“Speaking of the news…” Amber continues. “The station got back to me regarding the basketball fundraiser, and they’re interested in talking to us about it. I was thinking of asking Liam if he would be the spokesperson. He’d be good at it.”
“When are you gonna ask him?”
“He, Emma and I are getting together in about twenty to play some hoops. I’ll ask him then.”
“I’ll be right over,” I say, conveniently ignoring that I have to finish my math assignment. But hell if I’m missing out playing with those guys.
*
I go for the shot. Liam dodges past Amber’s block and jumps for the ball. He misses and the ball swooshes through the hoop for the winning basket.
Not caring that I’m dripping with sweat, not that she’s much better, Amber jumps up and hugs me. Her legs wrap around my hips. It’s amazing how the girl can still smell of strawberries even after the workout we just had.
She gives me a quick kiss. If it weren’t for where we’re standing, I’d carry her into the shower, soap her up, and make mind-numbing love to her.
Amber slides down and my body cries foul. Half the time I swear she doesn’t realize she’s a tease, but based on her smile, I can tell this isn’t one of them.
With my hand on Amber’s lower back, I high-five Liam, then Emma. I’ve missed playing at this level. As good as Alejandro is, it’s not quite the same playing with him and the other teens at the youth center. Regret bites me that I never got to play in my senior year of high school, because I had to work a part-time job. It was the only way Ryan and I could escape the hell we had endured for so long.
Like Amber, I missed my chance to be recruited by a university and win an athletic scholarship. But the freedom I gained was worth all the sacrifices I made to survive. For Ryan and me to survive.
“So, I contacted Channel Four about our charity basketball game,” Amber says, “and they’re excited to interview us about it. You know, to get the word out so attendance will be greater than if we just promote it around campus.”
“That’s a great idea,” Liam says, being the marketing major that he is.
Amber smiles, and I wish it was directed at me. “I’m glad you feel that way,” she says. “We’d like you to be our spokesperson.”
Liam passes the ball to me. “Why me? I mean, it’s not that I’m not interested. But this charity is your baby, and I think Marcus should be the spokesperson.”
I shake my head. “You have the people skills. You’re definitely the right person.”
“Yes, but I’m not the one who’s been hurt like the kids the charity is helping.” He looks at Emma and she nods. “I know you haven’t gone public about what your stepfather did to you and your brother, but I think you should. You’re not alone, but I bet it felt like you were when your stepfather touched you, right?”
Shit.
Amber wraps her hand around mine and gently squeezes it. I nod, any words I might say in agreement too chickenshit to reveal themselves. Ryan and I did feel like we were alone. That no one could possibly know what we were going through.
“How did you know?” she asks softly, though I’m not too surprised he figured it out, given that Tammara did the same.
“When he was shot,” he explains, “the news reported that a twenty-year-old had been shot by his stepfather. Later they reported that the stepfather had been accused of sexually assaulting his sons when they were teens.”
“We didn’t piece it together,” Emma says, “until Amber told us about her idea for the charity event. I bet there’re kids who feel the same way. If you do this, you’re letting those kids know they aren’t alone and that someone does care. You do this, and you’ll bring light to an issue people like to pretend doesn’t exist.”
“No one’s going to think bad of you because of what happened,” Liam says, reading my mind. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”
Amber places her hand on my cheek, forcing me to look at her. “They’re right, Marcus. You need to do this.” She doesn’t say the rest but I can see it in her eyes. This will help me move forward. It will help me finally separate myself from what Frank did to me and help me become whole again.
I’m just not sure that I can.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Amber
I stride to where Jordan is waiting inside, near the main dorm doors. A group of five or six freshman cling to each other by the wall, their faces streaked with tears.
“What’s going on?” I ask Jordan, nodding at the girls.
“One of their friends was raped by a guy she was going out with. She fought back, but he snapped and she’s in the hospital.”
“I-is she going to be okay? Physically, I mean.”
Jordan glances at the girls. “From what I’ve heard, she’s in pretty bad shape.”
The girls hug, seeking each other’s strength. I’m still thinking about that as Jordan and I head for the gym. Emma and my other friends tried to be there for me after what happened with Paul. I turned my back on them because I didn’t know how to cope, and I was punishing myself with the guilt of knowing Michael and Trent’s deaths were my fault. My friends were eventually able to move on, but Emma was left to struggle as she came to terms with her brother’s death and what happened to me and how I had changed.
I keep thinking about this while I run hard on the treadmill. While sitting in class. While eating lunch. And by the time I see the girls again after dinner, on the other side of the cafeteria, my idea has fully taken shape.
I tell Jordan and Emma that I’ll catch up with them, and walk over to the girls’ table. “I’m sorry about your friend.” I sit on an empty seat at the end.
They look at me, a glimpse of recognition on a couple of their faces. They don’t say anything, though. And what is there to say? Thank you doesn’t sound right, even if it’s what most people say. Out of politeness.
“I was wondering…” I gulp, trying to loosen the words stuck in my throat. My plan seemed like a great idea while I was thinking about it all day, but now that I have to share it with them, my usual fear of speaking in front of a crowd hits. “I was thinking of organizing a candlelight vigil. For your friend and for other girls on campus who have been sexually assaulted. And for their friends and families.” Once the first words are free, the rest come naturally, like they’ve been waiting patiently this past year for their turn. “It would be a private event. So no media. But you could videotape it if you want to show your friend. Then she’ll know how many people care about her and about others who’ve gone through the same thing.”
The petite girl in the seat next to mine studies me, her head cocked to the side, like she’s attempting to peel off my layers and figure out what’s inside. I try not to squirm in my seat, and she eventually nods to herself. “You really were raped, weren’t you?” Her gaze remains locked on me.
I nod. “You’re right. I was kidnapped and I was raped. Several times.” And unlike when I first told Marcus that sex with Paul had been consensual, that I had agreed to have sex with him so he wouldn’t force himself on me, I now know it’s not true. It’s still rape when you agree to have sex with someone who will otherwise brutalize you. That’s self-preservation. That’s not consensual.
The freshman and her friends exchange glances. “When would it be?” she asks.
“We could do it Sunday night at seven in the baseball diamond on campus.”
The girls nod their agreement and say they’ll spread the word.
“But make it clear we don’t want any publicity about the event. So no posters or anything.” The last thing I want is for this to become about Paul and me and the trial, which is what will happen if the media shows up. “And only tell those people you trust will be supportive or who have been sexually violated. We don’t want this to become a rally screaming for justice against those who’ve hurt us and those we love. It’s about sharing our strength and support.” What I want to avoid is some misguided idiots showing up, cla
iming that most girls ask to be raped because of what they wear, or some other like-minded belief.
*
Two days later, with Marcus by my side, we walk to the baseball diamond. It’s still early. The vigil won’t start for another ten minutes, but I wanted to be here before anyone else.
As we get closer, it’s clear we’re not here soon enough. A small group is already gathering. The field is too thick with snow to do the vigil there, but the path is at least clear.
“Hi,” I say, “are you here for the vigil to support all those impacted by sexual crimes?” A few girls are holding candles, and while I assume there isn’t another vigil planned for the same time and location, I figured I should ask anyway.
“Yes,” a woman in her midthirties says. “I’m Olivia.” She holds out her hand to me. “I was raped while I was a student here.”
I shake her hand. “Hi, I’m Amber. I’m the one who organized this. How did you hear about it?”
Next to her, a girl my age peers curiously at me.
The woman puts her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “My niece told me.”
“And some of my friends told me. They’re gonna be here soon.”
I introduce them to Marcus. The younger girl blushes when he smiles at her, but I can tell they haven’t met before. It’s not the usual reaction he gets from girls he has slept with.
“Are you the girl they keep talking about on the news?” a girl with a striped knitted hat and matching mitts asks.
“Yes, I am.”
A few girls whisper to each other, no doubt like everyone else, discussing whether the rumors are true or not. Their attention then turns to Marcus.
“Did you really star in that porn video?” she asks him.
“I’m the idiot who trusted the wrong girl and she turned my drunken actions against me. But no, I never starred in the video. The credit goes to the guy who pretended to be me for part of it.”
“The woman who posted it will be facing criminal charges,” I add. That was the one thing my mom reassured me about. The police are attempting to locate her. She didn’t post the video under her real name and Marcus can’t remember it.
“Why did she post it?” Olivia asks.
I shrug. “We don’t know. She never approached either of us for money to keep it quiet. And she used a weird login, which means she wasn’t looking for her fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Why didn’t either of you tell the media this?” Striped Hat asks.
“Because I’ve been asked not to say anything. The D.A.’s office is handling it.”
“But you haven’t even defended your own innocence in light of the allegations,” Olivia points out as more people join us.
Marcus places his hand on my lower back and I lean into it.
“I doubt it would make a difference if I tried. People believe what they want to believe, no matter what I tell them. Some are more than willing to turn my brutalization into their own form of entertainment. I’d rather talk about how dangerous stalking is and what I wish I had done to avoid it. But all the reporters want to hear about are the latest sensationalized headlines. They don’t care about me as a person. I’m simply a ratings draw to them.”
There are a few cries of outrage. Emma, Jordan, Brittany, Chase and Liam join the group. They’re silent, but deep down I’m sure they are agreeing with everyone.
“But none of it matters since that’s not why we’re here,” I say as the group continues to grow to more than twenty people. “We’re here to remember those individuals who have been touched in some way by a sex-related crime, whether as a survivor, friend, family member or loved one.”
Marcus hands out candles to those individuals who don’t have one. I light mine and use the flame to light Emma’s. She lights Liam’s, and one by one the candles are lit.
And then we stand here ignoring the cold, honoring a minute of silence before we talk among ourselves and get to know each other’s stories. I’m not sure if this is what one does during a candlelight vigil, but no one seems to care. We’re just happy to share our pain with others and gain each other’s strength.
If the weather were warmer, we would have stayed out longer. But as it is, winter in Chicago isn’t the most outdoor vigil—friendly season. Thirty or so minutes later, the last participant has left, leaving me alone with Marcus and Olivia and her niece. Emma and Liam are off to the side, waiting for us.
I thank Olivia for coming. I’m about to leave when she says, “Amber, do you know who I am?”
I study her for a moment and shake my head. She looks kind of familiar, but it’s hard to tell since she’s bundled up in winter clothing.
“I have a daytime talk show on Channel Four. The Olivia Wilson Show.”
My entire body clenches and I throw her niece a hurt look of betrayal. At least that’s the look I’m aiming for. But then I can’t blame her. The “no media” message probably got lost somewhere along the way, though knowing this doesn’t do much to help unclench my muscles.
“What you said earlier makes sense,” Olivia says, “If you’re interested, I would love to have you on the show to talk about stalking.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off before I have a chance. “You won’t have to talk about your case or what happened to you specifically. But like you said, there are things you wish you had known back then that might have changed what happened.”
I can’t argue against that, but there is one thing I can do to show her I’m the wrong person for what she has planned. “I’m not good when it comes to public speaking.”
“You looked pretty good to me,” she says, smiling like a proud parent.
“She’s right,” Emma pipes in, moving closer. “You rocked your psych presentation. You can do this.”
Marcus leans in, his breath brushing against my ear. “What you did tonight, Amber, was amazing.” His voice is low. Only I can hear him. “I’m so proud of you and I know you can do this.” He straightens and I immediately miss the closeness.
“All right,” I say, cringing inwardly. Mom told me not to talk to the media. But this is important. It could save lives.
What’s more important than that?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Amber
Heat claws at the air, at my exposed skin, and singes the edges of what’s left of my hope. Smoke reaches into my lungs, igniting another round of coughing as I fight for what little oxygen remains in the room, my prison. My eyes burn, but the tears in them aren’t enough to extinguish the heat as a plaintive meow rips at my heart. I tighten my hold on Smoky, my kitten, my only source of comfort.
My only friend.
With Smoky sheltered against my chest, I bang my fist on the heavy closed door, again and again and again. “Please, Paul!” Don’t leave me here to die. I’ve lasted this long. Two weeks, five days, by my guestimation.
“I’ll do anything you say.” The last part comes out as a spluttered whisper, barely noticeable over the crackling flames engulfing the room. Please don’t let me die.
But something tells me it’s already too late as the words “Don’t worry, Amber. You and I were meant to be together. Forever and ever” ring like funeral bells in my brain. He doesn’t plan for either of us to escape. He had it planned all along. My murder. His suicide.
A voice yells outside the door, but it’s too muffled for me to make out the words.
I slam my palm against the warm wood. “Help me!” The words scrape past my raw throat. Words I’ve been taught are only for the weak.
Shame doesn’t have time to consume me. A loud cracking noise followed by a splintering crash and hissing, as the ceiling caves in, drowns out my screams.
*
“Amber.” Someone shakes me. “Amber, you’re having a nightmare. It’s not real.” Brittany’s voice slowly sinks in and I open my eyes. It’s the same dream I’ve been having for the past week. Before that, it was a dream I’d managed to avoid.
I curl myself in a tig
ht ball and whisper, “Sorry.”
She glances at the alarm clock. “I needed to get up anyway and review for my exam.”
That’s a lie. She doesn’t have to review. She knows the info cold.
I push myself up and check the clock. 5:30 a.m. Marcus won’t be at the gym yet; it will be another hour before he shows up. Which means I can push myself super hard and he’ll never know.
And I need to push myself hard.
Today’s the interview. On live TV.
Fifteen minutes later I enter the gym. Not too surprisingly, there are only a handful of people here. I secure a spot on the treadmill and increase the speed from a walk to a jog to a run. Against the soft rock music in the background, my feet pound against the fast-moving belt. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it.
I can talk in front of a live audience without freaking out.
I repeat the thought to myself a dozen more times, pushing myself harder as I do. My shorts and T-shirt cling to my sweaty body, but I keep going. I have to. It’s the only way I can survive this.
I run until the treadmill console warns me I’ve been on the equipment for the maximum time allowed: thirty minutes. A quick glance around tells me no one will care if I keep going. Eight other treadmills are unoccupied.
I adjust the incline and push myself harder. At five minutes before I’ve officially run an hour, I stumble. I passed runner’s high a while ago, and am sprinting toward crash and burn.
Someone reaches across the console and slows the treadmill. “Didn’t we agree you weren’t going to punish yourself anymore with exercise?” Marcus says, frowning.
He’s right. Guilt and embarrassment stagger through me. “I wasn’t punishing myself.”
“Nice try. But I’m not buying it.”
I glare at him. “I’m sorry—I had a nightmare this morning that left me screaming.” And apparently bitchy. “And I’m going on TV in front of a live audience. And the trial begins next week. And I’m sorry if it’s making me a little stressed and I need to burn off some of my nervousness.”
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