Wrecked(73)

“It sucks,” Haley agrees.





. . .


Jordan talks. Jenny hears herself laughing. She hears him answering her questions.

She’s not sure where they’re going. Everything moves. The leaves—papery sound—the sidewalk, the street lamps. They come out of the woods, go back into the woods, her arm crooked through his. When she sways, he squeezes tighter.

Her dress is like gauze. Out of the woods, the breeze stronger, it puffs up. High.

“Your dress is beautiful,” he tells her.

She doesn’t answer.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks. “You must have a boyfriend.”

She doesn’t answer.

“I feel swirly,” she finally says.

. . .





34





Richard


Richard and Haley show up late and barely manage to grab two seats at the rear of the auditorium. The session is packed.

“I thought you said everyone was sleeping in,” Richard comments.

“Not the teams,” Haley says, pointing to rows packed with jersey--clad students. “Coaches were on this.”

From their vantage point in the back they can check out the whole scene. The men’s lacrosse team sits in the first three center rows. To their left, separated by an aisle, Carrie and Co. occupy seats: the Hippie Witch’s unmistakable red dreads could be a placard announcing Activists Sit Here. Other campus cohorts (football players, whole freshman halls, hipsters) fill the place. A boisterous din of conversation floats to the ceiling.

The stage, in contrast, is stark. A couch he recognizes as a theater department prop is positioned dead center. A guy, fortyish maybe, hard to tell, wearing jeans and a T--shirt emblazoned with red lips, as if a giant wearing lipstick had kissed his chest, stands to one side, big smile on his face.

“That’s Matt Trainor,” Haley tells him.

“And he is?” Richard asks.

“A one--man traveling sexual--consent road show,” Haley explains. “He’s a counselor and a stand--up comic. He does this thing at colleges and military bases.”

The din fades as a student, looking professional in black slacks and a matching short jacket, walks toward the microphone at center stage. He recognizes her: it’s that friend of Carrie’s. Gail.

“Good morning,” Gail says. She holds an oversize index card, probably containing notes. The buzz slowly dies as people realize the program is beginning. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to introduce Matt Trainor to MacCallum College today . . .”

As Gail runs through the list of Matt’s accomplishments, places he’s visited, the difference he’s made in changing the dia-logue of consent, Richard’s eyes drift to Carrie’s corner again. At the same moment, Carrie’s white--blond head pivots and she twists in her seat to scan the audience behind her. Their eyes lock over the sea of students.

Her expression isn’t friendly.

“Wow,” Richard hears. For a second, he thinks he’s said it. Then he realizes it’s Haley. She’s noticed Carrie, too. “If looks could kill, right?” she murmurs into his ear. Richard sees Carrie whisper to the Witch, who twists around, glances at him and Haley, then turns back in her seat. Her face registers nothing. Not even surprise.

“Ignore them,” he tells Haley. Then he makes a decision. He takes one of her hands in his, lacing his fingers through hers and squeezing tight. He doesn’t look at her when he does this, but then he feels the pressure of her fingers squeezing back.

Richard hears applause. Gail is stepping back, and the Trainor guy is stepping forward. Skipping forward, actually.

The guy’s pumped.

“Before we begin,” he says, “I’m going to ask for two volunteers. One man, one woman. Right here, up on the stage. Anybody brave enough?”

There’s a pause, nervous laughter and shuffling, as several hundred people shift in their seats and look around. Brave my ass. More like stupid. To the tenth factorial.

He feels a tug on his hand, a rush of cool air. Haley is standing, which strikes him as odd. Why would she leave? It’s just beginning. But then she’s pulling him up.

“We’ll do it,” Haley calls out to Matt Trainor.

Every head whips around in their direction.

Shit.

Richard hears a whoop from a pack of girls in team sweatshirts. One of them screeches, “It’s Haley!” There’s a ripple of applause, a wave of laughter, an undercurrent of whispers, and her hand, now relentless, pulling. He imagines what he looks like. A doe facing a Peterbilt?

Which is a complete contrast to her. Haley’s eyes are bright. Her jaw is set, but her mouth twists in a barely suppressed laugh. She’s as pumped as Trainor. With some serious business behind that grip.

It’s her game face. He’s never seen it before. It’s . . . im-pressive.

“C’mon, Math Dude,” she urges. “We’ve got this.”

The applause in the room increases as he drags himself to his feet. He can smell the relief in the air, everyone so glad that some idiot just volunteered and Matt Trainor didn’t have to select random victims.

“You do recognize the irony of not asking for my consent before volunteering us at an assembly about consent, right?” he says as they leave their seats and walk the gauntlet toward the stage.