What We Saw (15 page)

ACCUSED TEENS PLEAD “NOT GUILTY”; HACKER COLLECTIVE THREATENS ACTION AS POLICE INVESTIGATION STALLS

By Sloane Keating

Published: March 21

CORAL SANDS, Iowa—
Ramsey Swain, legal counsel for John Doone, one of the Coral Sands High basketball players accused of assaulting a female student during a party at his home last week, held a press conference this afternoon, declaring his client's innocence.

Mr. Swain pointed to the lack of witnesses who have come forward to aid police in their investigation as proof that Doone, fellow senior Deacon Mills, and two unnamed minors also accused had done nothing wrong.

He spoke to reporters on the steps of the county courthouse. “Did these kids have a wild party? Sure they did. Did a young woman decide to have a little fun with these boys? Certainly. Was it an attack of any kind? Absolutely not.”

Deputy Barry Jennings and Detective Flora Hughes have reported difficulty in finding students who will speak to them about what went on during the party one week ago.

County prosecutor Barbara Richter, who held her own press conference today, plans to proceed with the case aided by still pictures that were captured from social media and the cell phones of several of the accused. When asked about a rumored video of the crime itself, Ms. Richter said she could not confirm its existence as of yet. “Video of the crime was made and circulated,” she said. “So far we have been unable to locate it.”

Reports have surfaced in recent days that Coach Raymond Sanders led an effort to have the video deleted by threatening to remove any player who was found in possession of it from the top-ranked Buccaneer athletic program. Coach Sanders received unwanted national media attention this week after threatening this reporter on camera during a pep rally at Coral Sands High and could not be reached for comment.

Meanwhile, amid increased national scrutiny, self-described
hacker collective, UltraFEM (identified on their website as “the anonymous hacker protest collective dedicated to full prosecution of crimes against women”) has posted a statement on its website that they are in possession of the video in question and demand those charged in the Coral Sands rape case change their pleas to guilty. If this demand is not met, the group promises to release the video to the media and public at large one week from Monday. Their requirements also extend to those involved in what they refer to as the “pervasive rape culture of the Coral Sands Buccaneers basketball team,” and any who witnessed the alleged crime of Saturday, March 14.

SLOANE KEATING IS
reporting live from the steps of the courthouse, and we are all glued to the screen when Dad walks in from his Saturday shift, gone long. He's covered in sawdust and sweat, and as Sloane ends the special report, he cracks open a beer and asks what the hell a hacker collective is.

Will fills him in as I dip baby carrots in a tub of hummus and check the clock on my phone. Have to leave time to brush my teeth before Ben comes to get me.

“So, they've broken into somebody's computer and lifted this video?” Dad asks. He shakes his head. “That sounds like the crime to me.”

“Who would make a video of something like that?” Mom asks.

“Tyler's brother thinks they're bluffing,” says Will. “Just a bunch of feminists trying to stick their noses in where they don't belong—causing problems when they don't even know what they're talking about.”

“I hope there's no video.” Mom sighs, unconvinced. “I hope there was nothing to record.”

Dad raises his eyebrows at me as I put the lid on the hummus and the carrots back into the crisper. “Pretty fancy outfit for mowing the yard,” he says.

“Oh,
Carl
,” Mom says, smiling. “She has a date.”

“Besides,” I say, “mowing the grass is Will's job.”

“How about I go on a date, and you mow the grass?” Will asks.

“For that to happen, someone would have to want to go on a date with you,” I say.

Mom and Dad laugh. Will tries to hit me with a throw pillow as I dart upstairs to the bathroom.

Wyatt Jennings is a knockout.

By the end of “Summer Lovin'” he and Shauna Waring have us all on our feet screaming like sixth-graders at a boy-band concert. Even Ben is cheering.
Cheering.
Fist pumping, yelling, whooping.

Offstage, Wyatt's just this tall, skinny kid. Handsome
enough. Sort of a big forehead and a horsey jaw. He seemed so scared of LeRon and Kyle on Tuesday when they pinned him against the lockers. He could barely look Ben in the eye.

But onstage?

He's a star.

His hair is sprayed up in a perfect pompadour. His black leather jacket clings to his broad shoulders like he was born wearing it. When he sings, he struts. He owns the stage like Dooney owns center court. But unlike Dooney, Wyatt wants you to join him, not worship him. His presence invites you in, instead of keeping you out. When he swivels his hips and hits those high notes, he's not showing you he's better than you. Wyatt is doing it
for
you. He lets you know that there's room for you here, too, his voice soaring above Sandy's in a gorgeous falsetto that makes you smile and clap in the middle of a song. You know you'll have this tune stuck in your head for the next month.

And that's the problem with
Grease!

The music is so catchy.

When the lights went down tonight, I was amazed at how many of the songs I still knew by heart. I haven't watched the movie for a long time. It used to be on cable a lot when I was little, and I remember Mom sitting down with Will and me one night to watch it.

This was my favorite when I was your age.

Back then, I understood why right away. I felt so special that my mom was sharing this with me. I'd never seen a musical
movie that wasn't animated—one where it was actual
people
singing, not cartoon characters. For a couple years after that, every time Will and I saw
Grease!
on TV, we'd dance around the living room for hours afterward singing “You're the One that I Want” and “We Go Together.”

The stage version is a little different from the movie. For starters, Sandy's not from Australia, and she doesn't sing “Hopelessly Devoted.” They took out all the cigarette smoking and curse words for our high school production, but most everything else is the same—especially the way this music still excites me. It makes me want to get up and dance with my arms in the air.

Which is why I say the music is a problem:

It's so good that you forget the plot.

You forget that “Summer Lovin'” is the story of how hot and heavy Sandy and Danny got before school started. You forget that after exaggerating to the T-Birds how far they went “under the dock,” Danny basically blows Sandy off. You forget that later, he tries to get her to have sex in his car when she doesn't want to.

You forget that at the end of the show, Sandy gives in.

Sure, Danny makes that half-assed attempt to join the track team, but you can tell he doesn't really mean it. Nobody at Rydell High expects him to change. For that matter, no one in the audience expects him to either. It's a funny part that we all laugh at.
How ridiculous!
Boys
don't change for
girls.

We all expect Sandy to do the changing.

And after she flees the drive-in movie when Danny pressures her to go farther than she wants to? Twenty minutes later, she shows up at the Burger Palace in skintight pants and a low-cut shirt. Her hair is huge, and she's wearing tons of makeup. She becomes
exactly
the person Danny Zuko wants her to be. She makes herself into the version of the girls that
he's
decided are attractive.

She doesn't ask him
why
he has the power to decide what she should look like. She doesn't say, “Okay. Yes, I'll go have sex with you now.” She doesn't have to.

A lot of this musical went way over my head when I was a kid.

But then? Just as you're about to feel annoyed about it, the music kicks in.

It's this big feel-good number. Now that Sandy has completely changed, Danny sings to her:
You're the one that I want.
Then everybody else joins them onstage and sings “We Go Together.”

By the end of that number, we're all on our feet, clapping and stomping and singing along with this rambunctious, infectious, life-affirming music
.
And it's so bright and so shiny and so happy and so perfect that by the time Wyatt takes his final bow?

You lose track of the lie.

By curtain call, this music has made you completely forget the whole point of the plot—the takeaway of this entire story—which is that Sandy decides that what Danny wants is more important than what she wants.

Even with all the cheerful music, I find my brain wandering toward Stacey and Dooney. The truth is, I've done so much thinking this week about what it means to say no that I haven't done any thinking at all about what it means to say yes.

What if I want to say yes?

I am thinking about this during the musical, sneaking quiet glances at Ben as he watches the show. His eyes light up, and his perfect lips erupt in laughter. He reaches over to squeeze my hand during “Beauty School Dropout” without taking his eyes off the stage. He simply runs his hand down my arm and laces his fingers through mine as if it were the most normal, perfect thing in the world.

As he does it, I think,
Yes.

I am thinking about this in the car on the way back to Ben's place, when I bring up what a lame message
Grease!
has, and how surprised I am that people let their little girls watch it without even talking to them about it. He laughs—not at me, but in a way that tells me how much he likes me
.
He asks me questions about my opinion. We talk about it all the way to his house, and he nods, like he's never thought about it that way before.

He says, “Guess it's sorta like porn.”

I say, “What
?
” perhaps louder than I mean to, because I feel like I might fly out the window of his truck at that moment. “How is
Grease!
like porn? And how do you know what porn looks like?”

He smirks at me. “I just mean that you know it isn't real life. You know what's happening on-screen is way different from what would happen when you actually have sex. It's the same thing as watching a car chase in a movie. You'd never try to drive like that on your way to school.”

It's such a weird, wonderful moment when I realize that this guy I am talking to has opinions. Smart ones. I feel so lucky that we have known each other for so long, and still feel comfortable talking like this. It's so frank and so honest and so . . . easy.

It makes me want to say
yes
.

I am thinking about this when Ben orders pizza, when he tells me that Adele is gone for the weekend at a Zumba competition in Chicago, when he asks me if I want a rum and Coke.

I say, “Yes.”

I eat pizza, but not too much.

I drink Bacardi, but not too much.

I kiss Ben for a while on the couch in the rec room, but not too much, because after a little while, he pulls me close, wraps his legs through mine, and lays his head against my chest.

He tells me he means it when he says, “I love you.” He tells me he's loved me ever since the day I kicked him in the head.

I run a hand through his hair, messing it up a little. He closes his eyes and leans into my touch. I tell him that I want a future beyond the county line, too. Someplace where I don't “know” anyone, but where I
know
him.

“Think we can make it through college together?” he asks.

I don't know if it's the rum or Ben's body pressed into mine,
but I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. I pull his face toward mine and have time for a single word before our lips touch:

“Yes.”

What does it mean to say yes? To consent to a kiss? To a touch? To more than that? When we finally move to his bedroom, he takes my hand, and I know exactly where we are going. I follow him because I want to. I haven't said the words
yes, I would like to have sex with you
, but I can feel myself telling him in so many other ways that this is okay, that I want this.

I pull off his shirt as we climb onto his bed. I can feel the power coiled in his shoulders and arms, the strength beneath his skin, but I'm not afraid. He is listening to every word I haven't said. We are communicating, but in a quiet give-and-take that doesn't use our voices.

He's so tall, and yet somehow, wound up in the sheets on his bed, our bodies are a perfect fit. One shirt and one sock at a time, our clothing falls away, and when there is nothing more between us, he speaks:

“Kate, is this okay?”

One more time, I say, “Yes.”

And if this were a movie, there would be no more words. There would only be a magical fade-to-black moment where our simultaneous first times were the stuff of legend. There would be no discussion that Ben has done this once before with someone else. Or that he is worried about hurting me. Or that I am a little worried about that, too. There would be no
ten-minute break while he digs through his mom's nightstands (yes, both of them) until he finds the condoms. There would be no giggling about how, after the Great Condom Hunt, I have to pee and abscond to the bathroom momentarily.

But this is not a big-screen car chase.

This is driving in real life.

So, we talk to each other. We go under the speed limit. We keep it cautious and safe, buckled in by all of the trust between us.

At first there is laughter. Then there is fumbling.

But finally . . .

An ocean of
yes.

“DO YOU REALLY
think there's a video?”

Rachel has been quiet all afternoon, both of us sprawled across my bedroom carpet with our laptops. She came over after church so we could write our poet papers for AP English. Mine is on Robert Browning, and hers is on his wife, Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

I almost told her that I needed to study alone today. Sometimes our Sunday study sessions become an excuse to stream Netflix or for her to talk about the guy she flirted with at the coffee-and-doughnuts table after services.

But today, I had news to report. I gave her the whole story about last night—stopping just short of the sex part. I want
to keep that to myself for now. I don't know if she'll be weird about it.

I feel great about it.

There's this little bubble of happiness floating around in my chest. I sense that telling anybody else about having sex with Ben would be letting some of the air out of this beautiful thing that happened—like somehow I'd be leaking away a part of my own joy. I'd probably tell Rachel if I didn't have to risk her judgment. I don't want to have to deal with anyone else's feelings about it for now. I only want to enjoy my own.

If I think about it too much, a goofy grin appears on my face. I'm glad I have a paper to write and a friend to distract me. Otherwise, I'd be tempted to text Ben every twelve seconds and I think, technically, that is the opposite of playing it cool.

We work on our laptops, mainly in silence, for about an hour. Rachel asks about the video, and I'm not sure what to say. I see the fear on her face again, and she sees my hesitation, so she keeps talking.

“I mean, if there was a video, we'd know, right? There's no way a bunch of feminist hackers would have it and we wouldn't.”

She says the word
feminist
like Will did last night—with scorn and derision—as if she's spitting something out.

“Why does everybody say ‘feminist' that way?”

“What way?”

“The way Dooney kept saying ‘herpes' after health class last year. Like it's this terrible, unspeakable thing.”

Rachel blinks at me, blankly. “Feminists are women who
believe in evolution and just don't want anybody to tell them what to do. They want to be able to abort their unborn babies.”

She says this as if everyone else on the planet knows these facts to be true, and I have clearly missed the memo. I frown and search “feminism” on my laptop, turning it around so Rachel can see the screen when the definition pops up. I read it aloud: “The advocacy of women's rights on the ground of political, social, and economic equality to men.”

Rachel sighs. “All I know is that you can't be a feminist and believe the Bible.”

“The Bible talks about feminism?”

“It talks about
families
,” Rachel clarifies. She sounds more and more like her mom now. “God created women to be good helpers for men. It's just better for families that way.”

“Not for Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

“Huh?”

“Her dad disinherited her for marrying the man she was in love with. They were broke for years because back then a father could just decide who his daughter married and take away her money if she did otherwise.”

Rachel shakes her head. “It was a different time then. It doesn't really affect us now.”

I want to tell her that this issue affects everything. Even our friendship. I want to be able to tell my best friend about my first time having sex with the guy I love, but I can't risk it because I don't want her to get all snooty about me losing my virginity—as if somehow she and her mom and the youth pastor at her
church should have a say about that. I want to tell her that I don't think a book from the Bronze Age is a good enough reason to relegate women to the role of “helpers” for all time.

But I don't know how.

We go back to our papers, but something between us is strained. I can feel us slipping away from each other. After a minute, I can't stand it any longer, and put down my computer. I reach over, and pull Rachel into a hug.

“Get off me,” she huffs.

I hug her harder, and she squirms. I squeeze her until we're basically wrestling on the floor. She tries to get away, and I try to hold her closer until both of us start laughing so hard we can't struggle anymore.

We lie on my carpet for a minute, staring up at the ceiling fan.

“Whatever you think of UltraFEM,” I tell her, “there must be a video of something.”

“I know,” she says. Her voice sounds tiny and far away. “But I wish I didn't.”

When I wake up on Monday morning, it's still dark outside, and there's a single thought on repeat in my brain:

Will something be different when I see Ben at school today?

I can't seem to lower the volume on this idea, which makes catching another hour of sleep impossible. I can hear Dad downstairs making coffee. I get up and take my laptop to the little desk in the corner of the kitchen to print out my report.

“Mornin', early bird.” Dad smiles, pouring coffee into his big travel mug and thermos. “Fresh outta worms today, but I can offer you a cuppa joe.”

“Sure.” I smile and cover my yawn as I wait for the printer to spit out my pages. Dad pours coffee into a mug that reads
WORLD'S GREATEST DAD
and places it in front of me on the counter. He points at the words and I laugh as he goes back to spreading peanut butter on bread. When Mom went back to work after the factory flood, her only stipulation was that everyone was on their own for lunch.

As the printer delivers page number five, Dad pauses behind me and plants a kiss on the top of my head. “First practice today?”

I nod, impressed he still keeps track of little things like this.

“Bring me home some Happy Joe's.”

It's a tradition we started in junior high. After the first practice of the season, Rachel, Christy, Lindsey, and I go get pizza. Our parents used to come along, but last year, we started driving ourselves.

I tell Dad I will as he latches his thermos into his gray lunch box. As he passes me on the way to the garage, he slides a crisp twenty-dollar bill onto the desk next to my computer. When I turn to tell him thank you, he just nods and closes the door behind him. I hear the automatic door open and his year-old Dodge Ram purrs to life.

I take the twenty back upstairs with my laptop and paper.

Not a bad start for a Monday.

My fear about things being different with Ben ends when I park behind the gym and see him waiting for me. He is leaning against his truck, his backpack slung casually across one shoulder, early man armed with provisions.

He bumps fists with Will, who struts off to class like he's Captain America. As he goes, Ben turns to me.

“There you are.”

“Waiting for the T-Birds?” I ask.

“Nah. You're the one that I want.”

I laugh, and he kisses me. We skirt the news vans, walking in the side doors at the end of the hallway hand-in-hand
.

Dooney, Deacon, Randy, and Greg aren't coming back to classes yet. The school board doesn't want any more media attention, and the guys are all studying at home this week. Stacey isn't back either, and I'm secretly relieved. I don't want to have to explain to Ben what happened Saturday afternoon.

Dooney is absent and everywhere at once. His presence looms large even though his seat is empty. A bunch of guys from the basketball team have started wearing his jersey number, 12, emblazoned on armbands with Sharpies. Some of the cheerleaders have made buttons—royal blue with a yellow twelve—and are handing them out before school. I see them everywhere on the way to class, pinned to hoodies, T-shirts, and backpacks.

By the time Mr. Johnston dismisses first period on Monday
morning, there is more to the story that surges through the hallways:

Phoebe broke up with Dooney yesterday.

Ben hasn't heard from Dooney to confirm, but Christy swears up and down that it's true. As Lindsey, Christy, Rachel, and I wade through the halls toward history, I see Phoebe close her locker with an armload of books as the Tracies approach.

Tracy bumps into Phoebe. Hard. Her books explode in all directions.

Tracie scowls and rolls her eyes, stepping over a binder. The rings have popped open, and its insides spill across the linoleum. Neither one of them stop.

Tracie doesn't say sorry
.

Tracy just yells, “Whoops!”

Then they both laugh and keep walking.

Phoebe is scrambling on her hands and knees to gather her notes and books, but no one is stopping to help her. In fact, no one is stopping at all.

I grab Rachel's arm. “What the hell?”

Christy shrugs. “That's what happens.”

I am about to ask her what she means when I see LeRon bump into Phoebe, still squatting to pick up her things. He knocks her sideways onto her hip as Kyle slides his size fourteen high-tops across the papers from her notebook, tearing them into pieces.

“Stop it, you asshole!” Phoebe is crying in frustration.

“You hear something?” LeRon asks Kyle.

“Nah, man. Don't hear nothing.”

Reggie cocks his head to one side like he's listening. “Wait!—oh—no, me neither.”

Phoebe pummels her fist against Kyle's leg, trying to pull a spiral notebook out from under his shoe. “God. You're such
dicks
.”

“
We're
dicks?” Reggie says. “You're the one who dumped Dooney.”

“Such a
bitch
move.” Kyle spits the words at her, kicking the spiral under his foot a little farther out of her reach.

“Right?” Reggie tosses an arm around Kyle as they start down the hall with LeRon.

I've had enough. I thrust my book at Rachel, who grabs it and hisses my name in an attempt to stop me. I storm across the hall.

“Leave her alone,” I tell Reggie, stooping down and sweeping a pile of Phoebe's stuff toward her.

Kyle turns around, zeroing in on me. “Whatcha gonna do about it?”

“She won't do a thing.” I look up and see Ben towering over us. “But if you say one more word to her I'll rearrange your face.”

Kyle wilts. “Bro—I didn't—”

“See me? Know
?
” Ben offers him options. “Well, now you have. And now you do.”

The three stooges stutter apologies and
it's cool it's cool
, extricating themselves from the razor wire of Ben's steady gaze
as quickly as they can. I hand Phoebe the last of her ruined papers. She scoops up the whole tangled pile and scrambles away without a word. Ben holds out his hand to help me up. I take it.

“Where'd you come from?” I ask.

He holds up his history text. “Grabbed the wrong book.”

“What is going on?” I ask him.

“People choosing sides,” he says. He checks his watch as Rachel hands me my book. We have to hurry.

Ben pecks me on the lips and winks. “Try not to get caught in the middle.”

Coach Lewis is a drill sergeant with a stopwatch and a clipboard.

Christy is dragging by the end of the third line drill, but she doesn't stop. When she finally taps the last goal line, Coach clicks the button and nods. “Not bad, Miller.” She pitches Christy a water bottle. Christy raises it in my direction and nods.

“We can do another couple of those, or we can scrimmage now.” Coach tosses her clipboard onto the grass while half the team shouts
scrimmage
.

“Fine. We'll scrimmage until I see somebody walk. If you're standing still, you're running a drill.”

Rachel and I are usually pitted against each other during practice. She's got speed and no fear. I've got fast feet and good instincts. Together we're unstoppable. Head to head, we push each other hard. Even in practice, Rachel plays for keeps. It's
one more thing I love about her.

We face off at center field.

“Gonna smoke you, Weston.”

“Don't get cocky,” I warn her.

She grins. “Just telling the truth.”

As soon as Coach drops the ball, Rachel lunges, but in a flash I snag it sideways, crossing it behind me for a pass to Risby, a junior with a slight overbite and a leg that might as well be the Hammer of Thor. She's still working on accuracy and speed, but on a wide-open field, she's the fastest way to get the ball deep toward the other side's goal in one swift kick.

Rachel and I are neck and neck as we watch the ball sail toward the penalty box. Lindsey comes charging at it with a wild yell and launches the ball to the midfield.

It's great to be back, all of us in action and united as a team again—even if we're practicing against each other. I've missed the feeling that Christy, Rachel, Lindsey, and I are on the same team. Ben's words from earlier have been ringing in my ears all day.

People choosing sides . . .

As I try to work the ball down the field, the tension slips away. Since the arrests last Tuesday, I've been white-knuckling things with my friends. Holding on tight, as we all lean toward different opinions of the truth.

And what is the truth?

Stacey's allegation? Did something happen to her that she didn't agree to? She says she can't even remember. Does that
mean she was really passed out in that Instagram picture?

Risby tries to aim a cross-field kick in my direction. It is a rocket slightly off course.
Houston, we have a negative on that trajectory.
As I race toward the loose ball, the image of Stacey in her blue towel pops into my head. Were there any marks on her arms or legs? Cuts? Bruises?

I didn't see any, but does that really mean anything?

The ball bounces once, and I leap in for the header. Coach Lewis yells across the field, but her words are lost. Rachel has materialized from the opposite direction and jumped into a Hail Mary bicycle kick. Her cleat is a brick wall.