What We Saw(20)

“. . . buy it.” Lindsey finishes for her.

“This seat taken?” Ben is pointing at the space next to Lindsey.

I shake my head. “All yours.”

Lindsey stands and switches places with me. I don’t even have to ask her. This, I believe, is the true meaning of friendship. Ben puts his arm around me as he sits down and pulls us a little closer as Principal Hargrove takes the stage. Ms. Speck stands next to him.

“We wanted to let you know the facts about what happened today in the cafeteria.” Principal Hargrove is wearing a burgundy blazer made of a fabric that does not contain a single natural fiber. There is enough polyester in this jacket to make it shine beneath the stage lights. The rumor is he bought it in 1991 and has kept it in his office ever since for the sole purpose of these assemblies and impromptu parent meetings. He pauses and runs a hand across his forehead as if patting his bangs into place. He’s bald, but he didn’t used to be, I suppose.

Given enough time, everything changes.

“It is important that when events like this one occur, you get your information directly from the source.” He says this as if it were every day that two policemen storm the cafeteria and arrest four basketball players the week before the state tournament.

“These are the facts: Today, four students were taken into custody by the county sheriff for the alleged sexual assault and rape of a female student.” A buzz rips through the assembly. Shouts and murmurs of “who was it” and “that’s bullshit” rise and fall. Principal Hargrove holds up his hands and waits for things to settle down.

“It’s important to remember that all students are innocent until proven guilty by a court of law. And it is up to me to remind you that the one and only place for that trial to be held is in a courthouse, and not on a blog or a website or in these hallways. We are under strict instructions to protect the victim’s anonymity—”

“Too late,” mutters Christy.

Rachel shushes her as Principal Hargrove brings Ms. Speck to the microphone. She’s more stylish than most of our other teachers, her crisp white blouse tucked into charcoal gabardine slacks. A sweater the color of a Granny Smith apple is draped across her shoulders, and her dark hair falls to her chin, all one length, a silver streak at her forehead. When her husband left her in New York, Ms. Speck moved to Paris with her son. When her son left for college, she moved back here to Iowa to care for her sick mother. When her mother left us all two years ago, Ms. Speck stayed. I guess when you’ve already lived in New York and Paris, there’s no point in trying anywhere else.

“I’d like to remind you,” Ms. Speck begins, “that as the guidance counselor here at Coral Sands High, I am always available to speak with you about anything, and our conversations are absolutely confidential. Sexual violence of any kind can be frightening and unsettling, also confusing. I encourage you to talk about any concerns or feelings you may have with your parents or with me or one of the other teachers here. You can use the school website to sign up for an appointment with me, or stop by the French room. My email and contact information are on the bulletin board.”

Principal Hargrove comes back to the mic to say one more thing. “Remember that this is an ongoing investigation. We will be cooperating with the police, and some of you may be asked to surrender your phones and tablets. Apparently, there were pictures and videos circulating of the event in question. If you have any evidence at all, we urge you to come forward. We will help you make a report to the proper authorities.”

This final announcement bounces across the gym like a stick of dynamite, which rolls to a stop beneath the bleachers. The Coral Sands basketball elite are seated all around me. Every single person I can see was at Dooney’s party, and each one of them had their phone out that night at one point or another.

Rachel and Christy tap at their screens like mad. The principal’s words, “surrender your phone or tablet” have ignited a fuse, and whispers erupt all over the gym.

Bullshit.

Nobody’s taking my phone, I’ll guarantee you that.

Homes, you f*cking crazy.

Fascists. They can’t treat us like that.

Who they think is about to win ’em the state tourney?

“Wow,” Lindsey says. “Have you seen this?” She is scrolling through her phone, and I pick mine up to open Twitter.

I immediately regret it:

@B1gBlue32: Wait, the police can take my phone cause U R A SLUT? #buccsincuffs

@BuccsRock: Gonna rape her good for SURE now. #r&p #buccsincuffs

@Pheebus17: White trash ho was so drunk she couldn’t tell a dick from a donut. #buccsincuffs

@j#mpsh0t: JAIL: what u get for inviting a TRAMP to the party #buccsincuffs

@fr0nt￠er: If we lose state cause of this whore she’s gonna get more than raped. #r&p #buccsincuffs

A sudden sickness wells up in my throat. The picture of Stacey draped over Deacon’s shoulder is attached to several tweets, and I realize that she’s the target of every vile word I’m reading. I know we’re not close anymore, but I can’t help picturing the girl who used to play soccer with us. Long before the Stacey with the dark eyeliner, the long bright nails, and the pot hookup, she was just this other girl on the team.

She was our friend.

Stacey came over to my house a couple times back in seventh grade after Saturday morning games. Her mom was waiting tables and wouldn’t be off until later in the afternoon. We were trying to study for a vocabulary quiz one time, and Stacey kept looking out my window at the birdbath, naming the birds. I saw that her vocab worksheet was covered in doodles. A flock of tiny sparrows and blue jays hovered in the margins and corners. She had an old leather-bound field guide in her backpack. She said it was from the Audubon Society and that she wanted to be an ornithologist. I didn’t even know what that meant.