What We Saw (21 page)

THIS VIDEO DOESN'T
show you everything.

For instance, you never see the face of the young man who has the scar behind his ear. You never hear his voice. You don't know how long he's been standing there, watching what is happening on the couch, or what he says after the camera is turned off. You don't know if he's walking downstairs to say good-bye and stumbling upon the scene at that moment, or if he's been there the entire time, looking on behind Randy, a silent witness.

This video can't show you the face of the young woman who
knows
that scar because she inflicted it. You can't hear the strangled cry that escapes my lips. There's no shot of me crumbling to the floor of Will's bedroom or of Will racing to get my
mom. He does his best to explain to her about the video, but he doesn't notice the scar on the screen. Neither does Mom. Neither of them look closely enough to see more, and I cannot find the words to tell them.

No footage exists of me crying myself to sleep that night or of the tears that begin to flow again when I wake in the gray light of Saturday. I know I can't return to Des Moines for the championship game, and Mom is so concerned about me she decides we will all stay home. Will watches the Buccaneers lose by six points on television and comes to my room to tell me the news. He finds me holding a piece of coral from my nightstand, desperate to go back to that day in September when Ben was only a childhood memory in my mind and a wish in my heart.

This video can't explain to you how I cursed myself for falling in love. It could never show how much easier it would've been to simply keep nodding at Ben as we passed in the halls. It would've been easier to never have known the warmth of his love—the taste of his lips on mine, his body tangled up in my own—than to know all of those things, and then see him in the final frame on that screen.

The video doesn't show you the texts I get that afternoon from Ben as he rides home on the bus from Des Moines. It can't reveal all of the promises that are swept away, or the hope that is buried once more beneath layers of lies, lost in the sediment of deceit.

In that sense, this video doesn't really show you anything at all.

It
does
show you that my boyfriend was present in the room while his friends assaulted a girl he could've helped, but chose not to.

And in that sense, this video shows you everything you need to know.

“THERE YOU ARE.”

I drove to Ben's house the next day propelled by an ironclad disbelief that melts into rage the moment I hear these words. The garage door is open, and he's standing in the driveway shooting baskets.

He walks toward me slowly, the ball tucked under his arm. He leans in to kiss me, but stops. My eyes are puffy and bloodshot, leaking tears again now that I see him. For a moment, I wonder if I can bury this deep inside me and act as if nothing is wrong—keep it forever hidden from view by the force of my will alone.

“I'm sorry you lost.” These are the only words I can muster
before my voice cracks and I cover my face with my hands, sobbing.

I feel his arms wrap around me. His lips on my hair.

Is this the last time
?

He walks me up to the garage and grabs a bottle of Smartwater off a shelf between Saran Wrap and Sticky Tack.

“Hey, it's cool,” he whispers. “Don't cry.”

He twists off the cap and hands me the water, smiling his Irresistible Grin. “Duke is still gonna make me an offer. Silver lining, right? We're gonna get outta here.”

“I can't come with you.”

He frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“The video. I saw it all. To the end.”

His face goes slack. “What?”

“Will found it. It's . . . out there.”

“So? What's that got to do with us?”

The tears start again, streaming quietly this time. A vise on my throat makes it difficult to speak, but I force myself to say the word: “Everything.”

He tosses the basketball into a bin by the rec room door. “What are you talking about?”

“You're in the video.”

He freezes for a split second, then reaches for me, trying to wrap his arms around me. “I promise,” he says. “I was only there to say good-bye and I—”

“Don't.” I am crying so hard I can barely speak. I push a hand into his chest, holding him back.

“It's no big deal. I just couldn't—”

“Stop! You couldn't what? Be honest? Tell me the truth? Couldn't help Stacey?”

He drops back like I've punched him in the stomach. “That's not fair. You know that's not fair.”

“And what happened to Stacey, while you watched, was that fair? That I loved you while you lied to my face? Is that fair?”

“Listen to me. I'm sorry. I didn't want to lie—not to you, not to anyone—but we have to keep this quiet.”

“No. We don't. We can't.” I shake my head. “You know who was there.”

“We'd had a lot to drink.”

“You can tell the police what you remember. You can be a witness.”

He laughs bitterly. “Witness? Against Dooney? And Deacon? I'd get run out of town.”

“Isn't that what you want?” I snap. “To get out of here?”

“Not like that, Kate. I want you with me. Look!
We
can get out of here. Look at this. Look at me.” He turns around sweeping his hands toward Adele's shelving, the garage packed to the rafters. “I can get away from this
.
Duke is happening. And you can come with me.”

“But who would I be coming with?” I ask. “Who are you? A guy who lies? Who lets his buddies get away with this? A guy who just stood by and watched?”

“No!” Frantic he grabs both my hands in his. “You
know
me. That's not who I am. I told Dooney it couldn't ever happen again. That it wasn't cool
.
”

“And then you helped him delete the evidence?”

“I told you, that was just the pictures of the booze.”

“Why should I believe you?” This slips out quickly and softly, more of a statement than a question.

He walks away from me in a fast circle, running his hand through his hair. When he turns back, his eyes are flashing. “Because it's me! Because I love you.”

“Just not enough to tell me the truth?” I ask. “What if you'd come downstairs and it had been me on that couch?”

He yells when I say this, kicking a blue bin of paper grocery sacks, nested inside each other like Russian dolls. “How can you say that? That would never be you
.
”

“Why not?”

“How can you even compare yourself to her? Stacey is so messed up. She's an alcoholic loser who's been a slut since seventh grade when she—”

“Was my friend,” I yell, cutting him off; the tears are fresh and hot and endless. “When she was my friend.”

Ben looks down at me, suddenly exhausted. In his eyes is a fear I've never seen before. “Please, Kate. If you tell the police I was there, they'll want to see that video, and if I get hauled in to witness at the trial Duke won't give me an offer. You heard what that scout told my mom yesterday. I have to keep my nose clean—stay away from this.”

“That hacker group has the video already,” I remind him. “If we don't come forward, they'll release it on Monday. Everyone will know anyway.”

“Let 'em release it. It's the back of my head for a split second. Who's gonna tell them? Who's gonna know?”

“I will,” I whisper. “I'll know.”

I collapse onto a nearby step stool. Ben drops to his knees in front of me, one hand on both of my thighs, as if he can hold me here, hold us together, keep me from drifting away.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks.

“Come with me. Tell the police about the video. Help me identify who was there.”

“I can't. Even if Coach didn't cut me from the team next year, how would I ever face the guys again?”

“How can you face them now?” I ask. “After what you saw them do?”

“Kate, I only want one thing.
Us
. Somewhere bigger. Somewhere better. We're so close. We can have it. Together. All we have to do is get through this.”

“By lying?”

“By not saying anything
.
Please,” he begs.

“I can't do that.”

Ben's eyes fill up as I say this. “So what? I go with you to the police or you're gonna break up with me?”

I shake my head, and a sob escapes my lips. I reach out and place my hand on his cheek. “No, Ben. I'm breaking up with you now. If you come to the police with me, then maybe we
can find a way to be friends.”

He swipes at the tears rolling down his face. “But I love you, Kate.”

“Not enough,” I choke. “Not enough.”

He calls after me as I struggle down the drive on shaking legs. Learning how to walk away uses a different set of muscles, new ones that I haven't yet developed. The task is slow and arduous. I force myself forward. I don't look back.

I keep hoping he'll run after me, but he doesn't, and I realize that everything is past tense now.

This is how an era ends.

Iowa was once an ocean.

I was once the girl you loved.

As I crank the key in my old truck, I hear a roar to equal the engine and turn in time to see Ben ram his shoulder full force into the first of Adele's shelving units. It teeters for a moment, then topples over onto the one behind it, sending a spray of bottles and cans, bags and blister packs in every direction. A domino effect levels the stockpile in a matter of seconds.

Sometimes, change happens over eons. Other times, in the blink of an eye.

I pull away from the curb. My final glimpse is of Ben, holding his head in his hands, weeping in the middle of the wreckage.

When I get home, Dad is out puttying and painting the trim around the front door. I'm crying so hard that I trip on one of the stairs that leads up to the porch from the driveway. Dad
hurries to help me up, sitting next to me and pulling me against his shoulder.

“Hey there,” he whispers. “What's the matter, Katie?”

I hold him tight and sob into his flannel work shirt. I want to tell him everything, to explain, somehow, that I will never be the same.

Instead, I sob the only words that I can find over and over:

I hurt my friend.

I hurt my friend.

I hurt my friend.

THE DETECTIVE IS
a woman.

I don't know why this surprises me, but it does. She asks us if we want some water while Will turns on his laptop. I nod, and she leaves the room for a moment, returning with two white Styrofoam cups filled from the drinking fountain in the hall.

She notices me eyeing the camera mounted on the ceiling in the corner of the room. “Just a procedural thing,” she explains. “We tape all of our interviews.”

Yesterday, when I got home from Ben's, I told Mom and Dad everything. We showed them the video. I told Dad that I knew he didn't want us to get involved and started to explain why I had to. He stopped me with a raised hand, closed Will's
laptop, and picked up the phone to call Deputy Jennings.

I texted Ben this morning on the way to the station. I told him what time we'd be here and asked him to join us. Will and the detective start and stop their way through the video, pausing it every so often as he points out people, and she writes down their names. My phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance at the screen, swiping open the message with my thumb to reveal Ben's response:

I love you. Please don't go.

My eyes fill up and I hear the video come to an end.

“Any idea who this guy is?” the detective asks Will, pointing at the screen. As my brother turns to look at me, she follows suit.

“His name is Ben Cody,” I say.

“You sure?” she asks. “Just the back of his head.”

“He has a scar behind his ear.” I point it out on the screen.

The detective squints as she leans in.
The closer you look, the more you see.

“Oh yeah,” she says, writing down his name. “Must know him pretty well to catch that.”

“We've been friends since the day I gave it to him.”

“When was that?” she asks with a smile.

“We were five.” I can't keep the tears out of my voice. The detective looks up at me, then pulls a tissue out of a box on the table and hands it over.

“You're doing the right thing,” she says.

“Doesn't feel like it.” I wipe my eyes. I am so tired of crying.

She nods, reading back over her list and flipping to a new page in her steno pad. “Sometimes, that's how you know,” she says without looking up. “That's how you know.”

THERE IS A
difference between rejection and betrayal.

To be turned down is a sting that fades away—a scratch that burns, but scabs. You can hypothesize why it didn't work out, gather evidence, and formulate a theory that explains all of the reasons it wasn't right—or simply chalk it up as “never meant to be.” After some time, when the scratch heals, it disappears completely.

The thing about betrayal is that it cannot be explained. It would be easier if Ben were evil, I suppose, an angry guy who kicked dogs and sold drugs and hated all women everywhere.

But he isn't.

In the weeks that followed our visit to the detective, that's
how almost everyone in town was painted. Adele and Ben, Stacey and Phoebe, Dooney and Deacon, me and Will—anyone who'd ever worn Buccaneer Blue—we were all reduced to a cautionary tale again and again, on CNN and Facebook, on thousands of blogs and talk shows, our humanity siphoned off, drained away 140 characters at a time. In the end, you might have forgotten there were any people besides John Doone and Deacon Mills who lived in Coral Sands at all.

By Sunday evening, all four pleas were changed to guilty, and a list of new subpoenas had been issued with Ben Cody's name at the top. On Monday morning, UltraFEM released a statement instead of the video, thanking those “brave enough to come forward.” The world at large never had to see those four minutes that changed everything.

Those of us who did tried to make sense of it any way we could. Some wrote it off as boys being boys. People who'd never even been to Coral Sands decided our whole town was evil. Others chalked it up to a mix of hormones and alcohol. They said that this is what happens when teenagers drink. Maybe they're right about some teenagers. Still there were plenty of us at that party who were just as drunk as our friends in the basement, who could never have imagined the things that happened that night.

I was one of them.

I can't understand being drunk enough to see that go on and ignore it. How Ben could be in that room and not speak up, I will never know. What I do know is that Ben loved me, but
it didn't keep him from lying to me. One day, I hope to forgive him, but I'll never be able to be with him again.

The hardest part about betrayal is that as bad as it hurts, it doesn't stop you from loving the one who lied. In the days and weeks that followed, I was constantly surprised to find that no one had told my heart to cut it out. I kept remembering Ben's touch and missing his Irresistible Grin. Just as I hadn't been able to choose who I fell in love with, I couldn't choose when to stop caring for him, either. The heart is a muscle, it would seem, both literally and figuratively. It does some things like beating and loving from memory, completely on its own.

By lunch on Monday, I had become persona non grata, as invisible as Phoebe and despised as Stacey—a pariah, just like Alfred Wegener. Christy and Rachel were polite and smiled from a distance, but drifted as far away as possible. I kept forgetting that Ben would no longer be sitting behind me in geology and not to look for him on the senior staircase. When he saw me, he would nod, then look away, which was even worse than if he had ignored me completely. Lindsey sat with me at lunch, and on the bus en route to the class field trip the next Friday. To her credit, she really tried, but it's hard to talk to someone who is always on the verge of tears, and that afternoon I found myself standing alone in the Devonian Fossil Gorge at the edge of the spillway.

I knelt down and ran my fingers along those ancient shapes in the limestone. I tried to imagine these sea lilies and brachiopods, teaming with life in the shallow soup 375 million years
ago, but I found that both observation and imagination have their limits. Iowa was once an ocean, yes, but I will never know it any other way than landlocked hills that end too soon and waves of windswept cornfields, rolling out in all directions, as far as my eyes can see.

Even when presented with the evidence itself, there are some phenomena that I will never grasp completely.

To catch the one who loves you in a lie leaves a wound that never fully goes away. I will never understand how the Ben I knew so well could deceive me so completely. I can only say that his feet were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he went down hard.

That day, in the warm sun, surrounded by the solid proof of an ancient realm, I let go of forming theories. I only know that, given enough time, this wound will scar over. The layers of my life will slowly cover and fill the gulf cleft through my heart. But deep in the bedrock of who I am is a record of these things that I will carry with me, a new map whose boundaries have forever altered the way I view the world.