Maybe I Will (14 page)

“As a matter of fact, you do,” he replied slowly. “But I'm really worried about you and want to make sure you're okay.”

“I'm fine,” I said smoothly. “Just a little bit of creative writing. Isn't that what you wanted?”

“Your poetry has a ‘raw truth' feeling to it.” He waited, but I didn't respond. “And then there's the notebook. I had to see what was in it to know whose it was.”

“So now you know.” I stood up to leave. “Thanks.”

Mr. Conaway stood up, too. “Sandy, wait. I want you to know that I talked to the guidance counselor about your poems . . . and the notebook.”

My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. I shook my head and turned to walk away. Mr. Conaway came around his desk to where I was and placed himself strategically between me and the
doorway. “I think maybe it would be a good idea for you to talk to the counselor, too.”

“Yeah, well, I really appreciate your concern and all, but I already have an appointment with a Dr. McMann tomorrow evening, so I think I'd just as soon save it for her.”

As soon as the words “Dr. McMann” passed my lips, Conaway looked relieved.
There you go. Not your problem anymore. You can wash your hands of the whole mess.

Conaway's face brightened. “Dr. McMann,” he repeated nodding. “That's good. I'm really glad to hear that.”

“So is it okay if I go now? I don't want to be late to my first period class.”

Conaway moved to the side to let me pass. “Oh, sure,” he said motioning me on by with his hands. “I'll just see you this afternoon in class.”

And so the crisis passed. The rest of the day was completely uneventful. At least, it was until I got home. Shanika drove me home after rehearsal. As we approached my house, we saw a police car sitting in the driveway.

Truth is truth.
To the end of reckoning.

—Measure for Measure
, Act V, Scene i, Lines 45-46

I
PANICKED AT
the thought of the police already talking to my parents. Shanika drove past without slowing down. She drove several more blocks and found a safe place to pull over. I jumped out of the car and started pacing.

Shanika turned the car off, stepped out and slammed the car door behind her. “What do you want to do, Sandy?” Shanika finally asked me.

“What should I do?” I asked.

“Well, you're going to have to go home eventually.” She walked around to the back of the car and propped herself up against the trunk.

“Maybe I can just wait until after the police leave,” I suggested.

Shanika nodded. “Check your phone,” she instructed. “See if you have a message from your parents.

I went back into the car, pulled out my phone, and checked for messages. “Nothing,” I said.

“Maybe you should call them and see what they say.”

I shoved the phone in my jacket pocket and tried to figure out what to do. I leaned over the car with both palms of my hands on top of the trunk and tried to breathe. “They'll tell me to come home,” I concluded. Just then my phone rang.

“Are you going to answer it?” Shanika asked.

I took a deep breath and nodded. The caller ID flashed Home. “Hello,” I answered tentatively.

“Hi, Sandy. It's me, Dad. Where are you?”

“Shanika's bringing me home. But we were wondering if it would be okay for me to go with her to pick up a pizza and take it back to her dad at the studio.”

“Not tonight, Sandy. I want you to come straight home.”

I knew it wasn't worth arguing, but wanted to see what he might tell me. “Why? What's up?” I could see Shanika straining to hear what Dad would say. I held the phone several inches away from my ear so she could hear, too.

“Nothing's up. I just want you to come straight home. Where are you now?”

“In Shanika's car.” I answered. “I'll be home soon.”

As I hung up the phone, Shanika exclaimed, “Nothing's up! How do you like that?” We both got back into the car. “He knows you're going to see the police car as soon as you get there.”

I took a deep breath. “I don't care,” I said. “I really don't.”

Shanika gave me a weird look, but then asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“Just drive me home.”

Shanika turned the car around and started driving back toward my house. “Do you want me to go in with you?”

YES!
I wanted to scream. Instead I looked away. “This is my mess. I guess it's time I faced it.” I looked back at Shanika and felt tears forming in the corners of my eyes. “Thanks, though.” I wiped my eyes.

Neither of us said another word until I was getting out of the car to go inside. “Sandy,” Shanika said. “Call me and let me know what happens, okay?”

I nodded.

When I walked in, Mom and Dad and two uniform police officers were all sitting around the kitchen table. Mom had a legal pad she was scratching notes on. Dad had a glass of wine and was flipping through some papers. Mom rushed to greet me, gave me a big hug and whispered in my ear, “I don't want you to say anything until we figure out what's going on.”

She introduced me to the officers and then said, “If you'll excuse us, my husband and I would like to talk to Sandy privately for a moment.” She motioned to Dad to come with us. “If you want to wait right here, we'll be in the study.”

As we walked into the back room, I felt my pulse quickening, and the monster taking over. “Nothing's up!” I shouted at Dad. “You're sitting here talking to the police and nothing's up!”

“Lower your voice, Sandy,” my mom instructed. “You haven't been exactly forthcoming with us lately either.”

Touché.
I shut my mouth, seething in the silence. I waited for my parents to sit down, but they didn't.
Apparently we're not staying long.

“For God's sake, Sandy,” Dad said. “Just help us understand what happened.”

“Nothing,” I retorted. “The store thought I was shoplifting and banned me from ever going back. End of story.”

My parents looked fully taken aback. “Shoplifting?” Mom asked. “You think this is about shoplifting?”

“What store are you talking about?” Dad demanded.

Mom waved her hands. “We can talk about that after the police leave.” She reached out her hand toward Dad. “Here, give me the notebook copies.”

As Dad passed the papers to Mom, I could see that the note-book that had been copied was mine . . . the one I left in Conaway's class. I gasped and tried to grab the papers from my Mom. She handed them to me without a struggle.

“Maybe we'd better sit down,” Mom said. We sat on the leather couch, Mom and Dad on opposite ends and me in the middle. “Sandy, the officers are here to investigate a possible sexual assault.”

I dropped the papers, balled my hands up in fists and pressed the heels of my palms as hard as I could into my eyes to hold back the tears. It was no use. I wept uncontrollably. My parents enveloped me in their arms and let me cry. Eventually, I struggled to free myself and motioned toward the box of Kleenex. Dad got them for me. Still, my throat was swollen shut and my nose so stuffed up that I couldn't speak.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Mom asked softly.

I picked up the papers, handed them to her and threw my hands up in the air as if to say, “It's all there.” I was breathing so heavily. Every time I tried to say a word, all that escaped was a high-pitched whine. I blew my nose and shook my head and blew my nose again.

After several totally “mom” moments, Mom shifted into her lawyer mode. “Here's what we're going to do,” she said turning to my dad. “These officers just need to make an initial report. They
need enough details to determine a crime occurred and have a detective assigned to the case. That detective is going to want to talk to Sandy. It's not going to happen tonight.” Mom turned back to me. “Okay, Sandy?”

I nodded. She put one hand on my knee and lifted my chin up with her other hand so she could look me in the eyes. “You're not going to talk to the police tonight. But I need to you answer a few simple questions for me right now.”

I nodded.

“Were you sexually assaulted?”

Tears filled my eyes as I broke down again. My parents encircled me once more.

“I need you to at least nod or shake your head,” Mom continued gently. “Can you do that?”

I nodded.

So Mom asked me again, “Were you sexually assaulted?”

I nodded. I began to feel Dad shaking beside me, but he didn't let me go, and he didn't say a word.

“Was it Aaron Jackson?” Mom asked.

I nodded. Dad held me tighter.

“Cassie's boyfriend?” he asked.

I nodded again. Mom took a deep breath and reached for a Kleenex for herself. Then she handed one to Dad. They were both crying now, too.

“The officers are going to need to know where you were when it happened,” Mom said softly.

“At Cassie's.” It sounded more like a long whimper than actual words.

“At Cassie's?” Mom confirmed.

I nodded.

“Okay, Sandy, just one more question and then I'll go back and talk to the police.” She sighed deeply. “Do you remember when it happened?”

I nodded. “The Ides of March,” I mumbled.

“Sometime in March?” asked Mom.

“The Ides of March,” said Dad. “March 15.”

I nodded.

Mom gave me a big hug. “I'll be right back,” she said. “You two stay here.”

Dad and I waited in silence. I leaned back on the couch, closed my eyes and let myself drift off to Neverland. I could hear Wendy's voice:
You just think happy thoughts. They just lift you in the air.
But no happy thoughts came. So I tried to think of nothing instead.

When Mom came back, she told us the officers wanted to take my notebook with them. I pulled it out of my backpack for her. She quickly compared it to the photocopied pages. “Have you written anything new today?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“All right, then. I'm going to let them have the notebook, and we'll keep the copy.”

How poor are they that have not patience!
What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

—Othello
, Act II, Scene iii, Lines 376-377

I
DIDN'T GO
to school the next day. Dad stayed with me in the morning; then Mom came home for the afternoon when Dad had classes to teach. We were all together for lunch, though, and that's when we started really talking again. I told them about the drinking, and the alcohol I'd taken from their liquor cabinet and the stores. I assured them I was done with drinking, but I didn't tell them about the vodka I still had hidden in my closet.
Just a little extra security, just in case.

I didn't tell them that I was with Aaron and Cassie when I took that first drink, either. When Dad brought the subject of Aaron up, Mom told me that I could talk about it if I wanted, or that I could wait until our appointment with Dr. McMann that evening. Then we talked about the whole Erin/Aaron and therapist/theRapist thing and whether I thought I could be comfortable talking to Dr. McMann.

“I'll cancel the appointment if you want me to,” my mom said. “But all three of us need to get in to see a therapist as soon as possible.”

“You mean a
counselor
, right?” Dad interjected.

“Sorry,” Mom apologized. “I plan to remove the word therapist completely from my vocabulary.”

“Let's just see how it goes tonight,” I said.

The phone rang as we were eating and talking, but no one rose to answer it. “If it's important, they'll leave a message,” Dad said. It was, and they did. A Detective Morales left the message saying she wanted to arrange a time to talk with me. “Can we wait until after we meet with Dr. McMann?” Dad asked Mom.

“I don't see why not,” Mom agreed. “I'll return the call tomorrow morning.”

“Just make sure it doesn't interfere with rehearsals,” I said. I was already stressing about having to miss rehearsal that afternoon since I wasn't at school. So I watched the old
Peter Pan
video starring Mary Martin and studied my lines all afternoon.

When it was finally time to go to our appointment with the counselor, Mom grabbed her keys and called for Dad to come out of the study.

“Can I drive?” I asked. I'd had my permit since driver's training last summer, but we'd agreed to wait until summer to get me my license and a car. “I need the practice driving downtown, and it's past rush hour.”

Mom exchanged a glance with Dad before nodding. “Here you go,” she said, handing me the keys. “And your dad can ride up front with you. I'll be happy to take a back seat this evening.”

We rode in silence. My parents firmly believed music or conversation was an unnecessary distraction for teenage drivers. So I
pushed everything else from my mind and focused on driving my mom's Mercedes. It wasn't new or fancy, but I loved the Metallic Steel Grey color and how powerful it felt to be in the driver's seat with my hands on the steering wheel.

There was nobody in the waiting area when we arrived at Erin TheRapist's office. Dad and I sat down in chairs on either side of a table with magazines, and Mom went up to ring the bell by the abandoned receptionist desk. Erin TheRapist appeared within seconds.

Mom handled the introductions, then Erin TheRapist suggested that she meet with each of us briefly, individually during the first part of our session, and then together during the last half. She turned to me and smiled brightly, ‘Would you like to go first, last or in between?”

Or how about not at all?
I shrugged. Everyone was staring at me, waiting for me to answer. “Why do I have to decide?” I asked finally.

“You don't have to if you don't want to.” Her voice was reassuring. “Who would you like to decide?”