Going Under

by S. Walden

  I followed the tail lights around the bend to the hospital entrance thinking I would kill Tim—murder him in cold blood—if anything happened to Melanie.

  Seventeen

  Terry caught me as I made my way through the back door at work.

  “News?” he asked.

  “About?” I said, tying my apron around my waist.

  “Don’t make me spell it out for you, Wright,” Terry replied.

  “Ohhh, that news. Well,”—I smacked my gum a little louder and leaned in close—“we plan on doing it tonight. He’s totally dreamy, and I think I’m in love.” I winked at him, and he huffed.

  “Please keep your too-young-to-be-having-sex life to yourself,” Terry said, “and tell me what’s going on.”

  “Why do you care?” I asked, walking over to the order station to sign in.

  “Do I have to state the obvious?” Terry replied, following me.

  I lowered my voice. “I’ve already got one dad. I don’t need another. And everything’s fine. I haven’t tried to get myself molested, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

  Terry breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I have, however, discovered another rapist,” I continued. “And I know he’s taking a girl to the movies tonight.”

  “What’s he gonna do in the movies?”

  “It’s not what he’ll do inside the theatre that I’m worried about,” I said. “I plan on stopping it before it starts. I was already successful once. At a party last week.”

  “Wright . . .”

  “Hey, if I didn’t burst through that door, she would have been raped,” I said.

  Terry’s eyes bugged out of his head.

  “Yeah, that’s right. She was high on ecstasy, we think.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Gretchen and me.”

  “So now she’s playing crusader, too?”

  “Strength in numbers.”

  “Is the girl all right?” Terry asked.

  “Yes, thank God. I waved to her at school today, and she looked at me like she had no idea who I was. Apparently she remembers nothing from that night. Just as well. She’d probably be more messed up if she did.”

  Terry sighed. “I told you to be careful. You think these guys won’t catch on to what you’re doing? Have you thought about consequences?”

  “Nope. But they should. Once I collect all my data, they and their little slut club are history.”

  “Taking it to the streets, huh?” Terry asked.

  “You better believe it,” and I left the kitchen to greet my first customer.

  ***

  Every girl goes to the bathroom right before a movie. We’re conditioned or something. I knew to expect Ashley between nine and 9:20. The movie she was seeing with Tim started at 9:30. I wasn’t worried at all about the time they spent in the theatre. I didn’t think he was that bold. But I was very worried about his plans for her after the show, and I thought I could scare her into ditching him and getting a cab home. I even brought cab fare for her in case she had no money.

  I hovered over the sink pretending to fix my make-up. The mirror gave me a perfect view of girls coming and going without me having to turn around and check. And just like that, as I had expected, Ashley strolled through the door at 9:18. I let her use the bathroom before I said anything. She was washing her hands two sinks down from me when I spoke.

  “You don’t know me from Adam,” I said to her. She reached for a paper towel. “But that guy you’re with is bad news.”

  “Huh?”

  “That guy you’re with is—”

  “No no,” she interrupted. “What you said before. What does that mean?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That thing you said about Adam. Does Adam like me?” she asked, her face flushing a rosy pink.

  Dear God.

  “I mean. He’s never said it, but I’ve been giving him all the signs. You think he likes me?”

  Who was she talking about?

  “It’s an expression,” I said. “It’s just an expression meaning you don’t know me at all.”

  “Oh.” Her face fell.

  “But Adam might like you,” I said. “And he’d be a lot better than the jackass you’re on a date with right now.”

  “How do you know I’m on a date with Tim?” she asked.

  “I saw you, and I’m telling you, Ashley, the guy is bad bad news,” I said.

  “Wait. How do you know my name?”

  Shit. I was always doing that. Think quickly, Brooke.

  “Didn’t you know you were popular? Like, everyone knows your name,” I said.

  “They do?” Her eyes went wide in a dreamy kind of disbelief.

  I felt awful.

  “Sure. Now listen to me. I want you to get in a cab and go home,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Ditch him, Ashley.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . because Tim is seeing a whole lot of other girls. Not just you. He wouldn’t be faithful to you for two seconds,” I said.

  “Oh, I don’t care about that,” she replied. “I plan on dropping him the second Adam looks my way.”

  I stared at her.

  “Okay, Ashley? It’s not just about Tim being unfaithful. He’s a bad guy. He does bad things to girls,” I said.

  She looked intrigued. “Like bondage kind of stuff?” she asked. She leaned in close and whispered, “That’s okay with me. I’m kind of into it.”

  What the fuck?

  “No, Ashley,” I whispered back. “Like rape kind of stuff.”

  She jumped back, eyes going wide again, but this time not in a dreamy state of disbelief. This time she was scared. I shouldn’t have said it. I mean, technically it wasn’t slanderous because it was true, but I didn’t want this airhead spreading it all over school.

  “I think,” I said quickly. “Listen, I think he’s done it.”

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “Not important. What’s important is that I don’t want anything to happen to you. So go home. Don’t talk to him over the phone or at school. Don’t mention me. Don’t say anything. Okay?” I knew it was wishful thinking, but I had to try.

  She nodded.

  “Ashley? I’m serious. When he calls you, do not answer. When you see him Monday—because it’s inevitable, you will see him Monday—tell him you can’t talk to him anymore. Don’t say why. Just do it. And then walk away. Understand?”

  She nodded again.

  “I’m gonna call you a cab,” I said. “Here’s money.”

  She took it without speaking.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, dialing the number for City Star Cabs.

  “He was going to rape me?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. But you’re safe now, okay?” I said, wrapping my arm around her shoulder as I spoke to the dispatcher.

  I watched Ashley climb into the cab before going back inside. I had to pee, the irony being that I had hung out in the bathroom all evening. I rounded the corner and smacked into Tim. He laced his fingers with mine in one deft movement and pulled me down the hallway. I looked like his reluctant date, digging in my heels. I should have screamed then, but I was too surprised at the turn of events. I had planned on sneaking out of the theatre without him ever spotting me.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded, dropping my hand and backing me into the corner of the hallway.

  “I’ll scream to high heaven if you do anything,” I warned.

  “Is there a reason you keep fucking up my dates? I mean, who are you anyway?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  Tim snorted. “You think I’m stupid or something? I saw you send Ashley off in a fucking cab! Did I do something to you that I can’t remember? You got some vendetta with me? What the hell did I do to you?”

  I wanted to tell him it’s not what he did to me; it’s what I knew he’d
do to Ashley. It’s what I knew he did to Amelia.

  And then the righteous anger bubbled up, and it spilled over at the wrong time with the wrong words.

  “I know,” I said so softly I thought he wouldn’t hear.

  Tim reared back as though I slapped his face. He stumbled into a couple on their way to Theatre 5. He mumbled an apology while rearranging his stunned face. And then he leaned into me once more, hands on either side of my head.

  “Oh, you know?” he asked. It came out as a sensual whisper. “What is it you think you know?”

  He was taunting me, raking his eyes up and down my body. Suddenly I wasn’t brave anymore.

  “I . . . I know y-you’re trouble,” I stuttered.

  “You’re right,” he cooed. “I am trouble. So you better watch out.”

  “Don’t threaten me,” I said. I was so happy I got the words out without faltering.

  “Oh, I’m not threatening you. I don’t have to threaten little girls like you because you’ll do what I say,” Tim said.

  I trembled now from outrage and humiliation. I wasn’t some “little girl”.

  “Fuck you,” I spat, and pushed against his chest with all my might. He could have kept me pinned in the corner easily, but he moved aside, allowing me the illusion that I’d pushed him away with my strength.

  “Stay away from me, bitch,” I heard Tim say as I booked it down the hallway.

  ***

  “So, what trouble have you gotten yourself into lately, Brooke?” Dr. Merryweather asked.

  I tensed.

  “Hey, take it easy. Everything in here is confidential. Remember?” she said good-naturedly.

  “No trouble,” I lied.

  “Brooke. You know the drill. If you don’t open up to me, then my hands are tied. I can’t help you the way you need, so you’ve gotta trust me. Remember all this?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. So tell me about these nightmares.”

  “Wait. How do you know about my nightmares?” I asked, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.

  “Are you serious? Your dad called. He set up this appointment. You think he didn’t tell me what was going on?” she asked. She wrote something down on her pad of paper, and I thought she was taking notes about me. I imagined they read, “Dip shit.”

  “I’m not a dip shit,” I muttered.

  “That’s not what I wrote, Brooke,” Dr. Merryweather said patiently.

  “Whatever.”

  She smiled pleasantly and showed me her pad. She was right. She didn’t write “dip shit.” She wrote my name and birth date.

  “Oh,” I said. I tried for an apologetic smile. “My bad.”

  “So what’s got you all upset that you’re having nightmares?” Dr. Merryweather continued.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said airily. “I sneaked around with my best friend’s boyfriend. We had sex behind her back. Then she killed herself because she got raped. Now she’s haunting me in my dreams and telling me I deserve to have bad shit happen to me. Oh yeah. I’ve discovered a group of boys at school who fuck girls and score themselves on it.”

  I leaned back in my chair feeling smug. Take that, Doc! And here you thought I was just sad about my mommy moving away.

  “Maybe all that combined has something to do with it,” I concluded for good measure.

  Dr. Merryweather drew in her breath. “Well, it looks like we’ve got some work to do.”

  “Evidently.”

  “Brooke?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Perhaps you’ve considered that it’s not your friend who’s haunting you? Rather, it’s you who’s haunting you?”

  Score one for the doctor.

  “Of course I have,” I said. I felt defensive and stupid. Of course I thought that it was probably me, my psyche, telling me I was a bad person and deserved horrible things to happen to me. Wasn’t it simply my brain conjuring my own guilt in the form of an angry ghost? What? This doctor thought I was a moron? A dip shit?

  “Lemme see that paper again,” I said.

  Dr. Merryweather smiled and showed me her writing. Still my name. And birth date.

  “Let’s talk about the betrayal,” the doctor said.

  “I’d rather not,” I replied.

  “Brooke, talking it out helps.”

  “What is there to say? I was a horrible friend.”

  “So how do you make amends?” Dr. Merryweather asked.

  “Really? I thought you were supposed to tell me,” I said, feeling my irritation grow. I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “That’s a defensive move, Brooke,” Dr. Merryweather said. “You’re better than that.”

  I dropped my arms and huffed.

  “Now, I can’t tell you how to make amends. You have to discover your own peace. But I can tell you that it’s no angry ghost haunting your dreams. You’re punishing yourself for the past. Unable to move on. Is there something you think you have to do in order to move on?”

  Yes. I needed to do something. I had a purpose once, but I thought now I couldn’t do it.

  “Brooke? You’ve got to open up to me. Do these boys have anything to do with your deceased friend?”

  I swallowed. “Huh?”

  “Well, you mentioned them in the same breath. You told me about your cheating, your friend’s rape, and these boys. Are they connected?”

  “Um . . .”

  Dr. Merryweather thought for a moment. “Did one of those boys rape her?”

  My eyes went wide. Was she a psychologist or an investigator, or were they one in the same?

  “I see,” the doctor whispered. She wrote something else down on her pad.

  “What are you writing?” I asked quickly.

  She ignored me. “Brooke, it’s clear you think you owe your friend. What is it you plan to do?”

  What I plan to do? I have no plan. I have nothing.

  “Brooke?”

  “I’m not planning anything. It’s just that I go to school with this jackass every day, and it’s hard to move on from my friend’s death when I have to see his face.”

  “I can understand that,” Dr. Merryweather said.

  “No one knows he’s a rapist. Well, no one who counts, anyway,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The police. People who could put him away. No one knows because girls aren’t saying anything,” I said.

  “There are more victims?” she asked. “How do you know?”

  I sighed. “I’ve been digging around.”

  “Is it dangerous what you’re doing?”

  I shook my head. “Just illegal.”

  “Well, I’m not your moral compass, but anything illegal may not be the healthiest thing for you right now. How can it possibly help you move on from your grief?” the doctor asked.

  I considered her for a half moment. I knew I could trust her. She took an oath or something like that. She couldn’t repeat anything I said unless I threatened to kill somebody. I think, anyway. I don’t know all the details of the doctor-patient confidentiality thing. But I knew I could trust her. Mom and Dad had no clue about the things I confessed to Dr. Merryweather years ago when I started therapy because of my claustrophobia. I knew this to be true because they looked at me every day like I was the sweetest, most innocent child in the world.

  I drew in my breath and let it out slowly. Deliberately slowly. Dr. Merryweather knew what that meant. She resituated herself in her large club chair to get comfortable.

  “Okay, so, it was like the best of times and the worst of times,” I began.

  “Would have been better if you didn’t include the word ‘like’,” Dr. Merryweather said.

  I sighed. “I slept with Beth’s boyfriend behind her back.”

  “I fail to see the ‘best of times’ in that.”

  “Well, the sex was incredible, but the cheating and lying were unforgiveable,” I replied.

  I laid out the entire story for Dr. Merryweather, right up to my discovery
of the Fantasy Slut League and the boys I suspected were rapists. I even confessed to the doctor my old plan to self-sacrifice but didn’t receive the shocked reaction I expected. I did, however, receive a slew of questions about my emotional state and my struggle with guilt and forgiveness.

  I listened politely to the psychobabble wondering what 18-year-old girl with half a conscience wouldn’t be guilt-ridden and have a hard time forgiving herself. I didn’t want my own fucking forgiveness anyway. I wanted Beth’s, and she was no longer here to give it to me.

  The session concluded with a hug. I never thought that was professional, even when I started therapy at eleven years old, but I had come to view Dr. Merryweather as more of a wise, if a bit self-important, old grandmother than a psychologist. If nothing else, I got to dump my problems on someone for a whole hour without being interrupted or made to feel guilty over it.

  I scheduled another session for the following week.

  ***

  Ryan and I were officially dating by Christmas, but not before I came clean about going on a date with Cal and attending his party.

  “I swear I don’t like him!” I had cried.

  “I knew about the party, Brooke,” Ryan said. “Even a reject like me hears about the parties.” He eyed me curiously. “I’m not mad, but why did you go?”

  “My friends were insistent, and I didn’t want them going alone. Drunk girls are easy targets,” I said. It wasn’t exactly true. Melanie and Taylor weren’t my friends, but I went to the party regardless to protect them. And that part was true.

  Ryan nodded. “And the date?”

  “He wouldn’t leave me alone about it. And I know what you said about him being bad news. I just thought I could go and show him how lame I was and then he’d stop harassing me about a date,” I said.

  “You’re far from lame, Brooke,” Ryan replied.

  I shrugged. “Well, I was pretty lame on the date.”

  Ryan thought for a moment. “You could have just told me. I could have beaten the shit out of him for you.”

  I smirked. “I didn’t want you getting blood on your hands.”

  “Oh, I’d love to get blood on my hands,” Ryan said. He sounded dead serious.

  I shivered involuntarily. “Why does he hate you, Ryan?” I asked softly.

  Ryan rubbed his jaw. “Because I don’t want to be like him.”