Order in the Court (17 page)

I reached out a shaky hand to slide back the lock on the door, closed my eyes, held my breath, and waited for the gunshot. I was back in that bathroom, the dirty Sparky’s bathroom, and there was blood on the shoes—Dustin’s shoes, and—

Brandon’s hands pushed my hair back behind my ears gently. I felt more than heard his soft “shh,” as his hands cupped my face. “Breathe,” he said, and I did, taking a huge breath, filling my starving lungs.

“You’re okay,” he said. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

He crouched a little so that our faces were level. His massive shoulders looked absurd in the stall of a ladies’ bathroom, his tanned face so familiar and foreign that I was startled out of my panic attack. Another deep breath and the black spots in my vision faded. Brandon was really there, really tenderly cupping my face in his big hands. They were warm and soft.

A tear ran over my hot cheeks, and then another, and another, and Brandon’s thumbs ran over my cheekbones to brush them away. I fell, exhausted, into his arms, and he was really there to catch me.

MY FEET
were against his feet, heel to heel, like we were measuring. His were much bigger than mine, his toes curling down over my toes, gripping them dexterously. Monkey feet, Jessa had called them, telling us in all seriousness how Brandon could pick things up with his toes. I felt a stab of loss. I hardly ever thought of Jessa anymore. Ricky, sometimes, and Kate more frequently. But not Jessa, as much.

“We should tell stories,” I said, trying to break the silence. Robert sat rigidly against Brandon’s dresser. I leaned against the bed while Brandon reclined against his beanbag chair, trying to grab my feet with his feet.

“Yeah, happy ones,” Brandon said. “Happy stories only. First rule of the Survivors’ Club.”

I hadn’t been serious when I’d said that, but I liked the way it sounded better than “support group.” It made me feel important. If survivor’s guilt is a thing, and God knows I have that, then survivors’ clubs should be mandatory.

“Deal,” I said. Then I was quiet again and he was quiet and Robert sat silently against the dresser as he had since he’d arrived. I’d gotten a hug when he walked in, and a shy “Hi, Corey,” but then—nothing. He was an empty shell of the person Ricky had danced with at prom.

I tried to think of a happy story the guys would remember, then one of just us girls that would maybe amuse them. Nothing came to mind. My forehead crinkled with concentration. There had to be something. My mind was blank.

“This one time,” Brandon said, rocking my feet back and forth in the grip of his toes. A crease appeared between his eyebrows. “One time we….” He trailed off and bit his lip. His eyes met mine, mutual panic on our faces.

“The Christmas parade,” Robert said. “December before last.”

Brandon smiled thankfully. “Jessa on the float-decorating committee.”

I nodded, remembering the craziness of that week. “I was a prefect, so I had my fingers in
tons
of projects. Ricky and Kate were just running interference the whole time, trying to follow orders while we freaked out.”

“Ricky was allergic to the pine,” Robert said.

“And she broke out in hives trying to help Jessa cover the float with branches,” I agreed, remembering the scene.

The school gym had been the place to set everything up, the decorations going up while the marching band rehearsed on the other side of the basketball court. Robert had been there, awkwardly hovering between the two groups—watching Brandon do his drum thing while keeping an eye on Ricky, still fragile from her recent breakup with Mike Lewczynski.

“Jessa began barking orders and completely disrupted band practice,” Brandon added, closing his eyes. “She was so mad that Ricky had been helping, even though she knew she was allergic.”

“Kate would not stop laughing. I hit her with a wrapping-paper tube.” It had made the funniest sound, a
bong!
against her shin.

“And then the Fire Nation attacked.”

Brandon and I began laughing hysterically at Robert’s deadpan delivery of the description. Everything had been chaos for the next twenty minutes—people running around and first-aid kits coming out and two different people, neither of them Ricky, ended up being stabbed by EpiPens. The gym floor had been covered in streamers and pine boughs, and littered with discarded musical instruments.

“That was the most fun we’d had since Mike and Ricky split,” I said when I’d caught my breath, and then I added, “Sorry,” although Robert didn’t say anything.

“We can’t change the past,” Robert said sagely.

I nodded and crawled across the floor to him. “Rule Number Two,” I said, wrapping my arms around Robert’s middle and ducking my head under his chin. “Lots of cuddling. Okay?”

Brandon scooted over to us and then flung himself across both of our laps. He was heavy. Robert slowly relaxed into my hug, and one of his hands settled in Brandon’s hair. I put one of my hands on the back of Brandon’s knee, feeling the hard muscle twitch under my palm. I closed my eyes and felt, for the first time in a long time, completely and utterly safe.

I HADN’T
wanted to go, but my mother made me. I was even more certain it was the wrong decision when I walked in, and Valerie was already there. I resolutely did not look at her when I sat down next to Neal and said hello to him. He was just happy that I’d remembered his name.

The usual crowd filtered in, with the addition of a new girl named Aisha. She barely said two words, but Beatrice seemed inclined to let her keep her head down. I talked a little bit about how Christmas had been this year without my friends there, to fill the expectations of those around me. Everyone nodded with sympathy, and said encouraging words about how holidays were the hardest.

I didn’t tell the group that I’d gone on a date to try to fill the void—if that was what coffee with Valerie had been, even. She didn’t look at me when I was talking, and I didn’t look in her direction when she talked, either.

It was like we were separated by an invisible barrier.

After the session I felt cold and empty. Support group had lost its appeal already, the possibility of a safe space ruined by the flaring anger under my skin every time Valerie opened her mouth to say something.

It was like she was everywhere I turned, with her startled bush-baby eyes and pursed pink lips. She even sidled next to me at the bus stop when we’d finished, fiddling with a lopsided crocheted scarf that refused to lie flat in the neck of her winter jacket.

“So,” she said, and I stubbornly said nothing, staring down the empty street as though the bus might appear three minutes early to save me from this conversation.

“You can’t just ignore me.”

“I can and I will,” I said. It was childish, but I wanted to be petty. I had every right, didn’t I? Didn’t her behavior warrant pettiness?

“Come on, Corey. Don’t be a baby.” As if realizing she was making things worse, she stopped talking and let go of her hideous scarf. “I’m sorry for what I said at the coffee shop.”

“Oh, are you?” Pettiness, still. But I allowed myself to feel it, to harness the sour taste of it. People always say that teenage girls are petty, catty creatures by nature. Why not embrace it? I could be catty. Catty girls didn’t feel the bitter sting of rejection, the tug of disappointment low in one’s abdomen. “What are you sorry for, exactly? Which part?”

Valerie seemed taken aback by my hostility. “When I called you straight,” she said, as if it were obvious. “I thought you were gay, and got defensive when you told me you were bi. But I believe you, and I’m sorry I called you a straight girl.”

She seemed proud of herself. Her smugness was irritating.

“Okay.”

“Okay? So we’re good?” she asked hopefully.

My face was impassive when I answered, “No, we’re not.” Her smile drooped. “If you think that’s why I was mad, you really don’t understand any of what happened. I deserve better than someone who lashes out at me and my identity when her point of view is threatened.”

Valerie crossed her arms defensively and turned her face away from me. “I knew this was a waste of time.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?” I snapped.

The sting of my disappointment when the situation turned sour in the coffee shop was still sharp and clear. My anger, which swelled so easily these days when I was under so much stress, was barely contained.

“Because I thought we could be civil!” she said. “Because I thought you’d be a reasonable person and understand that I am not your enemy. We’re on the same side!”

“No matter how high you hold your rainbow flag or how much money you raise for Pride, we will
never
be on the same side,” I said. “Not until you realize that you have just as much prejudice as anyone else, and you stop putting other people down to raise yourself up. You’re a bully, and I don’t associate with bullies who stand by their outdated ideas and biases.”

I didn’t exactly believe my words were fair or true, but they had the desired effect. I wanted her to leave me alone, to let me mope and wallow in peace, and she did.

Valerie adjusted her scarf and left the bus shelter in a huff.

My anger and my energy drained out of me in a rush, and I was left colder and more alone than before she had joined me in the shelter. I felt, not for the first time, like I was becoming an incredibly unlikable person. Why would anyone take my side when I pushed people away?

A dark cloud of self-loathing and misanthropy accompanied me everywhere now. Everything truly was coming apart at the seams. Soon, I would have no one left on my side. And I would have no choice but to join my friends in oblivion.

“ALL RIGHT,
let’s talk about how you’ll look the day of the trial.”

The trial was in exactly one week. My nails were bitten down to bloody stumps, and it felt like even my hair was splitting in protest of all the stress.

“I’m getting a haircut tomorrow,” I said quickly, tugging anxiously at my dead ends. “I’ve picked out an outfit already. A light blue blouse and beige skirt, nothing loud or with logos.” I wrapped my arms around myself to hug my Green Lantern T-shirt, wishing I could be wearing something more familiar instead when I took the plunge.

Haywood waved his hand around as if he were swatting at a fly in front of his face. “No, no, not what you’ll be wearing. We’ve gone over that. I trust you to make a smart first impression. I mean about how you’ll
look
.” He sighed when I raised my eyebrows. “How the jury will
see
you, what they’ll
think
.”

“If I’m dressed like a nice girl, won’t they think I’m a nice girl?” I asked. “And by the way, I’m a nice girl whether I’m wearing ripped jeans and T-shirts or a catholic school uniform.” The cross of my arms became a little more defensive.

“
I
know that and
you
know that,” Haywood said, rubbing at his temple. “But the jury is going to be making a snap judgment about you based on your appearance, your demeanor, and a number of racial and age-based stereotypes.”

I didn’t know how to respond. My jaw went a little slack, not quite dropping open but not far from it, either. “Excuse me?”

“You know. You’re a small girl, pretty, East Asian.” He shrugged. “That’s what they’ll see first and foremost, before your neat clothes even register. Don’t look so surprised! It’s incredibly common for human beings to use stereotypes to make quick judgments about a person’s character and personality. That doesn’t make it right, but this isn’t to our disadvantage.”

“‘This’?” I asked, uncrossing my arms to make finger quotes in the air. “You mean my race. You’re really bringing race into this?” It didn’t feel right. A quiet chill crept up my neck.

“I hate to be frank like this, but it’s best you know what you’re in for. Certain things are going to work to our advantage. Like your size. Make sure you’re wearing flat shoes to emphasize your height. The less physically imposing you look, the more trustworthy you seem.”

“That’s stupid.” I wanted to add, “And you’re stupid,” but I refrained, instead shooting Haywood a nasty look.

“No, it’s logical. Pin your hair back in a clip or a bow to show off your face, and don’t wear any makeup. Asian women in particular are often perceived as submissive, shy, and quiet. If you play up those traits, you’ll seem more sympathetic.”

“This is ridiculous. You want me to play into racial stereotypes? I am not a representative for the entire population of East Asia!”

“I’m not saying that. Will you
listen
to me?” I had never heard Haywood use that tone before. It was a hard, solid voice coming from the most fragile, wispy body. It was a strange juxtaposition, and it served to shut me up. “I’m saying that I can’t prevent there from being racist jurors, but I can teach you how to outsmart them!”

I rubbed at the crease starting in my forehead. My mother was worried about it becoming a permanent wrinkle.

“You’re telling me to assume the worst in people and to lie about who I am because it might make racists feel more comfortable,” I said, lowering my voice to a more reasonable volume. “And I’m telling you that I’m not comfortable with that.”

“Most stereotypes about Asian people are positive. Being studious, good at math, hardworking, that sort of thing. Then to get into the fetishism of the exotic, and you get stereotypes about the obedience and submission of Asian women. I find it repugnant that there are people whose brains operate this way.

“But what I’m trying to say, perhaps ineloquently, is that by allowing those people to think that way while you’re on the stand, you can tip them in our favor. I’m not saying lie. I’m saying… tone
down
that part of you that’s argumentative and strong-willed and a born debater. When you’re the lawyer, you can crush the stereotypes and destroy the patriarchy from the inside out. But you’re the witness, and they have to
like
you.”