Consent (18 page)

He doesn't say anything else.

I can barely hold on to my phone, my hands are shaking so badly. How could this have happened? Dane has been nothing but wonderful to me. Also, we care about each other. We may even be in love. . . .

“Beatrice, I need to go. Just so you know, I won't back
to school for a while. Principal Oberdorfer wants this issue resolved first.”

“O-okay.”

“I'll ring you again when I can. Find Braden and talk to him, like we discussed. Your friend Plum, too. We'll get through this.”

The line goes dead.

Now my whole body is shaking.

Get through this . . .
how
?

I call Plum immediately.

“What do you think are my strengths and my weaknesses?” she asks when she picks up.

In response, I burst into tears.

“Bea! Oh my gosh, what's wrong?”

“Everything! My life is falling apart.”

“What do you mean?”

I tell her the whole story.

“You had
sex
in his
classroom
?”

“It was crazy, I know. We just . . . we got carried away. But apparently, someone saw us. And now the police are investigating.”

“Oh my gosh, what can I do?”

“If the police ask you, can you tell them that you were with me the few times I went over to Dane's house for piano lessons?”

“Got it. You'll have to tell me dates and stuff, though. And what his house looks like. And if he has pets. He seems like a cat person. And—”

“I'll call you again later tonight. Or I'll stop by, if I can. Right now I have to find Braden.”

“The violin guy?”

I am too upset to bother correcting her. “Yeah, the violin guy. Dane wants me to ask him to cover for us too.”

It's strange, going to Café Tintoretto without Dane. But it was the first place I thought of when I told Braden that I needed to see him ASAP.

When I walk into the café, Signor Vitale waves to me from behind the counter. The silver urn is hissing steam, and the air smells like coffee beans. “
Ciao, signorina.
You have returned! Where is the
professore
?”

“I'm meeting a friend. May I have a cappuccino?” I ask with a tight smile.

“
Si, arrive subito.
Coming right up.”

When I turn around to find an empty table, I see that Braden is already here, sipping at an iced something and scrolling through his phone. His cello case, covered with stickers, is propped up against the wall. Did he overhear the
professore
comment? I smooth my hair and try not to look nervous as I hurry over to join him.

He glances up from his phone and beams at me. “Hey, Bea!”

“Hey, Braden. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“Well, you did say that we should go out for coffee sometime.”

“I did? Oh, yeah, I did. Listen, Braden. I have a favor to ask you.”

Disappointment flickers in his eyes. “Ah! The favor. And here I was, thinking we were on a date.”

“Well, ironically, we kind of are.”

“I don't follow.”

We fall silent as Signor Vitale delivers my cappuccino along with a plate of biscotti.
“Buon appetito!”

“Grazie.”

“You speak Italian?” Braden asks when we are alone again.

“Yeah, like two words. Um, about that favor. I need you to . . . this is really awkward . . . I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend for a while.”

I wait for a knee-jerk barrage of questions:
Why? What for? Is this some kind of joke?
But instead, Braden gives me an odd look. “Yeah, I know what this is about.”

“You do?”

“Last night. You and Mr. R's X-rated duet in the music history room.”

I gape at him.

“
Some people were talking about it today,” Braden explains.

“They
were
?”

“Yeah. I wonder if Lianna's the one who saw you guys?”

“Lianna?”

I sag back in my chair and stare blankly at the stained-glass window. Ruby, emerald, sapphire. How could Lianna have seen anything? How could
anyone
have seen anything? The room was pitch-black. The door was locked.

“Look,” I say, turning back to Braden, “nothing happened between Mr. Rossi and me.”

“Nothing, really?”

“No, of
course
not! How can you even ask me that? And why do you think it was Lianna who went to Principal Oberdorfer?”

Braden shrugs. “You know she doesn't like you, right? You're a way better musician than she is. And/or she was angling for the job of teacher's pet, and then you came along.”

“I am not Mr. Rossi's—”

“Don't worry. I get that you and Mr. R have a very Shostakovich-Nikolayeva relationship. Actually, maybe more like Pogorelich-Kezeradze.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Doesn't matter. I'll help you.”

“You will?”

“Yeah, why not? I'm a nice guy.”

He smiles at me in this rueful way, and for a brief moment I flash back to summer: the two of us making out in the backseat of his car, wasted from the bottle of red wine that I swiped from Dad's liquor cabinet. I remember the sweat pouring off our bodies—we were in the middle of a heat wave—and the bright, tiny fireflies that punctuated the darkness outside. The air was thick with heat and honeysuckle. Most of our clothes were off, and we came
this close
to going all the way.

But at the last minute, just as he was reaching for the condoms, I had a panicky change of heart. I have no idea why; it just felt
wrong.
He was really understanding about it, even the next day, when I told him that I wanted to go back to being just friends.

My life would be so much easier if I dated guys like Braden . . . guys my own age.

“So what's the plan?” Braden prompts me.

“Um, so . . . if anyone asks, like the police or Principal Oberdorfer or whoever, can you tell him that we're together? That we've been in a relationship since, like, the beginning of summer?”

“Is this to make them believe you're hooking up with me and not Mr. R?”

I blush. “Yeah, that's the idea.”

“Have we said ‘I love you' to each other, or have we not gotten there yet?”

“Um, sure.”

“I'll need some more details about us. I'll start a notebook so I can keep track. Oh, and we should definitely go to the homecoming dance together.”

“Um, I guess?”

“Roses or orchids?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your corsage. Would you prefer roses or orchids?”

I wish he didn't sound so enthusiastic about all this.

When I get home, I find Dad sitting on the couch, nursing a scotch in the dark.

I flick on the overhead light. “Dad?”

As soon as he turns to look at me, I know that he knows.

Oh my God, I am in So. Much. Trouble.

“I've been trying to get hold of you, Bea. Your principal called me,” he says in a steely voice.

“Oh.”

I take off my jacket and hang it up in the closet, biding my time. I can hear Cream Puff in the kitchen, meowing and batting her bowl around.

“I think Cream Puff needs her dinner—,” I begin.

“Later. Sit down, please.”

“Okay.” I perch on the far end of the couch and don't meet his eyes. A long, terrible silence hangs between us. I stare at
the wood floor and notice a big, jagged scratch. How long has it been there?

Dad finally speaks. “Beatrice, I need you to tell me about this Mr. Rossi.” He calls me by my full name only when he's angry.

“W-what about him?”

“Did he . . .” He falters. “Did this man
molest
you?”

The word “molest” cuts like a knife. “God,
no
!”

“Then
what
?”

“Really, this is all just a big misunderstanding.”

“Explain it to me, then.”

“Yes, okay.”

I decide to recycle the story I told Braden earlier and add in the detail about Lianna, even though it's probably false. “This girl at school . . . I think she may have lied and said some stuff about me and Mr. Rossi. None of it's true. I told Principal Oberdorfer that, and the policeman, too.”

“You mean Detective Torres?”

“Wait, how do you know his name?”

“I called up a buddy of mine at the DA's office, and he filled me in.”

I twist my hands in my lap. This whole situation is swirling out of control. “The police will drop this, right? They'll realize it's a mistake?” I say hopefully.

“I'm not sure. They'll be wanting to conduct an investigation first, to determine if this is a case of statutory rape.”

“
What?
But D—Mr. Rossi didn't rape me. He didn't do
anything
to me.”

“But if he did . . . if the two of you had sex, which is what this witness said she saw . . .” Dad hesitates. “The age of consent in this state is eighteen. Which means that you, Bea, aren't able to consent to sex because you're only seventeen. Even if you
think
you consented, even if you said ‘yes' a dozen times, even if you're the one who initiated . . . you didn't consent. You
can't.
Therefore, if someone eighteen or over has sex with you, they are guilty of statutory rape and could go to jail for up to ten years.”

“
Ten years?
You have
got
to be joking.”

“I'm afraid not. In addition, because we don't have what's commonly called a ‘Romeo and Juliet provision' in this state, basically no one under eighteen can consent to sex with anyone, regardless of age. The DA could, for example, prosecute two sixteen-year-olds for having sex with each other.”

“Are you
serious
? Dad, tons of people in my school are having sex. Everyone
everywhere
is having sex. Are you saying they're all breaking the law?”

“If they're under the age of consent, then, yes.”

“God, you sound like a lawyer!”

“I
am
a lawyer. And right now you need to listen to me. Very carefully. This is an extremely serious matter.”

I cross my arms over my chest. How can this be happening? I knew Dane and I weren't
technically
allowed to have sex until I was eighteen and he was no longer a teacher at my school. That's why we'd planned to wait until December.

Still, I didn't think he could go to jail. And for
ten years
?

“Bea?”

“What?”

“I need to know. Did you have sex with this man?”

“No!”

“Did he come on to you in any way? Say anything? Touch you?”

“No!”

“Then what is this about?”

“God!”

I bend down and put my head in my hands. It's an effort not to start crying or throwing things or whatever. Last night in the music history room was a huge mistake, but it's not like Dane and I did anything immoral. I wanted him, and he wanted me. He's not some sleazy child molester.

“Honey?” Dad says.

“What?”

“Talk to me.
Please.
”

I sniffle and flop back against the couch, wondering what equation of truth and lies I should tell him. Obviously, I can't say as much as I said to Plum. Dad needs to know some of it, though—about the private lessons and maybe the trip to New York City, too.

I brace myself. “Dad.”

“Yes, honey?”

“Mr. Rossi . . . he's more than just a teacher to me. He heard me play the piano and said I was a prodigy. He arranged for me to meet with his former teacher at Juilliard, who's a famous concert pianist. He drove me to New York City on Columbus Day weekend, and—”

“Excuse me, he did
what
?” Dad erupts.

I hold up my hands. “I'm sorry. I lied about being in Boston with Plum. But I was worried that if I told you where I was really going, you would say no.”

He stares at me in astonishment.

“When you and I went out for pizza a few weeks ago, I told you I wanted to study music at college, right? The thing is, I don't want to go to a regular old college. I want to go to a conservatory. And my first choice is . . . it's Juilliard,” I continue.

His face blanches.

“I really want to become a professional musician, like Mom,” I rush on. “But I couldn't tell you before because,
well . . . it made you so miserable every time I even
touched
the piano. And Mr. Rossi . . . he changed all that, encouraged me to pursue my dreams. He spent hours and hours of his own time teaching me and coaching me and preparing me for my appointment at Juilliard. He believes in me. Why is that so wrong?”

Dad picks up his scotch, twirls the glass in his hand, and sets it down again. A million emotions cross his face, and I don't understand any of them.

“I am so sorry, honey,” Dad says finally.

“
You're
sorry? What for?”

“I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping your mom out of your life. I see now that I made a terrible mistake.”

“It's okay, Dad.”

“No, it's not okay. I'm a rotten father. I knew I couldn't do this without your mom. I've already ruined your brother's life, and—” Tears stream down his cheeks as he turns away from me.

I scoot over and hug him. “It's okay. We'll fix this. We'll fix Theo, too, somehow. Just be our dad, okay?”

He bends his head to my shoulder, crying, and I start crying too.