Going Under (32 page)

“Good. Now there’s a start.”

She smiled wearily. “I want to tell you a
story.”

“Okay.”

“After school.”

We sat in a coffee shop ten minutes from
school. I initially suggested the one across the street, but Lucy
didn’t want to be so close to school when she made her confession.
There’d be too many students coming and going. It was a popular
hangout spot for Charity Run seniors.

We ordered café mochas then tucked ourselves
into a dimly lit corner table.

“I can’t believe I’m gonna tell you all
this,” she said, sipping her drink carefully.

“I kind of already know,” I said, trying to
ease her anxiety.

“No, you don’t, Brooke,” Lucy replied. “You
don’t know anything.”

I wanted to feel offended, but I couldn’t.
She was right. I didn’t know anything about her horrific
experience. In all honesty, I didn’t really know anything about
Beth’s experience either. She never told me the details. She just
described how Cal licked her tears and covered her mouth. And that
was too much to know. I wish she had kept those things to
herself.

“I was so excited to start high school,”
Lucy began. “And I was a really happy girl back then. I had
friends. I was involved in everything.”

“I know.”

“Huh?” Lucy furrowed her brows.

“Well, I kind of did some research in old
yearbooks,” I confessed.

Lucy thought for a moment. “When?”

“When I first met you. That first day in
class when I smacked my head.”

“Ohhh.” Lucy nodded.

I waited patiently for her to continue.

“I don’t think I’m the ugliest thing on the
planet,” she said, “but I could never figure out what attracted Cal
to me. I mean, yes, I was a cheerleader, but I don’t think I ever
fit into that mold. I wasn’t popular. I just kind of did my own
thing and had fun.”

“You must have been kind of popular to win a
place on the homecoming court,” I said.

Lucy shrugged. “I guess I meant that I
didn’t really hang out with popular people. I was nice to
everyone.”

“Ahh. That’s why you won,” I said.

“Well, whatever it was, Cal liked it, and he
started pursuing me from the moment school started.”

I shifted nervously in my seat, knowing the
conversation was about to get intimate.

“We dated all year, and all year he was a
gentleman. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world, really.”
Lucy stared off in the direction of a couple huddled at another
corner table on the opposite wall. They were telling each other
jokes apparently, because they were laughing hysterically.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded and continued. “I was so excited
about prom. And we had such a fun night until he took me to that
motel room.”

“He what?”

“Champagne. He fed me champagne all night.
He didn’t drink a thing. He had a bottle in his car, and I drank
some on our way to the prom.”

“Hold up,” I said. “He was driving? How old
was he?”

“He’d just turned sixteen,” Lucy said.

“Sixteen in ninth grade?” I asked. “That’s
kind of old. Did he start school late? Was he held back a grade or
two?”

Lucy sighed, then smiled. “Brooke, do you
have ADD?”

“Huh?”

“Who cares that he was driving? The point
was that he was driving.”

I nodded and refocused.

“Anyway, we’d sneak out of the prom
occasionally so that I could have a couple of sips. By the end of
the night I was hammered. But I mean really hammered, like
something-doesn’t-feel-quite-right hammered.”

I looked at her dubiously.

“Okay, I know that being hammered never
feels ‘right.’ What I meant was I think he drugged the champagne. I
mean, yes, I drank a lot of it, but I’ve had champagne before, and
it’s never made me feel like that. Really sluggish. Out of it. Like
my arms were heavy weights or something.”

“I see.”

“I remember very little about that evening.
I remember making out and getting naked. I was okay with that
because we’d gone there before, but then he started getting
forceful.”

I tensed.

“And there were others.”

“
What?
” I was in the middle of
sipping my coffee, choking down most of the liquid while some
dribbled down my chin. Lucy handed me a napkin.

“I remember that there were others. I don’t
know how many, but they were talking and laughing.” She thought for
a moment. “And then they argued for awhile.”

I stared at her wide-eyed, one term
repeating over and over in my head: gang-raped.

“The last thing I remember was a bunch of
hands all over me before I passed out.”

We sat in silence. I didn’t know what to do,
so I finished off my coffee. Lucy was no longer interested in hers.
She preferred to watch the young couple holding hands and giving
each other occasional pecks.

“Lucy, I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

She turned in my direction. It was a
reluctant turn, like she didn’t want to take her eyes off of the
cute couple. Like she wanted to linger in their fantasy a little
longer.

“You didn’t do anything, Brooke,” she
replied. “Why are you apologizing?”

I had no response to that. Why was I
apologizing? I didn’t rape her. But that’s what you said when you
heard bad news. It was standard. You say you’re sorry, like you’re
apologizing for the wrong or apologizing on behalf of the people
who inflicted the wrong.

I shrugged.

“I woke up the next morning wearing my prom
dress. It was speckled with blood. I was a virgin, you see, so I
figured I must have been raped. But it’s kind of hard to make the
claim when you can’t remember shit.”

“What about your parents?”

Lucy snickered. “Well, according to them,
Cal brought me home drunk. They got in a huge argument and said he
wasn’t allowed to date me anymore. Then they got mad at me for
being irresponsible about alcohol. Somehow it became all my
fault.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

“The best part is what happened at school,”
Lucy went on. “Monday morning I confronted Cal about that night. I
wanted to know what happened. Of course, he told me I was crazy.
And then he told me he wanted nothing more to do with me, that I
was a crazy psycho lush. He spread all kinds of nasty rumors about
me. I lost my friends. I quit cheerleading. Somehow, I turned into
the psycho bitch at school. People were actually
afraid
of
me. Of me!”

Lucy burst out laughing, her fragile frame
shaking uncontrollably. “Are you looking at me, Brooke? Are you
seeing this?” she asked between giggles. “How could anyone be
afraid of this?”

“Lucy . . .”

“I weigh a hundred pounds, Brooke! A hundred
pounds! I can’t even walk my Saint Bernard because I’m not strong
enough! I don’t have a mean bone in my body! I don’t even know how
to be mean to other people. How do they do it, Brooke? How are
people mean, ‘cause I’d really like to know? I mean, if people are
gonna be afraid of me and all, then I’d like to know how to be a
fucking bitch!”

Several patrons turned in our direction, and
I instinctively jumped from my seat. I put my arm around Lucy and
led her out of the coffee shop to my car.

“I mean, if I’m a fucking psychopath lush
bitch then I need to know how to act the part!” she screamed in the
parking lot. There was no more laughter, only angry tears coursing
down her cheeks.

I helped her into the passenger seat of the
car and fastened her seat belt.

“He ruined my life!” Lucy dug her hands into
the sides of the seat. “And I can’t do anything about it! Not a
thing!” And then she let out a long, mournful wail. I thought I’d
heard it before: complete and utter wretchedness, but I realized I
hadn’t. Even I, in all my misery and guilt over Beth, had never
made a sound like that.

I shook because of it. I was scared of it. I
didn’t know how to comfort her. I never understood the complete
desolation one feels when her will, her rights, are stripped from
her. And she doesn’t want to hear “I’m sorry” from someone who
doesn’t have a clue. It’s offensive.

I crouched on the ground beside Lucy,
letting her cry. Not shushing her. Not feeling embarrassed as
people walked in and out of the coffee shop staring at us. Not even
offering words of sympathy. I wasn’t concerned with anything but my
dawning epiphany. It’s as though I heard Beth’s voice whispering
from heaven’s gates, and she was forgiving me. Or maybe it was me,
for the first time in months, able to let go of my past sins. Able
to forgive myself. All because of Lucy, and her revelation to me. I
didn’t want to be a victim. I didn’t want my world ripped apart. I
wanted justice, but I realized it had to be sought by different
means. I wanted to protect my body, my mind, because I was
witnessing what happened to someone when her right to do that was
stolen from her.

I drove Lucy to my house. We huddled inside
my bedroom all afternoon, and I shared everything with her just
like I did with Dr. Merryweather. She breathed a sigh of relief
when I promised her I had abandoned my plan to set up Cal, and
encouraged me to take my information about the Fantasy Slut League
public. I suggested she go forward, but she argued the absence of
hard evidence.

“Will you at least tell your parents?” I
asked.

Lucy shrugged. “What could they do about
it?”

“I don’t know, but they’re your parents, and
they love you.”

The side of Lucy’s mouth turned up. “I
suppose.”

“Will you think about it?” I pressed.

She nodded then took my hand. “Yes, Brooke.
But I’m only considering what you’re saying because you’re so
nice.”

I smirked. “I’m not a nice person,
Lucy.”

“Yes you are. I know Cal was feeding you all
kinds of bullshit about me, but you were always nice, even when I
stopped talking to you for awhile.”

“I should have told you what I was doing
with him a long time ago,” I said. “I just didn’t know who I could
trust.”

“It’s understandable,” Lucy said. “I’m just
glad you didn’t actually like him.”

“Gross. No way,” I said, and she
grinned.

“I don’t think Beth handled what happened to
her the right way, but I see why she did it,” Lucy said after a
time.

I listened, not wanting to interrupt. I
wanted to hear the perspective of another victim.

“It’s easy to sink into a bad depression. I
did. It’s easy to withdraw. It’s easy to see no purpose in
anything: your daily routine, your relationships with others.
Everything becomes pointless or scary. For me it was pointless. I
think for your friend, it was scary. And when you’re scared of the
world, you want to escape it.”

I hung my head.

“I wish she were stronger. I wish she were
still here. It’d be nice to have a friend who understands what I
went through. Someone who experienced it, too.”

Suddenly I had an idea. I pulled the
tarnished half-heart from underneath my shirt. I had started
wearing the necklace again about a week ago, hidden under my
shirts, resting against my heart. I learned from her mother that
Beth was buried with a few of her most special personal belongings,
and the half-heart necklace was one of them.

I unfastened the chain and gave it to
Lucy.

“What’s this?” she asked, fingering the
charm.

“Beth gave that half to me on my eighth
birthday. She was buried with the other,” I explained. “I want you
to have it.”

“Brooke, I can’t take this!” Lucy said,
thrusting the necklace into my hands. I pushed back shaking my
head.

“I want you to have it, Lucy. I really do. I
know you didn’t have any connection to her in life, but now you
can.” I searched for the right words, but I knew my sentiment would
come out sounding sappy. “Maybe it can bring you some comfort or
something.” I averted my eyes. I felt kind of silly and overly
dramatic in that moment.

Lucy hesitated for a split second before
fastening the chain around her neck.

“Thank you, Brooke,” she said softly.

“You’re welcome.”

Nineteen

Word spread around school about the boys.
None of the girls besides Lucy and me knew about the actual league,
but they knew to stay away from Cal and his cohort. No loud talk,
just urgent whispers creeping through the hallways like smoke,
sending signals and warnings. The impact was immediate. I checked
the current scores for Game 3, and no one had earned a single
point.

“Sexual frustration is a bitch,” Gretchen
said, leaning over the back of Terry’s arm chair to get a better
look at the computer screen. I heard the sharp intake of Terry’s
breath.

“Stop looking at her ass,” I scolded. “She’s
practically a child.”

“I’m about to turn nineteen, thank you very
much,” Gretchen replied, standing up and turning to face her
gawker. “Is sexual frustration a bitch for you, Terry?” she asked
in a playful, sultry tone.

Terry ignored her. “Wright, is there a
reason you felt the need to bring Gretchen over here?” He pushed
past my flirty friend and plopped on the couch.

“She’s spending the night with me,” I
replied, distracted. I was searching for the picks for Game 4.

“There’s no Game 4 set up yet,” Terry
clarified when I asked.

“Yeah, but shouldn’t they have the list of
girls by now. They had those pretty early for the other games,” I
replied.

Terry shook his head. “Maybe they’re
spooked. I mean, look at those scores. Well, lack of scores. Maybe
they know something’s up, and they’re laying low.”

Gretchen sidled over to the couch and sat
next to Terry. “I like your tats.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I like them, too,” Terry replied, then
moved farther down the couch.

Terry wouldn’t talk to me for weeks after I
brought Gretchen to his house for the first time. Yes, I shouldn’t
have exposed him, but I trusted Gretchen, and we were on our way to
the mall. It would have been really freaking inconvenient to make
her wait in the car or drop her off somewhere to wait for me while
I picked up new information Terry had for me. He eventually forgave
me once he learned he enjoyed flirting with my friend.