate’s innocence at his very core. There won’t be any changing Sebastian’s mind, winning him over to my side. We may be together when it comes to our hearts and bodies and time and kisses, but when it comes to this— when it comes to justice— we’re polar opposites.
18
I try to put Sebastian’s unyielding devotion to his father out of my mind, but the fact that I’m committed to the student advocacy group certainly doesn’t help. When we meet in the student center the following Wednesday, old lawyer Farrow is eager to discuss the precedents he uncovered for New Recruits Week being considered a violation of the student code of conduct.
“The trouble is that typically, we’re dealing with single instances— for example, a single case of sexual harassment, or a single case of underage drinking,” the grizzled lawyer reports.
“What about hazing? Does it constitute hazing, even if the people being initiated like it?” a guy asks, twirling his pen between
his fingers thoughtfully as he speaks.
“I looked into that already,” Sarah says quickly. “In the past, the victim of hazing has had to be willing to actually call it hazing. I don’t think you’re going to convince a bunch of high school guys who just got drunk and laid to call the experience hazing.”
“Though if we can get them to call it initiation, that might be close enough,” Farrow says, giving Sarah a pleased look. She beams.
“And let’s see, legal legwork aside— Miss Sawyer, were you planning to attend the game this weekend? It’s the last one before New Recruits Week starts on Monday, so it seems wise to further become acclimated to football culture,” Farrow says, peering at me over the top edge of his reading glasses.
“I— sure,” I say, shaking my head. “Though is there anything specific that we’re looking for?”
Farrow looks alarmed. “Negative behaviors.”
“It’s a college party. It’s full of negative behaviors, but not just because they’re football players.”
I can tell I’ve said the wrong thing by the way all the students in the room rush to stare at their papers. Farrow’s eyes harden on mine. “Now this is the trouble— it’s why New Recruits Week is such a problem. You attended what, a single party, and you’re already justifying the football team’s behavior?”
“It’s not because I attended a party, it’s just—“
“Girls like you are fortunate, Miss Sawyer. You have grown up with an immense amount of privilege, and that allows you to value yourself and your body too much to let a football player use you for sexual pleasure. What if you were someone poorer, though, or someone less educated? These players ship girls like that in and then manipulate them into sexual affairs. Into drinking. Likely into drug use, from the way things look. And even good girls, like you, can easily wind up falling victim to a sports star’s swagger. Another statistic, another woman with a bright future used and disposed of by a man lucky enough to be born with muscles. This isn’t about New Recruits Week— that’s just seven days of debauchery. It’s about a system that idolizes football players and their pleasure over everything else. That’s what we’re taking on, Ashlynn.”
Farrow’s words are sharp, direct, delivered with an intensity that belongs in a courtroom drama. The room is totally silent— I can’t even here the other students breathing, and all rustling or tapping on phones has stopped. My own breath is unsteady, and I swallow to try to regain my composure. His ideas sound old-fashioned but carry weight nonetheless. Football players are gods, and they know it— why else would they proudly claim a tradition of getting high school seniors drunk and into bed with cheerleaders? Why else would guys like Conor or that creep from the party think they can treat me and probably countless other girls however they want?
Why else would someone like Dennis Slate think he could get away with murder— and why would getting away with it be a real possibility?
I’ve known from the start that I should call things off with Sebastian. But at every corner, I’m justifying my being with him, taking my clothes off, letting him take me again and again…I close my eyes, hoping a moment of darkness will help me collect my thoughts. I can’t work out what’s true— if I’m making the decision to be with Sebastian because I want him, or because I’ve somehow fallen for the Sports Stars Are Gods system. Did my aunt want to be with Dennis? Or was she a victim of the system too? She was smart, together, collected…but so am I.
“Maybe you need someone to go with you,” Sarah says gently. “I bet Juliet can get us both in. Or are you able to just go now? Could you bring me, too? We can watch out for each other.”
“Yeah,” I say uncertainly. “Yeah. On Monday, we’ll meet up then go over together. That’ll help.”
The game on Saturday is as bright and loud and vibrant as the previous one I attended, though now the nip of autumn is in the air and everyone has eagerly trotted out their Berkfield colored scarves and hats and sweaters. Maddy, Emily, Becca and I lump together drinking spiked cider from a thermos Emily packed, even though it’s barely cold enough to justify warm drinks. Sebastian has been texting me all day— he wanted me to meet him before the game, which I suspect meant that he wanted to have sex with me before the game. I wanted it too, but after the student advocacy meeting on Wednesday, I feel like I needed a few days of not succumbing to Sebastian Slate might help me clear my head.
It doesn’t, though. When the Berkfield team runs onto the field, Sebastian and Conor at the forefront, my heart pounds and my core heats up at the thought of knowing what lies under the uniform— and how it feels against me.
“There’s your lover,” Maddy whispers scandalously, then erupts into a fit of giggles.
“Is he really? Like, lover, I mean? Have you…” Emily says slowly, trying and failing to hide the wicked smile on her face.
I shake my head, but I’m blushing. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Who said anything about kissing?” Maddy snorted, and we all laugh. “Well, we’re going to get the details from you sooner or later, right? Because I’ve heard he has an enormous dick, and I want that verified from someone’s who’s experienced it first-hand.”
“You have had way too much cider,” I say, laughing.
“What? I heard Conor Baker’s is huge too. A girl in my civics class slept with him and said it was exciting, but also hurt like a bitch.”
“He must have not been careful, then,” I answer immediately.
My roommate’s eyes widen in delight. “So you do have first-hand experience! And he’s the careful type?” Becca says, scandalized.
I’m about to launch into what I hope will be a spectacular avoidance of the question when Maddy points to the field. Something has happened in the last few plays— a player on the other team is lying on his back; Sebastian and Conor are hanging out nearby, talking to a referee and a Berkfield coach. Medical team guys and those girls who always have six packs of PowerAde in baskets are hovering over the injured player, who is lying flat on his back. The marching bands at either end of the field go quiet— it must be a fairly serious injury. We look up at the big screen by the scoreboard, which is replaying what happened.
The ball pops up, players move, their bodies pixelated for the screen’s size. The ball is in Sebastian’s hands, he moves to throw to Conor; it makes it out of his hands seconds before the other team’s player reaches him. Sebastian could step aside, could rush forward, but instead he ducks down; the player ricochets over his back and lands flat on the ground, hard. Sebastian doesn’t turn around— though from the camera, it’s hard to tell if this is out of cruel disregard or if he simply didn’t realize how hard the guy fell.
“Wow. Intense,” someone nearby says.
“Football, baby. Don’t play if you aren’t ready to get hit,” someone answers. The player does appear injured, but manages to walk off the field with the help of the coaches; the stadium applauds him, the Berkfield side included. Sebastian and Conor are already heading back to their positions for the snap, hyping one another, unpunished and unapologetic about what just happened.
“He’s just showing off, playing hard like that,” Maddy says— I think she means it as reassurance.
“For what?” I ask, shaking my head.
“The pros— the NFL draft is in April, and Sebastian is a senior. The more attention he gets, the better. They like guys who hit hard and mean there,” Maddy answers.
“Said the English major,” Emily teases.
“I could always go sports writing! Especially since now I have an in with Sebastian Slate’s hot little piece,” she adds, elbowing me playfully. I laugh, but my emotional well is about overflowing at this point. Now that Sebastian has started playing just this side of dirty, the other team fires back in kind; it’s amazing no one else gets seriously hurt over the course of the game. At half time, I respond to the texts Sebastian sent me this morning.
Ashlynn Sawyer: Be careful out there.
Sebastian Slate: So you haven
’t blocked my number!
Ashlynn Sawyer: -_- I was busy all morning. Stop playing like your bones are made of titanium.
Sebastian Slate: Mom called this morning, dad had another bad day. It’s been rough. Wish we could have talked this morning.
I grimace at my phone, which I’m hiding in my lap. I thought he was calling for a hookup, but he was calling to vent to me about his father’s mental state. I can’t believe I ignored him. I swallow as much of my guilt as I can stomach, and press on.
Ashlynn Sawyer: Im really sorry. Are you okay?
Sebastian Slate: I’m fine its him I’m worried about
Sebastian Slate: Lawyer bill set him off. Need that NFL contract more than ever now just to pay the legal fees.
He doesn’t say anything after that— I imagine because they’re nearly finished with the break, as a few moments later the bands finish up and the teams run back out. I slide my phone into my back pocket and cheer as Berkfield goes on to win the game by three touchdowns. Sebastian always plays well, of course, but today he— and, consequently, Conor— looks like he’s had a fire lit beneath him. Everyone else is playing a college football game; Sebastian and Conor are in the Super Bowl.
19
It seems like each time I convince myself of something with Sebastian— to end the relationship, or continue it, or think he’s perfect, or think he’s his father’s son— I’m thrown off course by something I could never have predicted. Today, it’s Sebastian Slate’s mother.
“I just— I wish I’d had a little more warning,” I say to him, fiddling with the bow-sleeves of the only dressy-but-not-church-dressy shirt that was in my closet. I had to throw it on with leggings, but I’m hoping it reads as artistic and chic rather than “I have seriously not done laundry in so so long”.
“Eh, that’s just my mom. She does it on purpose. She thinks if she surprises us, she’ll catch us acting up,” Sebastian says. We’re at his house, in his bedroom putting clothing on, for once, rather than tearing it off. I’ve adjusted and readjusted my hair, my bra, my shoes— I’ve never met a boyfriend’s parents before, and even though Sebastian and I have never used the terms “boyfriend” or “girlfriend” exactly, it’s pretty clear that he won’t be introducing me as “the Papa Pig’s delivery girl.”
