by Harper James
“I grew concerned about your ability to think about New Recruits Week rationally, Miss Sawyer, at our last meeting. And Miss Phillips, while I appreciated your attempts to keep Miss Sawyer honest, I suspected you might be fallible as well. So, I had an additional person present at the party last night to take photos, in case you two should find yourselves further compromised.”
“What?” I ask, blinking. Is he being serious? Farrow felt we were too “compromised” to actually do our jobs, all because we’re not agreeing with him?
“Mr. Matthews,” Farrow says, motioning to a guy on his left, “Can you show the team the photographic evidence of student conduct violations you found?”
“Sure thing,” the guy says, smiling in an incredibly obnoxious way— he knows just how much street cred he’s getting with Farrow for this. He opens up his laptop and spins it around. On it are a serious of dark, but not entirely useless photos of the new recruits at the party gathered around one of the coolers, drinking.
“This is them by the cooler— which was provided by the players who own the house and the team as a whole. Providing alcohol to a minor is, obviously, illegal. I’ve also got shots of some of the juniors smoking pot on the back patio. You can’t see for sure that it’s pot, but given the context, I think anyone who sees the photo will make the assumption we want.” He sits back like he just presented slam dunk evidence in a federal case.
“Excellent work— I appreciate that you were willing to get photos we could actually use,” Farrow says with a slight glower at Sarah. “Now, obviously, to really nail New Recruits Week to the wall, we need a trifecta— sex, drugs, and drinking as a means of bribery.”
“I thought of that!” Sarah says, looking desperate to regain Farrow’s favor. “But isn’t taking photos of anyone in a state of undress without consent going to be a legal risk on its own? Even if it is part of a larger case? I couldn’t find any instance were nude photos taken without consent weren’t thrown—“
Farrow holds up a hand, looking wry. “Mr. Matthews has something there, too,” he says. The student nods, then pulls up another photo.
I gasp— and so does Sarah. It’s a picture of her.
She’s in Conor’s arms, lifted up against a wall, his mouth fast on hers. His hand is up her shirt, clearly, and her legs are wrapped around his waist. There’s no nudity— they’re both fully dressed— but it’s also clear what’s likely to happen next. Sarah begins to breathe fast, shakes her head, looks at me panicked—
“This is totally inappropriate,” I say, shocked, appalled—
Farrow holds up his hands. “Now, I admit, I wish the photo weren’t of someone from the advocacy group— but in some ways, this is better. We can show how even someone with strong moral conviction, like you, Miss Phillips, is swayed by the presence of football players. How do women stand a chance, when we allow the lions to draw them into their den?”
“Their den?” I ask, shocked. I rise. “Mr. Farrow, Sarah had a consensual encounter with a football player. It’s nothing other than a photograph.”
“It’s all in how you frame it,” Farrow says coolly.
“My parents are going to kill me,” Sarah is saying over and over. “People are— I don’t want this photo out—“
“We’ll keep it under our hats until we release the New Recruits Week information as a whole,” Farrow says, like this is supposed to be a comfort.
Sarah’s eyes widen, then spill over with tears. “But I won’t sign a photo release! I won’t—“
“Well, that’s your choice,” Farrow says, but there’s something dark and broody in his eyes, something that tells me these photos are going out one way or another. He goes on, “Ladies, I appreciate what you tried to do. But there is profound biological evidence to show it is difficult for the fairer sex to resist when it comes to people that exhibit physical superiority—“
“Oh, fuck off,” I snarl, and reach down to grab my purse. I sling it over my shoulder than grab Sarah’s arm. She’s weak on her feet, but allows me to pull her out of the room. I want the door to slam behind me, but it’s on one of those things that makes it drift gently shut, frustratingly enough. I haul Sarah, sniffling and weepy, down the hall and to the main staircase.
“Sarah, it’ll be okay,” I say, turning to face her. “This is bullshit. It’s every bit as exploitative as he’s accusing New Recruits Week of being.”
“I just— I like Conor. He was so nice to me. I don’t want him in trouble, and I don’t want to be in trouble, and I don’t want Farrow to hate me, and I—“
“Farrow is a dick, no matter how good a lawyer he is— I don’t want a job with his firm even if he offers me one someday. And you? You’re getting a lawyer to send him a cease and desist before he makes another move with those pictures.”
“I can’t afford a lawyer without telling my parents where I was,” Sarah says, shaking her head. Mascara is streaming down her cheeks.
“Don’t worry— my family has a lawyer, and we’ve paid her a boatload of money already. She owes us a pro-bono cease and desist,” I say with a sigh.
The lawyer helping us go after Dennis Slate in civil court for the murder of my aunt is a good person and I know she’ll do me this small favor for me if I ask.
I hug Sarah quickly. “Let me take you back by your apartment, and then I’ll give the lawyer a call, okay?”
Sarah is still trembling, but nods. “Okay, let’s go.”
23
My family’s lawyer, Stephanie, answers my phone call right away— we have her direct line instead of going through her assistant. “Hey, Ashlynn! I assume you’ve heard the news?”
I blink. “Uh— no. What news?”
“They’ve managed to get Dennis Slate arrested, pending a hearing! I’m sure he’ll post bail, but it’s something— he’ll at least get a taste of what the joint feels like. I’m hoping this will convince him to plead guilty and we can avoid a trial entirely. If he pleads guilty to the criminal case, then our civil case should be open and shut.”
“Oh!”
That’s literally all I can think to say— after almost a year of knowing Dennis Slate is free while my aunt is dead, after a year of worry, a year of frustration…Dennis Slate is in jail. He’s actually, really, truly in jail, where he deserves to be.
“I thought you’d be happy,” Stephanie says cheerfully, not realizing that my joy is a bit subdued.
“This is amazing. Thank you. Thank you so much. Does my mom know?”
“Yep, I figured she’d told you. Was there another reason you called?” Stephanie asks, sounding perplexed.
“Oh— yes,” I say, shaking my head. “I wanted a favor, if you don’t mind. I’m going to put you in touch with a girl named Sarah Phillips. She was caught kissing a guy at a party last night, and this lawyer working with the student advocacy group wants to blast it everywhere as a symbol of parties being unsafe for pretty little ladies.”
Stephanie scoffs. “Men. Sure. I can do a little work on it for free— enough to make him shut up, at least. Give me her number.”
I text Stephanie the information, then sit back on my bed. Dennis Slate is in jail.
Part of me wants to fist pump, another part wants to sob.
For my aunt.
But even for Sebastian. It’s not his fault his father is an evil man…
When I leave my room a little later, my roommate Maddy’s looming over the stove, making box macaroni and cheese. The other girls are nowhere in sight, but they probably hit up the dining hall. Maddy grins at me. “So, are you seeing Sebastian tonight too? I hear there’s another New Recruits Week party…and I hear your super amazing roommate Maddy doesn’t have plans…”
“I— I think he might be busy tonight,” I say carefully. Do you go out for a party the night you’re father’s been arrested? Probably not.
“Lame. Tomorrow, then?” Maddy asks hopefully.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I answer, smiling. We sit down and turn on the n
ews. I don’t know why I didn’t see this coming, but we’re only about fifteen minutes into the evening report when Dennis Slate’s photo flashes on screen, and the reporter launches into an explanation of his arrest.
“Holy shit! He got arrested! Did you know?” Maddy asks, turning to me. “Is Sebastian freaking out? Does he know?”
“I didn’t— he might, I’m not sure.”
“Call him! Don’t you think you should call your boyfriend when his dad is freaking arrested? Does he think his dad did it? Like, really?” Maddy asks, a little high off the drama of it all.
“I’ll call him later, I don’t want to bother him—“
“Bother him? Seriously?” Maddy asks, shaking her head and turning back to the television. It’s good she’s no longer looking at me, because my aunt’s face pops up next. Under her, the word victim, typed out even before her name. Victim. That’s all she is, victim.
The reporter reappears on screen. “We’ll provide continuing coverage of the arrest of local hero Dennis Slate as the evening progresses. We have thus far been unavailable to reach his family for comment, though a source outside the family claims they will be posting the million dollar bail later this evening. Slate’s wife still lives in the family home despite frequent media presence there, and his three songs attend universities on football scholarships. Sebastian Slate, the oldest, is rumored to be a top draft pick for this coming NFL season, just as his father was in 1982. Moving on—“
“Wow. Wow. This is insane. Do you guys ever talk about this?” Maddy says, waving at the television. “I mean, it’s got to be all he thinks about.”
“He thinks about it a lot,” I say cautiously. “But I mean, her family must think about it a lot to. His dad is the one that did it— he had a choice. Her family didn’t.”
Maddy looks stunned, and I realize I’ve perhaps said too much. How could I not, though? Why is everyone thinking about Dennis Slate’s family? Why are his sons’ bright futures being discussed in the report? What about my aunt’s future, what about her life? Why is no one discussing what was lost there?
Before Maddy can answer me, someone’s knocking on the door. I know it’s not Sebastian, because it’s a light, easy knock. I’m not particularly surprised when I open the door and see Sarah standing there. She smiles at me, and while I can still tell she’s upset, she’s far from the blubbering mess she was earlier in the day.
“Hey!” I say, and slip out the door to give us some privacy. “Did Stephanie call you?”
“Yes— she’s great. She’s sending over a cease and desist right away to Farrow, and said she’s worked with him before— that he’s a sexist jerk,” Sarah says, smiling painfully.
“Good! I’m glad. And hey, Sebastian said Conor is a great guy. Don’t let this mess things up with him if you really like him, okay?” I say, patting her shoulder comfortingly.
“Yeah. He really is great. I can’t believe how quickly we sort of connected last night,” Sarah says, blushing. “And hey, if you and Sebastian can make it work, anyone can with a little effort, right?”
“Sure. Sebastian and I definitely come from different worlds,” I say, nodding.
Sarah frowns. “Well, yeah, but I mean about his dad and your aunt. I had no idea you were Tessa Miller’s niece. For you and Sebastian to not let that get in the way…”
My heart drops. For a moment, reason defies me and I think it might have actually dropped, and be lurking somewhere around my toes. Sarah knows about me. About who I really am. Despite the fact that this moment was inevitable, I’m so shocked that I lose the ability to speak, for a second. My life here has been so sectioned off from my aunt that hearing someone just say this, out loud, like it’s nothing, renders my mind nearly useless for a beat.
“Oh,” Sarah says, holding her fingertips to her mouth. “I didn’t—I’m not supposed to know.” She looks apologetic, then shakes her head, waves her hands. “It’s okay— we don’t ever have to talk about it. I know it must be so hard— you know what, no I don’t. I have no idea what you’re going through, but I’m so sorry, and I’ll stop talking about it now, okay? I’m sorry I found out.” She’s trying so hard.
“I just didn’t think Stephanie would tell you. I guess I never told her that it was sort of a secret.”
“Well, I promise to keep it,” Sarah says, looking almost painfully sincere. “Seriously. Who knows? Just Sebastian? What about your roommates?”
I bite my lip, blink to try to disguise the fear in my eyes. “I didn’t— Sebastian doesn’t know.”
“Oh. Oh, Ashlynn,” Sarah says in nearly a whisper. “Really?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know how it’s gone on so long without me telling him. I just didn’t want to ruin anything, and then one week became two and three and…now if I tell him, it’ll be this big secret I kept—“
“But he’s going to find out. Eventually, he’ll find out,” Sarah says.
“I know. I just need to find the right time. So if you could keep it quiet, I would really, really appreciate that—“
Sarah gasps, and it’s enough to cut me off. “Oh my god. Oh, god—“ She grabs her phone from her purse and begins frantically texting.
“What?” I say, eyes wide, trying to see over her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know it was a secret, but maybe I can stop it,” she’s saying, almost babbling.
“Sarah! Who did you tell?” I ask.
She stills, presses her lips together, shakes her head. “Ashlynn, I’m so sorry. But I mentioned it to Conor.”
24
I run.
I actually run to my car, then jet to Sebastian’s house, because all I can think is that if I move fast enough, if I get to him first, I can mitigate the damage. I probably can’t keep him from finding out the truth, not when Conor knows it, but if I can just get there ahead of time, I can tell him first and then it’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.
I tear up the steps to his house, but no one answers the door— he isn’t here. I spin, trying to figure out where he might be. Practice, surely. He’s got practice of some sort in the evening until nine, which means he’s got another thirty minutes to go. I pace on the front porch for a moment, then rush back to my car. I think I know where the training field is. Why didn’t I take him up on the offer that time he asked me to come watch a practice? Ugh—
I squeal my car to a stop outside the practice fields— he must be here, I see his car behind the gate that, of course, I can’t get through. I dash around it instead, looking for a way in, garnering more than a few stern looks from security guards who don’t seem at all concerned that I’ll actually make it onto the field. There’s a tarp running along the fence that keeps me from seeing in, but I hear them. I think they’re dismissing, I hear talking, carousing—yes! I can see shadows coming this way. I’ll grab Sebastian as he’s leaving, wave him down when he gets into the parking lot.
Players begin to file into the lot and to their cars, sweaty and dirty and looking both exhausted and joyous, like they’ve had the most fun of their lives getting knocked around for the last few hours. I wait, wait, wait, but there’s no sign of Sebastian. His car is here, so he must be. I send him a text, but get no response. The security guards are starting to look legitimately concerned for my sanity almost an hour later, when I’m sitting on the hood of my car, unsure if I’m trying not to cry or shout. I’m trying not to do something, is all I know.
A rattle— the gate is opening, someone is coming into the parking deck.
It’s Sebastian.
My heart lifts, I rise, I step forward and wave— there’s no way he can’t see me, given that there’s no one else in sight that isn’t in a Berkfield Security jacket. I smile at him, feel my hands shaking a bit.
Then, behind him, another form. Conor.
They walk toward Sebastian’s car and, necessarily, toward me. It isn’t until they pass under a street lamp, though, that my fears are confirmed. Sebastian’s eyes are n
arrow, her cheeks hollowed, mouth a thin line. Conor’s features match, but there’s a gleam in his eyes somewhere, an “I told you so” that grates at me. I wince and step forward, unsure how to call out to him. How do you shout when the thing you’ve never had the courage to whisper is hanging in the air?
Sebastian shakes his head, not exactly at me, but toward me, and grabs for the driver’s side door. Conor is at the passenger side, chucking his things in the back, and then they’re in the car, spinning it around. I have to step back for the gate to open, and it’s clear that there’re not going to stop. I’m not going to get to speak to him— I may never get to speak to him again. Why didn’t I tell him about all this earlier? If I’d told him the truth early on, he may not have wanted me, but at least it would have all gone down before he had my heart. Now—
I jump as they zip past me, speeding unnecessarily. I get a glimpse of Sebastian’s eyes as they fly by— they’re locked on the road, his gaze steely, actively avoiding looking at me. I step into the road and watch; the lights in the practice field flick off behind me, leaving me in near darkness, with only the security guard booth to keep the place from going completely desolate. Sebastian’s car slows for a stop light, but I hear him rev the engine angrily, ready to take off as soon as the light changes. It turns green; I brace myself to watch him drive away.
He doesn’t move.
The driver’s side door opens. Sebastian steps out, a silhouette in the dim. He walks toward me, feet pounding at the earth and shoulders pushed forward. I go still, waiting— it almost looks like he plans to walk through me, like I’m nothing more than a ghost of someone he kissed once. I lick my lips as he grows closer, as the desperate want to run forward and throw myself into his arms overwhelms me— or, perhaps it’s not so much the need to do it, but the knowing I can’t. The knowing that the furious lines on his face are because of me.
