Nets and Lies (8 page)

“Oh, Mom, it’s so awful!” I cried, sinking down on the exercise bench.

She brushed the hair away from my face. “Tell me what happened.”

Slowly, I purged myself of mine and Coach T’s affair. It was like I had word vomit and couldn’t stop. I related every intimate detail, every stolen moment together. Mom sat like a statue by my side, never reacting, never gasping with horror or disappointment. I had to say I was pretty impressed she didn’t go on a profanity filled tirade.

When I finally finished, Mom stared at me wide-eyed. “Oh, JoJo, I’m so sorry!” She pulled me into her arms. “Who does that son of a bitch think he is? Tossing you aside like a piece of shit!”

“I know,” I moaned. For a fleeting moment, I felt comforted by her rocking me back and forth.

Mom’s breath echoed in my ear. “Don’t you worry, baby. He’s not going to get away with this. We’re going to see that he pays.”

“No, you don’t understand. When I told him I would tell about the affair, he mocked me. He said no one would believe me over him because of my reputation.” I shook my head and wiped my eyes. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe no one will take my word over his.”

Mom took my hands in hers. “It’s all about your story. You’re just a kid—he took advantage of you. He basically raped you.” When I started to protest, Mom held up her hand. “This is what has to be done. Now think. There must be something you have on him—something he can’t dispute.”

“Like what?”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Intimate stuff, JoJo. Like if he’s not circumcised or if he has a tattoo or a scar somewhere only you would know about.”

Frantically, I searched my mind for any incriminating details. Then an image formed in my mind. It was this past New Year’s Eve night. Coach T’s wife and Will remained out of state for the holidays. He’d come back early—claiming just to be with me.

After we rang in the New Year with champagne and strawberries, we lay intertwined in his bed. I tried ignoring his wedding picture staring at me from the dresser.
Instead, I focused on him. “What’s this?” I asked, as I playfully traced a scar running the length of his hip. I’d felt it several times before, but I’d never thought to ask. It had rough, jagged edges, but in the middle, it was smooth to the touch.

“Oh that?” He asked, peering down at his hip. “That’s my gang wound.”

I cocked my eyebrows at him. “Bullshit! You’re too much a pansy to have ever been in a gang!”

Coach T laughed. “I didn’t say I was in a gang. I said it was a gang
wound
.”

“Uh-huh,” I murmured, propping my head on my elbows to stare at him.

“Yeah, this one time when I was in college at Northwestern, I passed by this basketball court where all these gang members were playing. Being the cocky asshole I was, I strode out there and challenged them to a game.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re still a cocky asshole.”

“Will you let me finish my story?” he asked, a grin hovering at his lips.

“Fine, fine.”

“So I beat one of their star players, this huge guy covered in tattoos. So he’s all pissed and needing to save face, so he pulls a knife on me. Cuts me from here to here,” he took my hand in his and rubbed my fingertips along the scar. “Sixty stitches later, I have a battle wound that never goes away.”

“Poor baby,” I said, bringing my lips to his. “A couple of more inches, and you would have been in real trouble.”

“Umm, hmm,” he murmured before pushing me back down on the bed.

I jolted out of the vision. I stared at Mom before blurting, “He has a scar.”

Mom nodded. “Good, good. Where is it?” She closed her eyes and said, “Please tell me it’s somewhere incriminating, somewhere not everyone can see!”

“It’s on the inside of his hip down to his groin.”

“Nice! Oh yeah, that one’s gonna come back to bite his ass!” She practically clapped her hands together with glee.

But I didn’t share her excitement. Something about all of it made me uneasy. I nervously chewed my lip before saying, “Mom, I’m not so sure about accusing him of rape.”

“You’re already eighteen, Jo-Jo, so a consensual affair isn’t going to do very much to hurt him. But,” she paused, “if it’s rape, we can ensure that he really pays for how he took advantage of you both with his teaching career and maybe even jail-time.” She then nonchalantly untied her dark hair. It cascaded down her back before she tossed it absentmindedly over her shoulder. She acted like I’d just said I wasn’t sure what I should have for dinner, not that I wasn’t sure whether I should frame the coach who’d dumped me.

I sighed. “I want to hurt him, but...”

“But what?” she demanded.

“I-I…love him.”

Mom shot up from the workout bench. “Jordan, what have I told you about men and love?”

“You never,
ever
fall in love with them,” I recited, like an obedient child. Hell, I knew it by heart. She’d ingrained it in me since I was twelve years old. Normal moms encourage their daughters to fall in love and to experience romance. But not my mom.

She nodded in approval. “And why do you never fall in love with a man?”

“Mom, please—”

“Say it, Jordan!”

I glared up at her. “As long as man has your heart, he controls you!”

“That’s right. And you don’t ever want to be controlled by a man.
You
want to control
him.
”

“I know, I know,” I protested feebly. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did.”

She smirked at me. “And look what it got you. Tossed aside so he can move on the next piece of ass.” Rolling her eyes, she murmured under her breath, “Just like your father.”

I cringed. It never failed whenever some guy had screwed me over that Mom managed to mention my dad. Somehow I seemed to be paying for his sins with every relationship or hook-up. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I want him to pay for what he did.”

Mom cocked a dark eyebrow at me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because you’ve got to be absolutely certain of your decision before we go forward. There’s no going back once you accuse him.”

I refused to meet her expectant gaze. Instead, I stared down at my hands. “Yeah, I’m positive.”

Mom’s nails dug into my chin as she jerked my face to hers. “Dammit, JoJo, I mean it. I’m not going to bat for you if you’re not certain you want to see that asshole pay.”

Swatting her hand away, I stared coldly at her. “I said I was sure. What the fuck do you want me to do? Write it in blood?”

Mom smiled. “There’s my fiery girl. You had me worried there for a minute. You’re going to need that fire in you if we’re going to make this happen.”

Rolling my eyes, I spat, “Just get off my back and stop worrying about me, okay? I’ll do what I have to do. I’ll even ham it up and cry while I describe how he threw me down and raped me.” I brought my hands to my temples. My head had begun pounding.

“So?” Mom asked.

“
So
, I’m going upstairs to take some Advil before going to bed and putting an end to this truly screwed up day!”

Mom shook her head. “Not before we get your story straight.”

“You mean sit down and go through it like we’re writing a damn novel or something?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. You gotta march into that principal’s office tomorrow with a story no one can poke holes into.”

I stared at her for a minute. “Do you realize how seriously fucked up you sound right now?”

She laughed. “Oh honey, this is nothing!” She motioned around the room. “Do you think we’d have all of this if I wasn’t totally fucked up?”

I didn’t make it to bed until close to midnight. We talked everything through a million times. No detail was spared as Mom and I fabricated the story of how Coach T had raped me. In the end, it wasn’t hard since he had taken advantage of me along with taking what little trust I had left in men. Every time I started to falter on my feelings about crying rape, I thought of the way he had acted in his office—how he was probably doing Melanie behind my back. That caused the anger to pulse in my veins, and I wanted him punished.

The next morning I barely touched my breakfast. My stomach churned so tightly in knots I felt like I would throw up.
Get a grip, Jordan! You’re acting like some pussy about this. Get your head on straight and your act together
.

Mom drove me to school. From time to time, she would turn to look at me. Each time, she flashed me a winning smile. “It’s gonna be okay, JoJo. You’ll see,” she reassured.

To keep my focus, I once again kept my mind on how he had treated me the night before—the things he’d said, the look of hatred he’d given me. That was the Coach T I wanted to pay. I locked the other one—the one I truly loved—out of my mind.

I strode confidently through the office door with Mom close on my heels. I stopped at the secretary’s desk. “Yes, I need to see Dr. Micheltree.”

The secretary, who was a floater and sometimes substitute teacher, eyed me disdainfully before staring down at an appointment book in front of her. I guess she remembered subbing for some of my classes. I fought the urge to laugh in her face about how ridiculous she was to hold a grudge over stupid shit like that. But I refrained.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I don’t.”

A shit eaten grin spread across her face. “Oh, I’m sorry then, but Dr. Micheltree won’t see you unless you have an appointment. You’ll have to come back.”

I opened my mouth to make a smartass remark, but Mom pushed me aside. She leaned in on the counter—her face inches from the secretary’s. “Now you listen to me. I didn’t haul ass all the way down here to be told to come back some other time. I should be at work right now, and I don’t intend to come back. So, we’ll just have a seat until she can see us!”

Without another word, Mom turned on her heels and clicked over to the couch. She shot the secretary one last angry look before she flounced down. I stood rooted to the floor, almost as astonished at the secretary, whose mouth still hung open wide. But then, I went to sit down beside her.

Barely five minutes had passed when the secretary cleared her throat. “Dr. Micheltree can see you now.”

Mom threw a triumphant glance at me before rising from the sofa. “Thank you so much for all your help,” she drawled in a sugary, sweet voice as we passed the desk. We wound around through a circle of offices before arriving at Dr. Micheltree’s door. Mom knocked.

“Come in,” a voice called.

We walked in the office. Mrs. Tillery, Dr. Micheltree’s secretary, smiled at us. “She just stepped out. Please have a seat, and she’ll be right with you.”

We eased down in the leather bound chairs in front of the desk. “Have you ever been in here?” Mom asked, in a whisper once Mrs. Tillery left the room.

“Nope. Just Mr. Sands office.”

“I see.”

Dr. Micheltree didn’t keep us long. She breezed into the office, her usual dark bob bouncing. “Good morning,” she said, with a smile. I couldn’t help but wonder how fake she seemed. I guess she was used to putting on a front for irate parents. “And what is it you’ve come to see me about?”

Mom cleared her throat. “I’m Ms. Bradford, and my daughter, Jordan, has something she needs to tell you.”