What We Saw (11 page)

“PERMISSION SLIPS TODAY
for the big field trip in a couple weeks!”

Mr. Johnston passes a stack of canary-yellow pages to the person at the first desk in each row. Hand over hand, they flutter toward the back of the room until everybody has one.

I hereby give my consent . . .

It's the second time this word has pinged against my brain today. It filtered up to my bedroom this morning from the TV in the kitchen while Mom and Dad had coffee.
Today in Iowa
was on Channel Thirteen. I wondered briefly if Sloane might air the footage of me at the trailer park, but there was no gasp of
recognition from Mom, so I hit snooze and rolled over to grab another ten minutes.

Instead, all I could hear was that word, over and over:

. . . an ongoing conversation about consent. Whether the alleged sexual contact was consensual. Whether the victim was lucid enough to give her consent . . .

Mr. Johnston is stoked about this field trip. “The Devonian Flood Plain is about an hour and a half from here. We'll leave during first period and get back about the time school ends for the day.”

Excitement buzzes around the room. The general consensus appears to be that a bus ride to look at fossils and fast food on the way back is more desirable than a full day of regular classes.

Rachel raises her hand. “Mr. Johnston, what if my mom won't let me go?”

“Why wouldn't she let you go?”

Rachel smirks. “Because she doesn't trust TV stars like you?”

Mr. Johnston smiles and shakes his head. “Not a star,” he says. “More like collateral damage.”

“No way, you were on all three newscasts last night,” Christy says.

There are hoots and whistles of affirmation. One of the guys behind me shouts, “Lookin' good, Mr. J.”

Phoebe's voice cuts through the noise. “How come you let
that reporter film for so long?” Her question hangs in the air like a heavy fog.

Mr. Johnston waves it away. “Didn't know she was standing there,” he says. “She wasn't authorized to be in the building.”

“Shoulda gotten a permission slip,” Ben says.

“Exactly.” Mr. Johnston frowns. “That's the trick about permission. You don't have it unless it's been given.”

“You and Coach still wound up on the news,” says Rachel, “even without your permission.”

He pauses for a moment, thinking. “You're right. Ms. Keating took what she wanted without asking. Does that make people around here trust her? Think anybody's gonna want to talk to her now?”

“No.”

The word slips out louder than I intend it to. Everybody turns to stare at me. Mr. Johnston nods. “Acting first and worrying about consequences later is a dangerous way to do things.” He holds up the stack of leftover yellow. “Get 'em signed, you guys. One week. Due back to me next Friday.”

At lunch, the Tracies announce that they've decided not to attend Spring Fling tonight.

“Too much of a downer,” Tracy says.

Tracie agrees with a shudder. “Have you noticed? There are even more cameras around today. They creep me out.”

Phoebe's calls to Dooney's house and texts to his cell phone
have gone unreturned. The radio silence has her terrified. She may be dateless, but she is bound and determined that she will not be abandoned.

“You have to be there.” Her voice leaves no room for denial. “If you don't come, Stacey Stallard wins.” She spits Stacey's name from the tip of her tongue like spoiled milk. There is hemming and hawing. The Tracies waver and whine. As much as Phoebe would like to, there's no denying it: Something is missing.

Usually, on the day of a dance, there's a sort of zing in the air—a current humming beneath our feet, a hallway that nearly pitches and rolls with excitement.

Tiny seismic shifts.

But, today, no one seems to care about the dance. Our brains are too full of the one thing no one can mention.

So much is so different.

Tomorrow will only be one week since the party. It seems like a hundred years have passed since then—and also no time at all. It's as if the Devonian Era flashed by only yesterday, and we are now gulping air into newly formed lungs that used to be gills, taking first steps on our flippers-turned-feet.

In one short week, we have become different creatures.

When Ben rings the doorbell on Friday evening, I walk down the stairs in recycled silk, a light breeze of sauce-free organza fluttering around me. Mom has tears in her eyes, as if I am leaving forever instead of attending a two-hour dance in a thrift-store dress.

The shaky video of Coach Sanders threatening Sloane Keating ricocheted across the cable news channels again today, and as Ben steps through the front door with a plastic shell of red roses for my wrist, a graphic the color of bruises flies in beneath the cleft chin of a national evening anchor:
CRISIS IN CORAL SANDS
.

Dad turns off the TV while Mom snaps several pictures on the digital point-and-shoot she still insists on using. It's another one of the single-function gadgets my parents refuse to retire. Will tries to explain that his smartphone camera has more megapixels, but Mom says that he can take
his
pictures and she'll take
hers.

Ben jokes with my dad. Will stands on the back of the couch to “get a cool angle.” As Mom clicks and clucks and coos, I know that one of these shots will wind up in a gallery frame on the wall upstairs. Long after the continuing saga of Kate and Ben reaches its next chapter, I will find her in the hallway, gazing at the glass with shiny eyes and a full heart. These will be her fossils in bedrock, her coral clues to a bygone era. A strange lump forms in my throat as Mom gently tucks a strand of my loose updo behind my ear.

I was once your little girl.

Iowa was once an ocean.

Will tries to follow us outside. I think he'd have climbed into Ben's truck and come with us if I hadn't grabbed him by the shoulders and given him my
get lost
look.

He may have a bigger crush on Ben than I do.

The number of news vans in the parking lot has doubled to six, with affiliates from as far away as Kansas City, St. Louis, and Chicago. Sloane Keating is still front and center, but joined now by three women and two men, lined up with their camera guys at the front entrance. Sloane's blond hair is up in a tight French twist like Grace Kelly's in an old movie. It appears she had her hair done for the dance.

“Gotta be kidding me,” Ben says as we park.

I stare at the gauntlet of cameras and hairdos, lips poised to question, microphones at the ready, bronzer so thick it glows orange. “Can you believe it was only a week ago Saturday?”

Ben frowns. “You mean a week ago Sunday.”

I smile. “The party was Saturday, remember?”

“Oh. That.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?”

He smiles a little shyly. “Sunday afternoon. When you walked over all brave and cute and hungover as hell.”

“I wasn't that bad.”

“Uh, you were green.”

We both laugh for a second, then he reaches over and grabs my hand. He does it quickly as if he might lose his nerve, as if I might escape into the woods along the parking lot. He gently runs a finger along the roses on my wrist, then looks into my eyes. “When you tried to shoot over my head? I was a goner.”

We kiss for a long time. I have to reapply my lipstick.

I don't care.

When I close my purse and announce my readiness, Ben looks over at Sloane and her minions crowding the front doors.

“Last chance,” he says. “We can just go drive around. Get some tequila. Go back to my place.”

“And waste the plaid jacket from Mars?” I ask. “Connie Bonine would never forgive us.”

As he opens my door and helps me out of his truck, he flashes me that extra-juice-box grin. “Hang on tight.”

I'm glad Ben is so tall. As I take his arm, I feel like nothing can touch me. I keep my head down and match his long, sure steps. As we approach the entrance, the reporters crowd our way, shouting over one another, just like they do on TV shows.

I've never understood that. As if the reason we're not answering is that we can't hear them. Even if I wanted to stop and answer a question, who wants to be yelled at? Where would I begin? How could I get a word in edgewise?

Ben pulls me closer, leaning forward with his shoulder, his arm around me, shielding me from the crowd, the lights, the noise.

The one thing he cannot block are the words.

Were you at the party?

Do you know the victim?

Is Coach Sanders trying to cover up what really happened?

Were you in the room that night?

Have you read the hospital report?

Did you see the alleged assault?

Have you heard about the rape kit results?

Do you know who else was involved?

I know we are close to the front entrance. When I glance up to check our progress, Sloane Keating is staring directly into my eyes. Silent as a statue, she's letting all the other reporters shout questions. She only smiles in greeting as we walk past her. Ben swings the front door open. I can see the check-in table by the gym entrance, and just when I think we're home free, Sloane speaks.

“Ben Cody, have you spoken with John Doone since he was released from police custody Wednesday?”

Ben jerks to a stop beside me. I can feel him turn when Sloane calls him by name. I know it's a reflex. I also know it's a trap.

“What?”

The other reporters rush to greet a group of students arriving in our wake. Sloane Keating holds the mic up near Ben's mouth. “Are you glad your friend is home?”

“Of course . . . yeah. I just—” Ben struggles to finish his sentence. “I haven't talked to him. I don't . . .” His voice trails off, and I see Sloane Keating's face soften as she waits for him to finish.

“You don't what?” she asks.

I grab her arm, pulling the microphone to my mouth. “Have any further comment.”

I take Ben's hand and somehow manage to propel all six feet four inches of him into the hallway. The door swings closed behind us, but not before Sloane calls out one last thing:

“Great seeing you last night, Kate.”

THE TROPHY CASE
just inside the school's front doors is jammed with brass statues, plaques, and pictures. The “spirit stick” our cheer squad brought home from regionals last year catches my eye, and I imagine knocking it over Sloane Keating's head as Ben and I catch our breath.

“How does she know our names?” he asks me. “And what the hell did she mean? ‘Great seeing you last night'?”

I have no way to explain this except the truth, but the words are slow to form on my tongue, and before I can say them, the doors swing open again. Rachel, Lindsey, and Christy stumble inside, the latest victors to make it past the reporters.

“Holy
hell
.” Christy flips her wild curls out of her face.

Rachel tugs at the triangular top of her shiny dress. “Now I know how Taylor Swift feels.” She grabs my shoulder for balance, and pulls off one of her towering heels, shaking it upside down. “Got a rock in my shoe.” Her hair has been hot-rolled into a giant fluffy pile on top of her head.

Once her shoe is back on, Rachel turns to face the group. “Okay. Let's go dance,” she commands. Instead, we all stand there, sort of shell-shocked. “Oh, c'mon!”

There's a spark in Rachel's eye. It's one of those things no one else sees, but I know her. I know what's coming. Sure enough, she revs up her favorite dog and pony show.

“Am I going to have to do Rachel's Ray of Sunshine to get this party started?”

Assuming her Sunday-School-teacher smile, Rachel turns to face me and speaks in a cheery, breathless tone, often reserved for the elderly and children under the age of three. It's silly, but somehow completely sincere.

“Boys and girls, I want you to know that each one of you is special and beautiful! Kate Weston, your dress is magnificent. You are just a glamorous angel straight from heaven. And you, Mr. Cody, are the luckiest man in the kingdom.”

Christy groans and rolls her eyes. Lindsey lets out a laugh, and even Ben cracks a smile.

“Miss Lindsey, your dress has such pretty feathers! And it's the color of my favorite ice cream bar. You're quite simply a Creamsicle swan of loveliness.”

By this point, even Christy is laughing, and Rachel drops her wide-eyed act. “Are we good?” she asks.

“What?” purrs Christy. “I don't get a ray of sunshine?”

“I'll tell you what you get,” Rachel says flatly. “You get us to the front of that check-in line.” She smacks Christy on the rear. Christy whoops her assent, tugging at the knotted belt of her polyester pantsuit and herding us all to the check-in station at the other end of the front hallway.

Deputy Jennings stands on one side of the table, chatting with Principal Hargrove. Ms. Speck and Mr. Johnston are ticking people off a master list. There are a couple of sophomores ahead of us and as we reach the table, Coach Sanders barrels through the gym doors with a red bullhorn.

“Ready?” He tosses this over his shoulder at Principal Hargrove and Mr. Jennings, who nod and follow him to the front doors of the school. “Let's do this.”

Coach Sanders throws his shoulder into the door, and instantly the lights and questions erupt into the front hallway. He raises the bullhorn to his mouth and shouts through a squeal from the speaker:

“All non-school personnel are considered trespassers and are hereby compelled to maintain a distance of at least fifty feet by order of the county sheriff. I repeat: All journalists must immediately retreat to a minimum of fifty feet from the front door of this property or you will be arrested for trespassing.”

“Can they do that?” Lindsey stands at my elbow watching as
Coach shouts down Sloane Keating's protests.

“Whether they can or not, they just did
.
” Christy is smiling. “Good riddance.”

One by one the lights on the cameras begin to bob across the parking lot. Eventually, even Sloane Keating hoofs it toward the Channel 13 van. I realize now how far away fifty feet actually is.

Coach Sanders struts back through the hallway, a satisfied smile on his face. When he sees Ben his face lights up. “You kids look terrific,” he says with a wink. “For god's sake, everybody stay off the Twitter tonight.”

“Uh . . . It's just ‘Twitter,' Coach.” Ben grins and shakes his head.

“And you stay off the evening news,” Rachel tells him.

Coach throws his head back and belly laughs at the ceiling. “It's a deal.”

Mr. Johnston checks Ben's ID and his name off a list. “Excellent, Mister Cody. Have fun at the Fling.”

Ms. Speck makes a big fuss over my dress, insisting that I turn around so she can see the streamer down the back. “Vintage
perfection
,” she says, squeezing my hand as she hands back my ID.

As we wait for the rest of the group to make their way through the line, Principal Hargrove comes back in shaking his head. “Can you believe the nerve of those people? Asking our kids about
rape kits
on their way to a dance?”

Lindsey and Ben both hear this, and Coach sees them turn
to look. He shushes Principal Hargrove and smiles our way as Christy and Rachel get through the line and join us.

“Ignore all that crap, kids.” Coach smiles grimly. “The cops are just doing their jobs. A little overzealous maybe, but we'll get this all ironed out.”

Principal Hargrove swings open the door to the gym, and music pours out.

“I want you to go in there and dance your butts off,” Coach says. “Just forget all about this for a little while and have a good time.”

“We'll try,” Rachel says.

And for a good hour or so, we succeed.

The sophomores are in charge of Spring Fling, and they hired a DJ from Iowa City. The music is infectious and drives away the weirdness I felt all day at school. Apparently, the thing missing in the air today was the rhythm of three hundred kids in hilarious party clothes and remixes that just won't stop.

As one song bleeds into the next, Phoebe tells us that this DJ plays all the big University of Iowa parties and flies all over the country to spin at clubs in New York, Miami, and Los Angeles. She's in mid-sentence when the Tracies (who decided to show up after Phoebe's cafeteria call-to-arms) shriek in unison because they recognize the beat. Both of them are wearing old tutus and ballet slippers courtesy of Connie Bonine's “dance rack” and they run for the center of the crush. Rachel throws an invisible lasso over Christy, who pretends to be dragged onto
the floor with us, one lurching step at a time, and the music whips us together, pounding a clear path through my chest:

Do what you want, what you want with my body . . .

Ben is a great dancer. He knows how to move and, more importantly, what to do with his hands. He doesn't look like he's miserable or counting or trying too hard. He's the best dancer here next to Wyatt, who is getting down with his
Grease!
costars. He's sandwiched between Sandy and Rizzo. Both of them are all over him and each other. As I try to point them out to Ben, the music changes again, the swell of a female voice filling the air.

Baby, baby, are you listening?

Ben's hand finds the small of my back. As he pulls me in, he bends down a little, bringing him closer to my level. I clasp my hands behind his neck, and our bodies fit together in a way that makes everything else fade away. His lips find mine, and the packed dance floor disappears. I feel myself falling into him as the music soars above us.

Wondering where you've been all my life

My knees go a little shaky, and I list off-kilter in my heels. Ben pulls me back to center with a smile. “Easy there,” he says. “You okay?”

I nod, but Ben takes my hand and says, “Let's get you something to drink.”

“You don't mind?”

He shakes his head.

“What if they play something really great and we miss it?” I ask.

“I'm with you. I'm not missing a thing.”

Several volunteer moms from the booster club are running the drink table in the back hallway, pouring pop into plastic cups. They are chatty, armed with grins and grenadine, garnishing drinks with limes and maraschino cherries. As we stand in line, I lean against Ben, his arms wrapped around my waist, but the spell from inside the gym seems broken by the fluorescent lights. He's quiet, and I can tell his brain is elsewhere.

I order a Shirley Temple, and he gets a cherry Coke, then we slip out the back door. The patio behind the cafeteria is a different planet, light-years away from the crush of the gym. The air is cool on my skin, and a breeze catches the sheer fabric of my dress, making it flutter as we walk toward one of the benches at a nearby table.

“You okay?” I ask him.

“I guess,” he says. “Little weirded out.”

“The reporters?”

“Them, too.” He crunches on a piece of ice and stares out across the back patio to toward the ditch where we hunted fossils together last fall. “Mainly my mom.”

“More Powerade?”

He closes his eyes and rolls his head back in a circle, trying to relax. “Toilet paper,” he says wearily. “The half bath off the rec
room? Stacked to the ceiling with twelve-packs.”

I've seen plenty of weird people on cable shows. I've seen a woman addicted to eating Ajax and a man who sleeps in the garage because there are thirty years of newspapers filling up every inch in his house. It's easy to laugh at when it isn't happening to you.

Or to someone you love.

The thought comes out of nowhere, and I bite my tongue to keep it from slipping through my lips. I reach out and touch Ben's hand. He laces his fingers through mine and squeezes. For a while, we sit silently in the shadows, staring into the night, music and laughter and people drifting in and out of the gym.

“She was on her way back to the store when I left,” Ben says.

“For more toilet paper?”

“Paper towels. I told her not to. We don't have any more room in the garage. I'm afraid she's going to fill up the rec room next.”

It would be easier if I had some sort of advice—some surefire, short-term cure. Ben's dad found one at a bar in Nebraska. Adele found hers at the gym and the big box stores. Adults have the luxury of making their own decisions, but they don't stop there. They end up making our decisions, too. I know Ben can't just jump in his truck and drive away. It's why he has his sights set on the long game: college.

“If I can just get a verbal agreement for a scholarship this season . . .” He's lost in thought for a moment, then he turns and looks at me. “What's your plan, Weston?”

“What do you mean?”

He considers me for a second. “Coach says Duke is interested in me, too.”

“Duke?”

“How far away you want to go for college?” he asks. “They've got a soccer team.”

I'm not sure how to answer. When I'm silent, he turns to me with a smile. “They've got a kickass science department, too,” he says, then hastens to add, “from what I understand. You know. If you were . . . interested in that sort of thing.”

“Are you asking me to go to the same college as you?”

“Maybe . . .” He pauses. “Okay, yeah. I guess that's what I'm asking.”

Watching him tongue-tied may be the cutest thing I've ever seen.

“I've got to see how the soccer season goes. Don't know if I'm good enough to be ranked.”

“Sure you are,” he says. “But your PSAT scores were huge, right?”

A sheepish smile gives me away.

“You're a National Merit Finalist, right?”

“Semifinalist,” I say, “just like you. But it's nice to know you're paying attention.”

He winks at me. “I've been paying attention to you for a long time, Weston. You're one of those girls who can do anything she wants to.”

“Oh, am I?”

“There aren't many of you running around this one-horse town.”

When he says this, I blush and am glad we're outside in the dark. Ben is the first guy I've ever been out with who's complimented my brains before making a grab at my boobs.

“So what about it?” he asks. “If I got an offer from Duke, would you consid—”

I lean over and stop his mouth with a kiss. He drops his red Solo cup to the ground and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me closer on the bench.

When we finally come up for air, he taps a finger on my nose. “I'll take that as a yes.”

“What about your mom?” I ask him.

“What about her?”

“When we talked before, you said you were afraid of leaving her alone. Afraid she'd fill up the house with crap.”

Ben nods. “This week—finally being with you, like this—it's made me realize how fast things can change. There are some things I can control—like asking you out. There are some things I can't—like whether Mom will ever stop with the coupons. It's like ever since Dad took off she doesn't want to see me—really
see
me. Maybe when she looks at me, her heart breaks all over again. So she puts all this stuff between us.”

My eyes well up. Hearing Ben talk like this I realize there's so much about him—so much going on beneath the surface that no one ever sees. I may be the luckiest girl alive—not only to know this, but to have him share it with me.

“You're a good guy, Ben.” When I say it there's a catch in my throat. He hears it and squeezes my hand.

“I just don't think I can stick around and be worried about my mom for my whole life. If I had the opportunity to go play and didn't take it, I'd wind up hating myself and probably her. Then what good would I be to anybody?”

He takes a deep breath and leans back against the table attached to our bench. He stretches out his impossibly long legs, and lets go of my hand, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.

We sit there in silence for a little while, until Rachel comes looking for us and drags us back to the gym. We thread our way across the floor to Christy and Lindsey, and in a relatively low-volume moment, as the DJ mixes one track into the next, Ben pulls me close and whispers in my ear. “You're a knockout. You know that?”