“So what? We’ve learned about this a million—a zillion—times. It doesn’t mean it’s consent just because you were drinking.”
“But don’t you see, that’s everything. Because—I wanted to do it.” I think about my back scratching against his soccer jacket. His hand over my mouth. I rub my eyes. I wonder how long I’m going to have to do this just to get rid of those images. Then if I have to tell people? And if they don’t believe me? It’s one thing for the stupid health teacher to mindlessly talk about consent because it’s in the curriculum, because that’s what’s expected of her. She wants to preach consent and #MeToo and #GirlsToo. But I’ve seen too many news stories, too many articles, I know that in real-life situations, girls don’t get the chance to defend themselves. Especially not when it comes to the captain of the soccer team.
I try to explain this to Sammi. That my whole life is on the line here, that she can’t tell anyone because if she tells even one person, my whole life is going to explode. That Sean Nessel will ruin my life. But she keeps pressing. She won’t stop. So I just shake my head, close my eyes, pretend I don’t exist. Like this is happening to someone else.
“And then?”
But I say nothing.
“And then what happens? He just gets away with it?”
I shake my head. Nothing comes out. I’m nothing. I’m not even here.
“If you said no. If you have a bruise on your shoulder. Ali,” she says, looking around, covering me up, holding my hands, pulling me closer, her voice so low and quiet. “You have to tell someone.”
“Oh, like who?”
“Someone other than Blythe Jensen.”
I forgot that I was just in very close quarters with Blythe Jensen and that Sammi is not happy about that either.
“Blythe doesn’t know anything about it.” She looks at me like I’m crazy. “I know she brought me to C-wing, but she doesn’t know about that. I didn’t say anything to her about it.”
“Come on, Ali. He must have told her to be friends with you. So that you wouldn’t say anything.” She’s trying to be protective, but it feels really condescending, so I sit back in my chair and pull my hoodie out of my backpack. I suddenly have the chills. Maybe it’s Plan B side effects. Maybe it is a stomach bug. But of course it’s not. It’s me. It’s just me.
“Obviously I know why Blythe brought me to C-wing. I’m not stupid.”
And of course she’s right. It was more than that. I’m not going to pretend—at least not to myself. I know it’s transparent. I know Blythe picked me to go because it has to do with Sean. Blythe has three entities she’s loyal to: the Core Four, Devon Strong, and Sean Nessel. She told me while walking out of C-wing that she, Dev—that’s what she called him, “Dev”—and Sean were like this. She curled three fingers so they entwined.
But I liked it. I liked going into C-wing with Blythe. I liked being around her. Her command of those girls in that stupid bathroom, it made me want to follow her. The way she throws her hair to the side, like no one can touch her.
I’d like to feel that way right now. A glass wall. Like no one can touch me without getting cut.
I can’t explain this to Sammi. She’s got this tornado of anger behind her eyes that I see is building in the way she stirs the ketchup on her napkin with her straw.
* * *
* * *
Later, we’re walking down the hallway. Both late for class. Saying nothing. She doesn’t want to let me go, she says. Sammi is afraid for me, she says.
“You can’t pretend like this never happened, Ali.”
“I’m thinking that pretending will work really well, actually.”
“It’ll work until you get severe panic attacks and can’t leave the house and then have a nervous breakdown and they have to put you in a psych ward and you’ll be babbling about bananas and lobotomies. That sounds like a great way to live.”
She grabs my hand. Her unfiled nails scratching against my fingers.
“You have to promise not to make me talk about this—”
“Ever again? I mean—”
“You can’t push me.”
My face gets hot again. I might puke. I see her eyes busy and scared.
A hall monitor walks into the hallway. “GIRLS,” she says. “GET TO CLASS.” Hissing.
“She just threw up, so I’m walking her to class,” Sammi says.
“Oh, then where’s the note from the nurse?”
There’s no note from the nurse. The monitor knows this.
Sammi turns to me. She’s scared. Biting her rosy lips. She begs me to let her take a picture of my bruised shoulder later at her house, later tonight. Just for insurance. I say yes. Anything to make her happy. Anything to get her to stop asking me questions. She holds my hand, takes it tight, cupping it. Then she sings to me. Our song that we hate so much that it’s become our theme song. Journey. “Open Arms.”
“‘So now I come . . . to you . . . with open arms . . .’”
“‘Nothing to hide . . . believe what I say . . .’”
I’m trying so hard to be us. I’m trying so hard to be me.
I pull away first, but we both expected that.
11
BLYTHE
After school. Sean meets me at the gym before his practice.
“So? What did she say?”
I have so many responses to this question. One: Why do you care what she says?
We’re talking about a girl whose name I didn’t even know until three days ago and now I’m being asked to bring her into my most secret cave, C-wing, which is basically this school’s equivalent of a lioness’s den. There’s a part of me that wants to tell him to fuck off.
What did she say? She was funny. She was smart. She doesn’t deserve this. That’s what.
But this is Sean Nessel I’m talking about. Sean has had his flaws and his mistakes, like that time with Suki, and yes, all the other times with all the other girls. Isn’t it also true that no one is perfect? That’s not me trying to make excuses for him. That’s just me having empathy. Right? Isn’t everyone entitled to forgiveness? Look at how much he cares about Ali’s feelings. Isn’t that Sean trying to change?
“She didn’t say much. She’s kind of reserved. She snapped at me actually when I asked her.”
“Well, that’s probably good, then, right?”