What We Saw(19)

As the principal disappears down the hall, the held breath of five hundred students is released. All of our confusion, dismay, and speculation is instantly boiled down to a single question:

What the hell just happened?

Ben stares at the door where Dooney was just hauled away in handcuffs. His jaw is slack. Rachel, Lindsey, and Christy descend on us. Each shouts three questions at once. Now Will is here, too, pulling on my sleeve, asking what I know, asking what Ben knows. In unison, they all aim their questions at him:

Do you know do you know do you know?

“Do I know what?”

Ben sinks into a chair at the corner of an empty table, stunned. A migration is occurring into the hallway, and beyond. I sit down next to him. My hand finds his shoulder. At my touch, his face snaps toward me, as if he’s forgotten I am here.

“What is going on?” Christy is almost shouting.

“Did they say ‘child pornography’?” Rachel asks, her voice trembling.

“Oh my god, you guys, Phoebe is a wreck.” Lindsey points a couple tables over where Dooney’s girlfriend is sobbing, two seniors, both named Tracy (one spelled “Tracie”), have an arm around her.

“Sexual assault?” Christy is still badgering Ben with questions. “What do they mean? Like rape?”

“What?” Ben holds up both hands, surrendering. “Look, I have no idea what this is about.”

The electronic tone sounds, announcing lunch is at an end. We have five minutes to make it to fifth period. Christy and Lindsey scatter to collect their books. Will raises a tentative hand in farewell. Ben manages to nod at him. “Later, Pistol.”

“You guys coming?” Rachel asks.

I nod. “Right behind you.”


But I don’t move. Instead, I sit with Ben in silence for a few more minutes as two women in hairnets and rubber gloves point an old boom box in our direction. Mariachis sing as they begin to wipe down tables with sponges in little buckets full of warm water and bleach. I don’t get up until Ben does.

“You okay?” I slip my hand into his as we walk back toward our lockers.

He brings my fingers to his lips, kissing them lightly, absently. His mind is in another place. “Just trying to make sense of what we saw.”

As he speaks these words, the second tone sounds. True, we’ll both get tardy slips, but this time the weird electronic beep holds another message, too. Its unsettling pitch lodges deep in my stomach, a warning I can’t quite make out. As it echoes through the hallways, Ben drops my hand and walks to his next class without looking back.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE


HarperCollins Publishers

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eleven


WE ASSEMBLE IN the gymnasium..

Rachel’s face is buried in her phone. She and Christy point and gasp at their screens. A hashtag has sprung up with pictures and videos of the lunchroom arrest two hours ago: #buccsincuffs on most, the tag #r&p on some. No one can figure out what that means. I am turning my phone in my hands as we wait, but do not swipe to see. Something in me doesn’t want to know.

Lindsey joins us, sliding onto the bleacher next to me. I left enough space for two people between me and the aisle, knowing she’d join us, and hoping Ben will, too.

“Are you okay?” Lindsey’s eyes narrow. I nod and she follows my gaze to the stage where Wyatt Jennings and Shauna Waring from the drama club ready a microphone and podium. Behind them is the set for the spring musical that began taking shape last week during spring break. Rydell High is almost fully formed with flats painted to look like hot-pink versions of the lockers we have in the hallway. Grease! opens Saturday night, and runs for a week. The stage is now a school within a school, a hyper-colored backdrop for our drama in real life.

Rachel watches as Shauna uncoils a mic cable. “She’s playing Sandy.”

Christy glances up from her phone. “Wyatt’ll look great in a poodle skirt.” She snorts with laughter at her own joke as Wyatt plugs in the mic and steps to the podium. “Testing, testing, one-two-three.” He gives Principal Hargrove a thumbs-up.

There is a loud whistle—a catcall from behind us. A group of the varsity Buccaneers is filing into seats across the aisle. Reggie Grant shouts up at Wyatt to “Shake it, baby.” There are jeers and cheers, groans and shouts, taunts of “fag” and “fabulous.”

“Seriously?” Christy snickers. “We’re supposed to believe that he’s in love with Sandy? Wyatt would run off with one of the other T-Birds the first chance he got.”

“Uh-huh, ’cause John Travolta’s just as straight as they come,” says Rachel.

“What?” Christy doesn’t get it.

“Do a search on TMZ,” says Lindsey. “We’ll wait.”

“Look,” says Christy, “I’m just saying that Danny Zuko in that movie was way more butch than Wyatt will ever be.”

“Jesus, Christy,” I say, sighing. “You’re way more butch than Wyatt will ever be.” Her arm shoots across Rachel’s lap, and I narrowly avoid the punch she aims at my shoulder.

“Take that back!”

“If the shoe fits . . .” Rachel giggles.