Going Under

by S. Walden

  Tim eased up, and I shot out of the water breathing in hungry gulps of wetted oxygen.

  “What are you doing?!” I screeched, pulling away the matted hair from my face.

  “Playing around,” Tim replied. “Jeez, we’re just having a little fun. Take it easy,” and he plunged me beneath the surface once more.

  I dug my fingernails in his wrists, but it did nothing to loosen his grip. He was holding me down longer, I could tell, as my chest began burning urgently, demanding the oxygen I couldn’t provide. I wriggled this way and that to no avail, feeling the urgent burning move down into my belly, through my legs to the tips of my toes. My body was screaming silently, and I couldn’t save it.

  Tim hauled me out of the water, and I clung to him on instinct, breathing deeply between coughs and splutters. He took advantage of my vulnerability by wrapping my legs around him, settling me on his hips so that I could feel his arousal. I tried to break free, but he held me tightly in his arms, shaking his head at my silent plea.

  We were at the shallow end of the lane, a place where he could firmly plant his feet and move us round and round in small circles. I thought he was trying to lull me into a false sense of safety, and I had no choice but to cling to him harder, praying he wouldn’t dunk me under the water again.

  “Did you have fun?” he asked.

  I felt the tears spill over to those words as I shook my head. I imagined I looked a mess with wet, matted hair and black mascara running down my cheeks. Not only was he successful in making me feel weak and helpless, but also in making me feel ugly.

  “Brooklyn,” Tim said. “It was only a little bit of fun. Why are you upset?”

  He slid his hands over my bottom, and I squirmed.

  “Keep doing that,” he said, and I stopped.

  “I hate you,” I sobbed quietly.

  “Brooklyn, you don’t hate me. But I should hate you. Why are you spreading rumors about me at school?”

  “I’m not spreading rumors about you,” I choked.

  “You’re not? Then why did Ashley think I was a rapist?” Tim asked.

  “You are a rapist,” I said, trying once more to free myself from his grasp.

  “Stop struggling,” Tim ordered. “Now, lucky for you she believed me when I told her you were a crazy psycho bitch ex-girlfriend. And lucky for you, she got her friends to believe me, too. So you get a free pass this time, huh?”

  He slipped his hand between my legs. “But just this once. Now give me a kiss, and I’ll let you go,” Tim said.

  I shook my head.

  “Just one little kiss,” Tim cooed.

  “Hey, man, what’s the deal?” Cal asked, hovering above us. “Give her to me.”

  I can’t believe I wanted to be passed from one predator to the next, but in that moment I thought Cal was the good guy. He was my rescuer.

  “Chill out, man,” Tim said, releasing me. I reached for Cal who pulled me easily out of the water. He wrapped a towel around me and held me close.

  “Not cool, dude. She was scared to death,” Cal snapped, running his hands roughly over my arms to warm me up. “You can’t rough house with girls like you can with guys, you douchebag.”

  He walked me over to my book bag then out of the pool area to my car. If I were in my right mind, I would have noticed two things: first, Cal never jumped into the water to come after me. He was no rescuer. And two, he had a towel in his arms ready for me. I pictured him, watching the entire scene then strolling lazily to the towel rack before intervening.

  Later that night as I lay in my bed shaking with fear and anger, I realized they planned it. There was no real swim practice. They lured me to the pool under false pretenses, then to the edge of the water for Cal to look at the pictures I took. And Cal stood there and watched as Tim pushed me underwater, forcing me to endure minutes of torture that felt like hours. He let Tim grope me before feigning outrage. Throughout the entire ordeal he was silently telling me one thing: “Don’t fuck with me. Don’t fuck with my friends.”

  I pulled the covers over my head and burst into tears. I wouldn’t mess with him anymore tonight. The truth was that I was genuinely afraid of him for the first time. So I chose to entertain the fear, let it grip me and manifest itself in the sounds of quiet, desperate sobs. But I would only let him do this to me tonight. Tomorrow the fear would be gone.

  ***

  “Jessica Canterly,” Terry said on our way to the parking lot.

  I whirled around to face him, stopping cold. “Yeah?”

  “In and out of psych wards since tenth grade. Family moved out of state after her freshmen year. Serious shit. She did everything. Cut herself. Developed every eating disorder in the book. Pulled her hair out,” Terry said. “I’m talking serious shit.”

  “I knew it,” I whispered.

  “Now, hold up,” Terry replied. “Just because she has all these psychological problems does not mean she was raped.”

  “It doesn’t?” I asked. I wasn’t trying to be a smartass.

  “No,” Terry said. “I found stuff on her dating back to seventh grade.”

  “So maybe Parker saw her as an easy target,” I replied. “If she’s already crazy, who’s going to believe she was raped?”

  Terry shrugged. “It’s not right, Brooke.”

  “Too hard to say, ‘It’s not right, Wright’?” I asked.

  “You’re a dork and completely unfocused. I was saying it’s not right to assume something without hard proof. You know that.”

  I scowled. “That asshole is a rapist. I know he is!”

  “Okay then. Have you figured out how you’re going to prove any of this?”

  “I have, actually,” I replied. I smiled a smug little smile, and Terry rolled his eyes. “Can we have this conversation somewhere else? It’s freezing out here.”

  “Get in your car,” Terry said.

  “No way. We’ll get in your car and waste your gas on the heat,” I replied.

  “Whatever.”

  We slipped into Terry’s unassuming Acura and blasted the heat.

  “Okay, Wright. What’s your plan?”

  “I’m going to ask them to come forward,” I replied.

  “You’re what?”

  “The girls who’ve been raped. I’m going to ask them to come forward.”

  “Why would they agree? It’s been years for some. No rape test. No DNA evidence. Their word against the guys’. Are you serious?” Terry asked.

  “If I can get them together—”

  “So you’re a group therapist all of a sudden?”

  “Shut up. If I can get them together and encourage them to come forward together, I think there’s a real chance these boys will get some well-deserved justice,” I said. “Strength in numbers.”

  “That’s the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard.”

  “Hey! It’s not stupid. It’s the only thing I’ve got!”

  “You might have to come to the realization that these boys may never see justice. Okay? You may have to be satisfied with exposing their league and embarrassing them, because that may be all you get.”

  “No!” I slapped my hand on the dashboard.

  “Wright, do not do that to my car,” Terry warned.

  “I’ll never be satisfied with a little bit of embarrassment. I want them in jail. They’re criminals who belong in jail.”

  “So your plan is to trick these girls into what? Coming over to your house for a sleepover? Then you expose each of their painful secrets to the group and tell them they need to take those painful secrets public? With no evidence? No proof? Do you hear how fucking stupid that is?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Typical teenager response,” Terry scoffed.

  “I hate you.”

  “And there’s another.”

  “Shut up and help me then!” I screamed.

  “I don’t have an answer, Brooke. I don’t have a plan. The only thing I can tell you is to go public with your knowledge of their club.�
�

  I hung my head. “You said you’d help me get them. That’s what you said.”

  “I know, Brooke. But I can’t make them confess to rape. And I can’t make those girls come forward. They have every right to stay silent. That’s their right, and I think you forget that. You think they have a duty to your friend, but they don’t. Their justice isn’t her justice, don’t you see? They’re individuals with individual experiences. I’m not saying it’s healthy for them to hold on to their secrets, but it’s their right. You can only do so much. And you’ve done everything you can, and I’m proud of you for wanting to protect them. I really am. Expose the league and you’ve settled your debt with Beth.”

  I was crying. I realized it when Terry fished a napkin out of the glove box and handed it to me.

  “Can’t I just shoot them all in the head?!” I cried, blowing my nose into the musty paper.

  “Oh my God. First you want to be a rape victim, and now you want to be a murderer?”

  “It’s murderess, dumbass. I’m a girl.”

  “Wright, you need to visit a therapist,” Terry said.

  “I already do,” I blubbered.

  “Well, thank God for that.”

  I shot him a nasty look.

  “And quit crying, for Christ’s sake. You cry all the time. Aren’t you supposed to be big and tough?”

  I looked at him stunned. “For real?”

  “Yeah, Wright. ‘For real’. Straighten up and stop acting like a total wimp. You wanna be some badass fem crusader? Then start acting like one.”

  “You are the biggest jerk on the planet!”

  “Yeah, and one hell of a good friend to you,” Terry replied.

  Well, I couldn’t argue that.

  I drove home with “Big Girls Don’t Cry” playing over and over in my head. Don’t ask me how I knew the song. It wasn’t Frankie Valli singing, though. It was Terry instead, and I laughed my ass off imagining him leading the Four Seasons to the tune. No tears. Exactly how he’d want it.

  ***

  “Are you never going to talk to me again?” I hissed, watching Lucy stack her books and binder in a neat little rectangle on her desk. I leaned over and pushed the top book on to the floor.

  “Hey!” she yelled.

  “Freaking talk to me,” I said.

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you, Brooke,” she snapped, and leaned over to retrieve her book.

  “Why are you so pissed at me?” I asked.

  “You’re a smart girl, Brooke,” Lucy said. “You figure it out.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Cal?” I asked, lowering my voice to a barely audible whisper.

  Lucy looked flustered. “Don’t say his name out loud,” she replied.

  “What the hell? He’s not Lord Voldemort.”

  “And don’t say his name either!” she cried.

  I sat there confused. And then I burst out laughing. Lucy glared at me. But apparently my laughter had some kind of effect because her face broke into a grin. And then she giggled. And then she laughed, too. Hard.

  “Okay okay,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Does your not talking to me have anything to do with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? And I’m referring to Cal.”

  “Yes,” she said, her laughter dying away.

  “All right. What’s the problem?”

  She turned around, but Cal hadn’t come into class yet.

  “I told you to stay away from him,” she said.

  “You never told me why,” I replied.

  “Because he’s a bad guy,” she said.

  “What makes him bad?”

  “Stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “For goodness sake, Brooke! Why can’t you just leave well enough alone?!”

  “Because I think he did something to you that you’re not telling me. And I know he’s done it to other girls because guess what? I knew Beth. Beth Cunningham? She was my best friend.”

  Lucy’s eyes filled with instant tears.

  “No. Do not cry. Haven’t you given him enough of your tears already?” I remembered Terry’s words to me. To stop crying. To be strong.

  She stared at me, and then she looked up at the ceiling trying to get the water to recede. She was determined, and focused on the ceiling for a long time before she thought it was safe to face me again. When she did, her eyes were dry.

  “Good. Now there’s a start.”

  She smiled wearily. “I want to tell you a story.”

  “Okay.”

  “After school.”

  We sat in a coffee shop ten minutes from school. I initially suggested the one across the street, but Lucy didn’t want to be so close to school when she made her confession. There’d be too many students coming and going. It was a popular hangout spot for Charity Run seniors.

  We ordered café mochas then tucked ourselves into a dimly lit corner table.

  “I can’t believe I’m gonna tell you all this,” she said, sipping her drink carefully.

  “I kind of already know,” I said, trying to ease her anxiety.

  “No, you don’t, Brooke,” Lucy replied. “You don’t know anything.”

  I wanted to feel offended, but I couldn’t. She was right. I didn’t know anything about her horrific experience. In all honesty, I didn’t really know anything about Beth’s experience either. She never told me the details. She just described how Cal licked her tears and covered her mouth. And that was too much to know. I wish she had kept those things to herself.

  “I was so excited to start high school,” Lucy began. “And I was a really happy girl back then. I had friends. I was involved in everything.”

  “I know.”

  “Huh?” Lucy furrowed her brows.

  “Well, I kind of did some research in old yearbooks,” I confessed.

  Lucy thought for a moment. “When?”

  “When I first met you. That first day in class when I smacked my head.”

  “Ohhh.” Lucy nodded.

  I waited patiently for her to continue.

  “I don’t think I’m the ugliest thing on the planet,” she said, “but I could never figure out what attracted Cal to me. I mean, yes, I was a cheerleader, but I don’t think I ever fit into that mold. I wasn’t popular. I just kind of did my own thing and had fun.”

  “You must have been kind of popular to win a place on the homecoming court,” I said.

  Lucy shrugged. “I guess I meant that I didn’t really hang out with popular people. I was nice to everyone.”

  “Ahh. That’s why you won,” I said.

  “Well, whatever it was, Cal liked it, and he started pursuing me from the moment school started.”

  I shifted nervously in my seat, knowing the conversation was about to get intimate.

  “We dated all year, and all year he was a gentleman. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world, really.” Lucy stared off in the direction of a couple huddled at another corner table on the opposite wall. They were telling each other jokes apparently, because they were laughing hysterically.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  She nodded and continued. “I was so excited about prom. And we had such a fun night until he took me to that motel room.”

  “He what?”

  “Champagne. He fed me champagne all night. He didn’t drink a thing. He had a bottle in his car, and I drank some on our way to the prom.”

  “Hold up,” I said. “He was driving? How old was he?”

  “He’d just turned sixteen,” Lucy said.

  “Sixteen in ninth grade?” I asked. “That’s kind of old. Did he start school late? Was he held back a grade or two?”

  Lucy sighed, then smiled. “Brooke, do you have ADD?”

  “Huh?”

  “Who cares that he was driving? The point was that he was driving.”

  I nodded and refocused.

  “Anyway, we’d sneak out of the prom occasionally so that I could have a couple of sips. By the end of the night I was hammered. Bu
t I mean really hammered, like something-doesn’t-feel-quite-right hammered.”

  I looked at her dubiously.

  “Okay, I know that being hammered never feels ‘right.’ What I meant was I think he drugged the champagne. I mean, yes, I drank a lot of it, but I’ve had champagne before, and it’s never made me feel like that. Really sluggish. Out of it. Like my arms were heavy weights or something.”

  “I see.”

  “I remember very little about that evening. I remember making out and getting naked. I was okay with that because we’d gone there before, but then he started getting forceful.”

  I tensed.

  “And there were others.”

  “What?” I was in the middle of sipping my coffee, choking down most of the liquid while some dribbled down my chin. Lucy handed me a napkin.

  “I remember that there were others. I don’t know how many, but they were talking and laughing.” She thought for a moment. “And then they argued for awhile.”

  I stared at her wide-eyed, one term repeating over and over in my head: gang-raped.

  “The last thing I remember was a bunch of hands all over me before I passed out.”

  We sat in silence. I didn’t know what to do, so I finished off my coffee. Lucy was no longer interested in hers. She preferred to watch the young couple holding hands and giving each other occasional pecks.

  “Lucy, I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

  She turned in my direction. It was a reluctant turn, like she didn’t want to take her eyes off of the cute couple. Like she wanted to linger in their fantasy a little longer.

  “You didn’t do anything, Brooke,” she replied. “Why are you apologizing?”

  I had no response to that. Why was I apologizing? I didn’t rape her. But that’s what you said when you heard bad news. It was standard. You say you’re sorry, like you’re apologizing for the wrong or apologizing on behalf of the people who inflicted the wrong.

  I shrugged.

  “I woke up the next morning wearing my prom dress. It was speckled with blood. I was a virgin, you see, so I figured I must have been raped. But it’s kind of hard to make the claim when you can’t remember shit.”

  “What about your parents?”