What We Saw(27)

“Yeah.” A funny sensation crosses my tongue as I say that word. My agreement tastes sour. Don’t we have a pretty clear picture of what went on? I smile at Rachel and keep looking for something to wear. I’ve flipped through a whole rack, but wasn’t really paying attention. I keep seeing Stacey in that halter top.

Christy sweeps open the curtain to her dressing room. “Boom. Mic drop.” She struts out in a powder-blue pantsuit that looks like a costume from an old disco movie, dancing over to us, bell-bottoms swaying. The rest of us laugh so hard we can’t speak.

Lindsey regains composure first and shakes her head in amazement. “It’s perfect.”

“Right?” Christy is as pleased as we are. “I’ll tell you one thing, Stacey woulda been just fine if she’d worn this to Dooney’s.”

Letting things go is not Christy’s strong suit. I hold my breath for a second hoping that Rachel will allow the moment to pass, but she doesn’t.

“Wait—what?” Rachel cocks her head to the side.

Christy sorts through a bin of platform shoes. “C’mon, Rach. Stacey went to that party looking for trouble.”

Lindsey frowns as Rachel turns back to us, her wide eyes encouraging me to jump in at any time. Instead, I stay silent. Please let’s not talk about this here. I try to beam the words into Rachel’s brain, but she misses my mental text message.

“I think she went to that party for the same reason we all did,” Rachel tells Christy. “To have some fun.”

“And how do we know she didn’t have fun?” Christy asks. “Maybe she had too much fun and regretted it in the morning. So she freaked out.”


“It doesn’t look like she’s having much fun in that picture,” Rachel says.

“It was one snapshot,” groans Christy. “For all we know, Stacey posed for that.”

“And then filed charges?” asks Rachel.

Christy seems to ignore this and keeps digging through shoes. As I turn to ask Rachel’s opinion of a butter-yellow princess dress, Lindsey pipes up. “I’m just really confused.”

“It all seems pretty obvious to me,” says Christy. “Stacey’s been trying to get with Dooney all year. Probably threw herself at all those guys when they went downstairs, then changed her mind after she got what she wanted.”

Lindsey frowns, running her finger across the sherbet-colored marabou on the dress draped over her arm. “I don’t think that makes sense.”

“Me neither,” says Rachel. “How do we know those guys didn’t make a pass at her?”

“Whose side are you on?” Chirsty asks. “I mean, Dooney and Deacon are morons, sure. But they’re our morons. They’re not animals.”

“I know, I know,” Rachel says. “It’s just . . . why are we automatically assuming the guys are the ones telling the truth?”

Christy’s eyes go wide. “Excuse me? Did you see the skirt Stacey was wearing at that party? I have washcloths made of more fabric.”

Rachel nods as she heads into the dressing room with a few selections, but her face looks like she caught a whiff of rotten eggs. “Stacey’s clothes were pretty revealing,” she says through the curtain. “My mom wouldn’t have let me walk to the kitchen in that outfit she was wearing.”

“Wait,” Lindsey says. “Just because she’s wearing skimpy clothes means that she’s lying about those guys forcing themselves on her?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” says Christy. “It’s Stacey’s word against theirs. She’s accusing them.” Christy settles on a pair of platform shoes and turns to address me and Lindsey. “Look, this is not rocket science. It’s common sense. If you don’t want to work a guy into a lather, keep your cooch covered up.”

I laugh in spite of myself because of the way Christy says “cooch.” Rachel giggles from behind the curtain.

Lindsey smiles, but she’s not letting it drop, and part of me wants to run over and put my hands over her mouth. Please don’t egg Christy on.

“I dunno.” Lindsey sounds unconvinced. “Look at Beyoncé and Miley. They dress like that. Sometimes they wear way less than Stacey was wearing. Does that mean they want guys to have sex with them even if they say no?”

Rachel whips open the curtain. “Everyone! Shut up and look at me.”

She poses, like a print model, her hands tangled in her hair, holding it up from her shoulders. The dress is a crimson eighties number with an asymmetrical neckline. The short, shiny red skirt fits her perfectly. The triangular top bares her shoulders and seems to be supported from within to keep its shape. The whole thing is finished off by a bow at the waist with a giant rhinestone center. She looks like a character in this old movie Will and I watched the other night on cable called Heathers.

“How very,” I say.

“That’s the one,” Lindsey agrees.

Rachel walks out and steps into a pair of the highest heels I have ever seen. There are bows across both toes, and she immediately grabs my shoulder for balance. “Oh my god!” She laughs, struggling to stay upright. “And I’m not even drunk.”

Christy takes Rachel’s other hand to steady her.

“It’s just so scary,” Rachel says.