What We Saw (16 page)

I'm flat on my back in the grass before I feel the pain. When it hits, I reach up and touch the bump that's already formed above my right ear. It's wet, and I know that I'm bleeding.

I don't cry, but Rachel does. The cut is small, easily stanched with a Band-Aid, the pain already subsiding. Coach makes sure I don't need professional medical attention, while Rachel apologizes over and over.

“I'm so sorry! Did you not hear me call it?” she asks. “I said, ‘heads up'!”

That's the typical courtesy yell, but my brain was occupied elsewhere while my body was running around on the field.

Coach tells all of us to keep our heads in the game. “There's a lot of crap floating around this week. Eyes on the ball, ladies. Don't lose focus.” She points to the sideline and says I should sit out for a bit, then she gets practice going again.

A cosmic rage wells up inside me as I watch. Not at Rachel
or at Coach. I'm angry with myself.
Why do you keep asking questions you don't want to know the answers to? Why can't you let this go?
Whatever happened or didn't happen to Stacey, I wasn't there. Ben wasn't there. My friends weren't there.

I finally have a boyfriend, and if I work hard this year, I might be able to get nationally ranked. Maybe even be in the running for a scholarship. My best friends in the world are on this team with me.

So why can't I just let myself be on their side?

Coach is right. It's time to get my head back in the game.

BEN IS COMING
out of the gym as Rachel and I walk toward the parking lot after practice. He sees the cold pack I'm holding against my head and frowns, jogging across the grass to meet me. We explain what happened and when I show him my bump, Ben smiles and taps the scar behind his ear. “Now you finally know how it feels.”

Rachel laughs as I protest. “It was an accident.”

Ben takes my soccer duffel, adding it to his own gym bag and backpack. He doesn't seem to notice the extra weight. He slides his arm gently across my shoulders and we walk together. Will comes trotting over, a loyal hound dog sniffing for a handout.

“Can I come to Happy Joe's with you?”

My mouth opens to say
absolutely not
, but Ben says, “Pizza sounds good.” Rachel tells him to meet us there, and just like that, our first day of practice tradition is expanded to brothers and boyfriends.

Given enough time, everything changes.

I realize I have forgotten my geology book and have to go back inside to get it. Lindsey and Christy are already on their way. I tell Ben and Rachel to go ahead.

“Wanna ride shotgun, Pistol?”

Will's face almost falls off when Ben says this. Ben, making it easy, surprising me one more time by being even better than I expect him to be. I smile and tell them I'll meet them there, then head back into the deserted hallways.

On the way back to my car, I follow Principal Hargrove through the side door to the parking lot. He is leaving for the day, a briefcase in hand. I realize he's started parking behind the school. The faculty spots in front are probably too close to the news vans. As I step outside, I see I'm not the only one who has figured this out.

Sloane Keating is dressed to the nines from the waist up: salmon-colored suit jacket, flat-ironed hair, and a full face of makeup. Anything the camera will see is perfect but she's wearing jeans and Nikes down below. She puts the sneakers to good use keeping up with Principal Hargrove's long strides toward his station wagon, shouting questions at him all the way.

How much do you know that you aren't saying?

How many kids were at the party?

Why aren't you insisting they come forward with any information they have?

Are you involved in the cover-up?

This final question makes Mr. Hargrove pull up short, halfway to his car. A flush of righteous indignation spreads from his cheeks in both directions, dribbling down his neck and scalding his bald spot.

“Ma'am, your questions are out of line.”

“Your refusal to answer the questions makes people suspicious.” Sloane says this pleasantly, like she's discussing the state basketball tournament this weekend or the fact that the weather warmed up again last night.

Principal Hargrove takes a deep breath. “The boys who have been dragged into this mess are good kids and—”

“Who've been accused of rape.” Sloane is not backing down.

“They are innocent until proven guilty,” he fires back. “You've decided they're guilty already.” The principal jabs a finger in the direction of the front parking lot. “You people are holding your own trial out there.”

“Nothing can be proven at all until we have the facts.” Sloane is firm and unwavering.

“The facts?” Principal Hargrove puffs. “The facts are that these guys come from good families. Their parents are good people, friends of mine. Their homes are stable. They are pillars
of this community. All of that has been called into question by a young woman who has little supervision, and by most accounts has made some very questionable moral judgments.”

“Can I quote you on that?” Sloane is speaking into her phone and holds it back toward the principal, recording every word.

“No, you may not,” he thunders. Mr. Hargrove wipes his hand across his forehead. It's a fruitless attempt to settle the hair he no longer has and the nerves over which he has clearly lost control.

“I'm telling you,” he says in a low voice, “stop chasing the narrative you want. Look at what's right in front of you, for Christ's sake. What do you gain by ruining these boys' futures?”

Sloane furrows her brow in concern and nods slowly, thoughtfully. “See, Wendall, the question I'm curious about is, what do you gain by protecting them?”

Principal Hargrove's eyes narrow. “You're gonna have a scoop even if you have to make it up. Is that the way it works now? We just invent the news?” His voice creeps up in volume. “Mark my words, young lady, you're not a hero. No washed-up movie star is gonna play you in the Lifetime movie version of this story.”

Sloane lets out a musical laugh that surprises me, all tinkling bells and fairy dust. When she looks back at him, her smile is warm and endearing—like she's flirting over a beer at Applebee's—but when she speaks, her voice is a deep freeze.

“So tell me, have you seen the video?”

The question is ice water. I stand frozen on the sidewalk, three feet from the back door as Wendall Hargrove jerks his head in silent disgust. He opens his mouth, thinks better of it, then stalks to his car in double time. He tosses his briefcase onto the passenger seat, slams the door, and achieves the only station wagon peel out to which I have ever held witness.

Sloane Keating watches him go, arms crossed, her back to me. She shakes her head as his car disappears, then taps at the screen of her phone while she strides toward the satellite trucks. Her voice is strong enough that she doesn't have to turn around when she calls out, “Good to see you, Kate.” She knows I can hear her, and she keeps on walking without a backward glance.

By the time I pull into the parking lot at Happy Joe's, Will is sandwiched between Rachel and Christy in one of the big round booths at the back. Lindsey is on one side about to fall off the edge, and Ben is on the other, saving what looks like just enough room for half of my rear end.

I slide in next to him, and he pulls me toward him. It's cozy.

“How's your head?” he whispers.

“Better now,” I tell him, which is partially true. My head doesn't hurt so much anymore, but it's spinning after what I saw in the parking lot.

“Hey, Rachel,” says Will in his cool-dude voice, “put your arm around me, so I'll look like a
playa
.” Rachel laughs and complies while Christy moans. Ben grins and holds a fist for
Will to bump across the table.

“Don't encourage him,” I tell Ben.

“Aw, c'mon. He's just getting the hang of it.”

Lindsey catches my eye, and I know what she's thinking.
Boys will be boys.
I look away like I didn't notice. I plaster on a big smile and try to find the confidence I had while holding the cold pack to my head during practice.

This has nothing to do with you.

It isn't working.

After hearing Sloane in the parking lot and seeing Principal Hargrove's reaction, the voice whispering questions is back. The volume goes up a notch when Ben tweets a picture of Christy and Rachel kissing either side of Will's face. My brother's snapback is cocked sideways and he's making that duck-lips face, staring straight into the camera. Ben tags it #youngbucc, and it takes everything in me to ignore the whispers.

Is this how it started?

Innocent pictures of silly kisses?

When the pizzas arrive, there's barely room on the table. Lindsey makes a toast to the new season and we clink plastic glasses full of Coke and Sprite as David Sissler jockeys a BLT, a Combo Plus, and a Meatworks into the middle of the table.

David is another one of those people I “know” without
knowing
. He was a starting point guard a few years back, just like Ben. Nabbed a scholarship to Florida State, but blew out his knee during his first season and wound up sitting the bench. He stayed in Tallahassee over that summer, supposedly to get back
in shape. Instead of running drills and lifting weights, he ran a lot of pot to Tampa and drank a lot of beer. He got cut that fall. Without a scholarship, he wound up back here, slinging pizza at Happy Joe's and reliving the glory days every time a current Buccaneer shows up.

“You guys ready for state?” he asks Ben.

“You bet.” Ben smiles.

“Heard Doone got out on bail. He still playing?”

We all turn to look at Ben for the answer. The rules are that if you miss practice the week of the game, you can't suit up. Dooney and Deacon were both MIA today. Ben glances down at his plate. Just that tiny tell, and I already know what he's going to say. It's not good news.

When he tells David, Christy goes ballistic. “You're freaking kidding me!” Her voice is so loud that we get a glare from the mom in the booth next to ours.

“That's what happens when you miss practice.” Lindsey takes a bite of Meatworks.

“God, that sucks.” David looks like he's the one who has to play without two of the five starters this weekend.

Ben nods. “Yeah, it's too bad, but I liked what happened in practice today. We're all pulling together. Tough as bucc.”

Another glare from the mom next door. I don't think she heard the
b
on
bucc
but she does hear David say, “Hells yeah, bro,” as he bumps fists with Ben.

“Can't believe Stacey Stallard might cost us state,” Christy moans.

“No way,” Will pipes up. “They still got Ben and Reggie. Plus LeRon and Kyle.” He turns to Ben. “You can still pull it off, right?”

“Not gonna lie,” says Ben. “I'd feel better if Dooney was playing.”

“I'll bet Stacey would feel better if she hadn't gone to his party.” Lindsey says this quietly, but it's a lit match in a gas can.

Christy leans forward to face Lindsey across the round booth. “Whatever it is that Stacey says happened is her own damn fault. That girl is a hot mess.”

“How can you say that?” I ask.

Before Christy can answer me, Rachel does. “Look at us, Kate. We're not like her. You're not like her.”

Lindsey frowns. “So what?”

“Yeah,” I agree. “You keep saying that, but what do you mean?”

“All I'm saying is there are rules
.
” Rachel's face has gone chalky. Her voice is soft and quavers a little, as if she's desperate to convince us of something. She stares into her plate, afraid to look at me. “You don't get wasted. You don't take off your top. You don't flirt with raging drunks.” She leans in and grips the edge of the table, lowering her voice. “You don't dress like a slut. You have to play by the rules. If you don't, this is what happens.”

Even Christy is silent, all of us taking this in. Rachel glances up and realizes we're all looking at her. “Don't you guys get it?” Her eyes meet mine. If I were closer, I could fold her into a hug. If we were alone, I could tell her it's going to be okay. She looks
to Christy, who is suddenly busy chasing a piece of ice around the bottom of her empty glass.

“Oh, what?” asks Rachel. “So, now you think I sound crazy?”

After a moment of silence, Lindsey reaches over and takes Rachel's hand. “No,” she says. “Just scared.”

Lindsey is right, but not only about Rachel. Fear is the reason I can't let this go, either. It's the reason Rachel needs to believe that whatever happened is Stacey's fault. It's why she insists that we're all very different from Stacey. Because the truth is that if it could happen to Stacey, it could happen to any of us.

By the time we pay and walk to our cars, it's dark outside. The air is humid and a light fog rolls through the parking lot, making everything vague, obscuring the details. We've all been wandering around in a haze about what really went on at Dooney's party: who was there, what happened, how it happened. There are two sides right now. Stacey claims she was raped. Dooney says she wasn't. Everyone says there's no way to know for sure.

But there is a way to know.

There's a video.

I glance at Ben, wondering if he might've been able to hear my thought, but he kisses me and helps me into the truck. He tells Will not to eat the leftovers before he gets home. He tells me he'll be right behind me so we can study for our geology quiz.

I'm extra cautious driving home. Visibility is limited and
my knuckles go white from squeezing the steering wheel, just like Rachel's did grasping the edge of the table. As Will talks about Tyler and the tournament this weekend, I wonder which is worse: the fear of the unknown? Or knowing for sure that something terrible is true?