The Last Good Girl (16 page)

He'd slipped a roofie into her drink.

Even though this was exactly what she'd come here for, her heart started to pound now that she saw the reality of it. If she drank this cocktail, she would black out. He would take her somewhere and do whatever he wanted to her. Maybe invite his friends to, also. The idea infuriated her as much as it terrified her. She became very aware of the fine line between safety and devastation.

Shakily, she set the cup down on a coffee table. She stood. “I've gotta head out,” she said.

“Wait,” Dylan said. “You didn't finish your drink.”

She walked toward the door. “Thanks for your hospitality.”

He followed her into the foyer and put his hand on her arm. “Where are you going?”

“I really need to go study.”

“Come on up to my room.” He smiled at her. “You can study there.”

She tried to pull her arm away. His grip tightened; she couldn't break free. Her stomach dipped. She looked toward the living room. The people watching TV were blocked from view. She and Dylan were alone in the foyer.

“That's a nice offer,” Jody said. “But I—I don't have my books.”

“You said you came here to study with Peter.”

“I, well—I was going to use his books.”

“What class are you guys in together?”

“Um, social studies. You're hurting my arm.”

“Who are you?” Dylan's smile turned into something ugly. His fingers bit into her flesh. “What are you doing here?”

There's awful, and then there's the special brand of awful reserved for college sex-assault disciplinary hearings.

I had to sit there and listen to Dylan lie and lie and lie. All these gory details about the hot, wet, acrobatic sex we had. While a student, a Ph.D., and a food-services lady tried to keep straight faces.

Ugh.

Ugh, ugh, ugh.

I want to rip out someone's hair. Dylan's. Yolanda's. Mine.

It was in a seminar room in the English Department, like we were all there for a lecture on Nabokov. Which kinda made sense, since Dylan's story was total fiction.

Yolanda Skanadowski sat at the head of the table. She was supposed be like a judge or something, but mostly she sat there like a lump in oatmeal. The three “adjudicators” had been chosen by . . . God knows how. Not because they know how to handle rape cases. Seriously, it was a cafeteria worker from Holmes Hall, still wearing her name badge. A bald engineering Ph.D., who might know how machines work but has no idea about the mechanics of sex. And a pimply sophomore from Topeka.

It's like a trial, I guess, but there are no lawyers. No real judge either. Maybe it's supposed to make you feel more relaxed? But all I got was the feeling that no one knew what the hell they were doing.

The only person in the room who had any legal knowledge was—get this—Dylan. You could tell he'd been superprepared by some expensive lawyer. It wasn't just in his words. It was in his whole way of sitting there. He walked in like Mr. Humble, head down, nodding respectfully at the panel. What a crock. Dylan Highsmith has never walked into a room like that in his life. Someone coached him on how to act like a nice young man. If only they'd done that twenty years ago. We wouldn't've been there today.

I had to go first. The whole time I'm talking, Dylan was sitting right next to me, so close he could have touched me. It was horrible. And he's shaking his head sadly the whole time—when I said he drugged me, he raped me—not like it was so sad that he did it, but it's so sad that I'm a crazy nutjob. I had to avoid looking at him most of the time, or I couldn't have kept going. But I did look right at him when I said he took away my feeling of being in control of my own body. He rolled his eyes—let that nice-boy act slip for just one minute. I hope someone saw that. Then he was Mr. Humble again.

He sucks. But you know what? The panel sucked even worse.

The student from Topeka asked if I was into Dylan when I first met him. Okay, fair enough, I did like him. Topeka asked if I wanted to hook up with Dylan when we went upstairs. I guess I thought we might kiss or something. He asked if I started kissing Dylan. I did not. At least not when I was awake and conscious—who knows what he did to me when I was passed out. So then Topeka asked, was it possible that I was acting in a blackout? That I was just drunk, not drugged? No, not possible, I said. He asked if I remembered Dylan's hand on my breast? No. Did I remember my nipples getting hard? Definitely no. Did I remember him taking off my panties? No. Did I remember him fingering my vagina? Was I moaning? Was I wet? No, no, no. God, no.

That's when I saw that Topeka had his hand under the table, moving rhythmically. I think he was playing with himself! I stared at him, and he stopped, but later on he started again. I couldn't even process it.

Anyway, that's when the engineering Ph.D. jumped in, with all his brilliant questions. How do I know I wasn't aroused if I can't remember? How do I know I wasn't saying yes to everything Dylan did? Maybe I was wet? How wet do I normally get during arousal?

Oh my God. I'm like, shut up. I mean, I didn't actually say that. But I wanted to.

Meanwhile, Dylan's just sitting there, looking respectful and serious.

I started to tell them how Dylan's raped other girls. And that's the one time he interrupted. All polite and formal. “Excuse me,” Dylan said. “But I think this was discussed before the hearing, and it was decided that no other relationships would be mentioned.”

Yolanda flipped through some papers and nodded. “Yes, that's true,” she said. “Emily, please stick to the events of September 1, 2014. That's all we're here to talk about today.”

It's bullshit. Of course it matters that he's done this before. But whatever, it's like they don't even care. Or they don't want to hear it, because then they'd have to do something about it.

Then it was his turn to speak. It was all such an act. Totally scripted. Dylan turned to the panelists and meekly introduced himself. “Hello, I'm Dylan Highsmith. I'm nervous and scared about these proceedings, but respect the work of the panel and the effort you are going through to find the right solution for all the parties here.” Christ. He sounded like a very polite young paralegal. Then he turned to me. “And I would like to start by apologizing to Emily. Emily, I'm sorry you left my room feeling the way you did. I thought we had a wonderful night together, one that we both enjoyed. I would never want you to feel used. Obviously, you did, because here we are. But I want you to know, I never intended for you to feel that way.”

It was so obnoxious. Like this was about some strange way I ended up feeling instead of some terrible way he'd acted. I'm just oversensitive. And the engineering prof is nodding his head sagely, like, yeah, he totally gets this. I wanted to scream.

So then Dylan goes into his song and dance about what happened. It's all pretty much true until we get to his bedroom. Instead of me passing out, he has me hitting on him. I kissed him; I took off his pants; I stripped myself down. I told him how to touch me: harder, faster, a little to the left. I'm riding him like a cowboy.

The three panelists were looking at me, imagining me doing all these things. Two men and one woman, who I've never met before and hope never to meet again.

I have never felt so gross in my entire life.

It's not supposed to be this way. I read the University Handbook. We're supposed to get a fair hearing where everyone feels comfortable and heard. Easier said than done, I know. But still. This was horrible.

And now I just have to wait. They've taken the case “under consideration” and will render an opinion “in due course.” What does that even mean?

So I go home and it's been, obviously, like one of the worst days of my life. I open the door to our suite, and Preya and Whitney are sprawled on the couch, eating pizza and watching
Say Yes to the Dress
. I shouldn't be surprised; life goes on, and I hadn't told anyone what was happening today. But still it was so weird to see regular life just meandering along.

I don't know why—I've kept it inside all this time—but I sat down and told them everything. What Dylan did three months ago. Why I've been so depressed all semester. The kangaroo court today. Preya turned off the TV and patted my back and was supportive in her quiet way.

Whitney was furious, though. Not at Dylan. At me. For bringing charges. She said it was going to ruin the frat, make them stop throwing parties, get them shut down. She said I wasn't raped—I just had morning-after regrets. I was angry Dylan hadn't called. I wanted attention and the “status” of being a rape victim. Yeah, because being a rape victim is so much fun!

I should've known. Whitney is obsessed with Beta Psi. She's been hanging out with this Peter guy, not dating, obviously, because those guys don't date, but answering all his booty calls and generally following him around like a puppy. “The guys are going to be at Lucky's at eleven o'clock!” she'll say, and be sure to be there at 11:15. She's so up in their business, she could be Beta Psi's official scheduler.

So she yelled at me for a while, then demanded I drop the charges. I laughed in her face. I haven't gotten this far in the process to call up Yolanda and tell her I was just kidding. Fuck Dylan. And fuck Whitney too. I said that.

Whitney's face got as red as her Marry Me lipstick, and she stood up and screamed so much, spit was flying out of her mouth. All these dire threats: I'll be blackballed, I'll be an outcast, I'll never be invited to another party again.

Like I want to go to parties. I told Whitney exactly how much she scared me. And then I told her what I've thought of her from day one. She's a spoiled, selfish, shallow, coked-out ditz who only got into Tower because her parents donated their way in. And her nose job sucks.

Oh man. I'm not proud of myself. I don't enjoy making people feel bad. I would've never said those things to Whitney—though they're true—except I was at the end of my rope. I was totally overwhelmed by everything that happened today.

Whitney sucked in a breath like I'd just kicked her in the stomach. Then she grabbed her bag and stormed out. The last thing she said was, “You'll be sorry.”

The door slammed shut. Preya and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. It felt so good—and strange—to laugh. I haven't done that in such a long time. I don't know what made it funny, except the whole thing was so ridiculous. Preya was like, “I think she was trying to scare you.” I was like, “Totally.” Which was the funny part. As if that girl can do any worse than what's already been done.

D
ylan's hand felt like a steel vise on her arm.

“Let go of me,” Jody said.

Dylan narrowed his eyes. “Not till you tell me why you're here.”

“To study with Peter, like I said.”

“That's bullshit, and we both know it.”

He hauled her toward the staircase. She tried to yank her arm away, but he was too strong. Her feet skidded along the wooden floor. Panic rose in her throat. She didn't want to yell and get everyone to come running. She'd wanted to slip in and out unnoticed. But she could not let him drag her upstairs.

“Okay, okay, okay,” she said. “Wait. Just stop and I'll tell you.”

He didn't stop; he dragged her even harder. They were at the staircase.

“I'm . . .” She tried to think through her panic. She looked at the large frame on the wall. Across the top, it said:
BETA PSI, CLASS OF 2014
. Below were pictures of several dozen boys wearing blue blazers and ties. “If you have to know, okay, I'm here as a prank. From my sorority. I was, like, supposed to steal your composite.”

Dylan stopped pulling her. “What sorority?”

“Please don't be mad, okay?” She desperately tried to remember the names on the houses she'd passed on the way here. “Gamma Phi Delta. Please don't tell my sisters, okay? I'll get in so much trouble.”

He loosened his grip. Then he smiled and let go. He took the picture off the wall and handed it to her. “Make sure it's back before our Playboy Mansion party.”

“I totally will,” Jody said. The picture was huge and unwieldy, hard to hold, but she moved as fast as she could. “Thank you
so
much!”

He opened the door for her. She fled from the fraternity house. She walked quickly to her car, sure he was going to run after her and grab her. She made it to her Yukon, popped the trunk, and stuffed the picture in. She threw herself into the driver's seat, slammed the door, and pressed lock.

But even the solid
clunk
of the doors locking couldn't stop her shaking. Her heart must be going a hundred beats a minute. Her breath, coming in fast gulps, quickly steamed up the cold windows. She was too drunk to drive, but at least she felt some level of safety in the car.

She pulled out her phone and took a picture of her trembling hand, with its four lavender fingers and one dark purple nail. Then she texted the photo to Anna, along with a link to the website of the date-rape-drug-detecting nail polish.

Jody texted,
Maybe now you can search the frat.

A
nna looked at her sister's text. “Oh God, Jody,” she murmured. “What have you done?”

She started to respond, then stopped. Texts could become evidence. Jack always said, “Don't put anything in a text or e-mail that you don't want published in the
Washington Post
.” She would talk to her sister in person.

• • •

Anna parked in Cooper's driveway and looked around her new car with satisfaction. It was a gray Chevy Impala with government tags. Not exactly glamorous, but it was all hers, at least while she was investigating the case. Anna was a Detroit girl at heart; she thought there were few things as empowering as your own car.