Damaged: A Violated Trust (Secrets) (20 page)

“How are you feeling?” He starts his car.

“I feel like I’ve just spent a day on the battlefield.”

“It’s going to get better.”

“I want to believe that.” I bend down and pick up the bulletin. “Is this yours?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nods as he turns onto the street.

“My dad and I went to this church yesterday.”

He tosses a surprised sideways glance at me. “You’re kidding!”

“No. A friend of his goes there. And, well, after Dad heard about what I’ve been through, he thought maybe it was time for us to get back into church again. We used to go, back when my parents were still married, back before my mom went crazy.”

“Your mom went crazy?”

“Well, not literally. Or maybe literally. I’m not sure, really. But about the same time my brother went to Iraq, my mom started going to this weird church, and she started acting different … and my parents split up. And I just quit church altogether.”

“So where are you with your faith now?”

Feeling a little self-conscious, I explain about recommitting my life to God.

“Seriously?” His face lights up. “That is extremely cool, Haley. I’m really happy for you. Are you happy about it too?”

“It’s kind of hard to imagine ever feeling
truly
happy again. But I do feel a little better … kind of like I have a bit of hope now. Before I was so bummed…. It was like I couldn’t see any way out of this mess. Now I think maybe I can survive it after all. Even though … it’s still really hard. Especially after today.”

“I’ll bet you that by the end of the week, kids won’t even be talking about it anymore.”

“I don’t know about that. The end of the week is a football game, and if Mitchell loses because Harris is gone, I’m sure everyone will blame me.”

“I suppose you could be right. But what you might not know is the JV team has a really good quarterback, Ben Stiles. He’s only a sophomore, but I’m guessing they’ll move him up to varsity now. I have a feeling he’s even better than Harris. Plus, he’s a really good guy. He goes to my church too.”

“It seems like a nice church. We plan to go back next Sunday.”

“What service did you go to?”

I tell him and he explains that if we went to the first service instead, I could attend the youth fellowship group afterward. “And if you like, I can drop you home. You know, if your dad wanted to leave after the worship service.”

“That sounds good. Thanks.” We’re at the condo now. “I really appreciate you playing guardian angel for me, Zach.” I reach for the door handle. “You have no idea.”

“How about if I pick you up for school tomorrow? That might make it easier on you, in case you get mobbed again.”

“You don’t mind?”

He smiles. “Not at all.”

I smile back. “You know, Zach, you’re a lot better looking than John Lennon.”

He throws back his head and laughs. “You just made my day, Haley.”

I wave good-bye as I get out, and as I go up the stairs to our unit, I experience what almost feels like a tiny surge of happiness.

...[CHAPTER 18].................

O
n the following day, with Zach still acting as my guardian angel, I feel a little more confident. And I even go as far as to take Libby aside in biology. The teacher is out and we’re supposed to be doing lab work, but I feel like this is important. For some reason, I get the impression Libby’s not part of Emery’s we-hate-Haley club. “Are you as angry at me as Emery and the others?” I tentatively ask.

“No.” She shakes her head. “Why should I be?”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

She shrugs but looks a little uneasy.

I glance around to be sure no one is listening, and it looks safe. “Do you know the names of other girls who might’ve gone out with Harris, you know, during those brief breakup times? I remember you mentioned something about it before.”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Because there’s a concern that I might not have been Harris’s only victim,” I say in a hushed tone.

Her eyes get bigger. “Oh.”

I can tell she knows something. “Maybe we could talk during lunch. Would that be okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please,” I beg. “At least hear me out. Okay?”

Her gaze darts around, as if she thinks someone might be watching.

“Please,” I say again. “What he did was wrong, Libby,
illegal.
If he gets away with it … well, then we’ll be to blame for any future victims.”

“Okay,” she says in a tight voice. “Meet me in the library, in the magazine section. Don’t be late.” Then she turns back to her lab and I go back to mine.

After biology I tell Zach about what I’m doing. “Do you think you could sort of watch to be sure no one else sees us? Libby is afraid to be seen talking to me.”

“Sure,” he agrees. “No problem.”

I feel high expectations as Zach and I hurry to the library after fourth period, but when I get there, Libby is nowhere to be seen. “Do you think she chickened out?” Zach asks as we sit in the comfortable easy chairs to wait.

“I hope not.”

Then just as we’re ready to give up, Libby comes in through a back door. She motions to me from behind a bookshelf and I hurry to join her. “I probably shouldn’t be doing this,” she tells me.

“Yes, you should.” Then I explain about the police’s theory that I might not be an isolated case but how the lack of evidence is a concern. “If other girls have been hurt like me, their stories need to come out too. Otherwise, Harris could just keep doing this. Do you want him to get away with it?”

She shakes her head, then hands me a slip of paper. “I made a list.”

“Thanks!”

“And I have no idea if those girls went through what you did. I suspect a lot of them knew exactly what they were getting into. But there’s a couple — I put stars by their names — who might have a story to tell.”

“This is great, Libby.”

“I left one name off the list.”

“One name?” I’m confused.

“Mine.”

I try not to look shocked. “
Really?”

“Last summer. I … well … I was the mystery girl Harris was with for a short while.”

“So … did Harris, uh, did he hurt you?” I lower my voice. “I mean, did he rape you?”

She just nods and there are tears in her eyes. “

I’m sorry.”

“I … well, I should’ve known better. I’d heard stories. But somehow I thought I’d be different. I thought he was really done with Emery. And I believed him when he said he loved me.”

“I’m sad to say I know how you feel. Well, except I really didn’t know better.”

“I tried to warn you, Haley.”

I frown. “You never said a word to me.”

“I wrote you a note. Didn’t you get it?”

A wave of regret rushes through me. “Yes, but it was anonymous … and I didn’t believe it.”

She shakes her head sadly. “I know I should’ve told you in person.”

I sigh. “That might’ve made a difference. But that’s exactly why we can’t afford to remain silent now, Libby. Other girls need to be protected and it’s up to us to blow the lid off this thing.”

She still looks uneasy. “Well, you have the list.”

I thank her and tuck the list into my jeans pocket, then we go our separate ways. Zach is still waiting for me and I give him a thumbs-up. We hurry to the cafeteria, where we both grab a quick lunch and I explain that I want to take the list to Mrs. Evanston. “She can get it to the police,” I tell him as we walk toward the office. We just catch her returning from her own lunch and she invites us into her office.

“Here’s a list of names.” I hand her the paper. “I don’t even know who most of these girls are, and some might not have been actual victims, but some probably were. And there’s one name not on the list.” Now I tell her about Libby.

Mrs. Evanston shakes her head, and her eyes grow wide when she reads the list. “This is so wrong … so sad … on so many levels.”

“So you’ll see that the police or the DA or whatever gets it?”

“Of course, but I’d like to do more than just that.” She looks hopefully at me. “It would help if I had your cooperation.”

“My cooperation?” I feel worried now. All I want is for all this to be over and to get a life back with some semblance of normality.

“I’d like to invite a special counselor in. Someone who knows how to help victims of rape. I’d like to set up some group therapy for the girls who suffered.”

“Why do you need my cooperation?”

“I’d like you to help lead the group.”

“Me?” I blink. “Lead a group of rape victims? I don’t think so.”

“I know it probably sounds overwhelming right now, but maybe you could give it some time … just think about it.”

“I’ll think about it, and I might even attend a group like that. But leading it … well, I just can’t imagine doing that.”

She thanks me for the list, and Zach and I hurry off to art, where we are all busily getting things ready for Thursday night’s fall art fair. It feels good to be busy like this. I love that Ms. Flores is comfortable asking me to do things to help — the kinds of things I’m comfortable doing, not leading a group of rape victims!

……….

During the next couple of days, rumors circulate regarding Harris. Mostly I try to ignore them, but it’s impossible not to hear some things. Finally I decide that perhaps it’s better not to be like an ostrich with my head buried, and I ask Zach if he can bring me up to date.

Apparently he’s been paying attention, because according to him, Harris is currently (1) out on bail, (2) claiming he’s innocent, (3) hiring an expensive attorney, and (4) planning a countersuit against me for defamation of character and other things. I don’t even know how to respond to this news. But Zach hugs me and assures me that it will be okay. However, I have my doubts. Lots and lots of doubts.

As Dad drives me to the art fair, I tell him the latest news.

“Don’t let Harris get to you. I’m sure he’s just trying to intimidate you. He’s obviously used to getting his way. But I’m sure no judge will be interested in hearing a countersuit in a case like this.”

“Well, it’s still pretty intimidating,” I confess.

“Even so, you need to stick to your guns, Haley. The truth will eventually come out. I’m sure of it. Just be strong, sweetie. In due time, this will all be behind you.”

I wish I felt as confident as Dad. As we go into the school, where lots of parents are visiting tonight, what little self-assurance I had built up in regard to the art fair is quickly unraveling.

“Hold your head high.” Dad pats me on the back. “You know who you are and it doesn’t matter what others say or think.”

“Right.” I try to make a brave smile, then leave him at our improvised “coffeehouse” while I go to find my pottery station. Since I knew I was doing something messy, throwing pots, I dressed pretty casually tonight. Just jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, plus I put my hair in two braids. At the time it made sense, but now that I’m seeing a lot of the students dressed up and stylish, I’m not so sure. Just the same, I take my place at the potting wheel and, focusing on my work, I get started.

Zach waves to me from the table where he’s doing block printing, as does Poppie from where she’s sitting in front of an easel, working on a canvas. Before long a group of grade school kids come over and start to watch me. I casually tell them what I’m doing, field some of their questions, and am just starting to feel good about this whole thing when I sense someone staring at me.

I pause, wiping my hands on the rag in my lap, and look up to see a middle-aged couple scowling at me. I have no idea how I know this, but I am absolutely certain that these tall and relatively attractive people are Harris’s parents.

I lock eyes with the woman for a moment, but there is so much pure hatred in her expression that I’m forced to turn away. Seriously, if looks could kill, I’d be a goner. As it is, my hands start to shake and I’m worried that I’m going to blow this pot, which I’d hoped to transform into a bowl.

I dip my hands in water.
God, please, please, please help me through this uncomfortable moment.
It’s not the first time I’ve prayed lately, but it might be the most desperate time. My hands are trembling.

“Why are you getting your hands wet?” a boy with dark curly hair asks me.

“That helps to smooth out the pot.” I carefully hold my hands on the clay. “See how much smoother it’s getting?”

“Can I try it?” he asks.

I’m tempted to say no, worried that he’ll mess it up. But I could just as easily mess it up if my hands don’t stop shaking. “Sure. Come over here and dip your hands in the water, and I’ll let you give it a try. You have to be gentle though.”

With wide eyes he comes over and I instruct him on what to do. “That feels cool,” he says as his hands cup the pot. “It’s so
smooth
.”

“That’s because of the water.”

Just then he presses too hard and the whole thing goes lopsided and flops over. He jumps back, holding his hands in the air. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do that.”