“Look, Ali,” Terrance says. “Ms. Knox, our student adviser and journalism teacher, has to look at it first. And if she looks at this story, she has the obligation to report it.”
I’m stunned. My words can’t even come out of my mouth fast enough, and I hear myself saying, “No. No. No.” Backing away. I’m not listening. I can’t hear them.
“Who does she have the obligation to report it to?” Sammi says, taking my hand. Bringing me back into the conversation. Holding me close to her.
“A number of people. The principal. Ali’s parents. Maybe the police. Ali’s a minor. It’s complicated.”
Time feels suspended. Everything stops.
“The police?” I say. Why would the police believe me? I went up there with him. I had collage books of him. I showed those books to Blythe. I feel sick all over again. Nothing will happen to Sean Nessel. People will just protect him like they always do. Just like Blythe has done.
“Forget it. I’m not doing it, then. Rip it up. Forget the whole thing.”
I shake my hand free from Sammi’s. My shoulders like blocks. The police showing up at my house, interviewing me about what happened and filing a report. At the police station. Questions. More questions. No way.
“You don’t understand, Ali. We want to do it. We don’t want to turn back,” Terrance says. “So we have two options: We take over the paper, print the story, and say fuck you to the system. Maybe we’ll win awards.”
“But most likely we’ll get suspended and they’ll still call the police,” Savannah says.
“Here’s another option,” Terrance says. “We can circumvent the school paper.”
“How do we do that?” Raj says. His voice low, concerned. Like a dad. Like my dad.
Terrance swings his bag in front of him. Whips out his laptop. Opens it up on a cold radiator. Signals us to get in closer. Like we’re a team. Like we’re in this together. He shows us a home page. Red graffiti letters: THE UNDERGROUND.
“What is this?” I say.
“It’s my zine.” He smiles a goofy smile. Proud. It’s just one page. And as he scrolls through the site, there aren’t any stories. No photos. Nothing. It’s just an empty page. With a really cool masthead.
“There’s nothing in it,” Sammi says, her voice slipping into that sarcastic thing she does. “Aren’t zines supposed to have words?”
“We’re just getting started,” Terrance says. “It’s got layers. It’s going to be amazing. Once we get it off the ground.”
“I have something to say,” Savannah says. Her voice cracking a little, raspy. She’s one of those people who seems to be in the background, despite her pink hair. Her cat-eye glasses. Her bright dresses. She’s like a peacock that you don’t want to go near or you’ll get your face bitten off.
“I know that the zine isn’t the same as the school paper. But it’ll give you a voice. Because from what you wrote in this story, your attacker has a strong voice. And it seems to me, as an outsider, that there were a whole lot of people protecting him. I guess the question you have to ask yourself . . .” and she stares directly at me, her eyes welling up, because I don’t know, maybe she has a story too? “Who was protecting you?”
No one, I think. Not Blythe. Not her obnoxious friends. Certainly not Sean Nessel.
“Think of the amount of people you could reach if it goes viral,” Terrance says. He fiddles with the keyboard. His voice trailing off. “I know it’s nothing now. But with your story in it, it could become something. It could become something meaningful.”
There’s a pause, and this time it feels important, like it’s one of the biggest decisions I’ve ever had to make in my life.
“Are you ready to do this, Ali?” Terrance says to me. “Because if you’re ready, this is going to be a goddamned tornado.”
I think of Sean’s hand over my mouth and his horrible, disgusting excuse: I got carried away.
I think of the blood between my legs.
I think of the bruise I had on my shoulder for a week.
I think of my father and how I’m going to explain this to him.
Everything in my body is telling me to walk away right now. To forget the article. To tell them it was a mistake. But I close my eyes. Think back to that night. Me crying on the floor. And I want everyone to know.
“I’m ready,” I say.
42
“Ask Me If I Care”
by Alistair Greenleaf
It was like any other day. I was smoking in the C-wing bathroom at school when I noticed another student, Reggie. All I said was, “How ya doing?” and she proceeded to tell me how she was raped.
“Raped?” I said.
“Oh, yeah. We were both drunk at this party. I willingly went up to a bedroom with him. No doubt, I was into it at first. But then I said no, because I got scared and didn’t want to go any further. Plus I was drunk and confused. And he, well, I guess I was just a body. An object.”
Do I want to know this? I thought. Do I care? Why did I ask her how she was doing?
It’s a simple question, just one to make the time go by when you’re smoking in the handicapped bathroom, crammed in with a bunch of other girls. Four other girls were there. The kind of girls who stare down at you. Who judge you for breathing. The kind of girls who protect each other at all costs.
“There was one girl who knew about it,” Reggie said. “She knew it all.”
“How did she know?” I asked.
“Because the guy, you know, my rapist, told her. It was her job to persuade me not to tell. And she even had her own experience as a freshman. But her assault was sanctioned, whatever that means,” Reggie said.
Now I know all this, this tale of sexual assault, and I don’t want to know it!
I want to un-know it! I was just being friendly. I didn’t expect her to reveal her personal life. I didn’t expect her to talk about rape.
I feel bad for this girl. Rape is almost impossible to prove. The most popular kid in school? His best female friend? Their word against hers? Isn’t this the exact reason why statistics show that most sexual assaults aren’t reported?
Still, is this information I need to be privy to?
People walk up and down the hallways of our school and ask at least twenty times a day, “Hey, how you doin’?” It brightens their day and makes it seem like you’re actually interested in their existence.
I was just trying to smoke, y’all.