What We Saw(35)

Do you know who was there?

I stare at my feet as I walk, trying to avoid looking at the camera.

Did you see what happened?

I have to glance up to see if I am even headed in the right direction. I shield my face with my hand for a quick peek, but the camera is two feet away, practically up my nose, and anyone watching in Coral Sands will recognize me. If Sloane can run iPhone video on the air, god only knows what she’ll do with this. Now everyone will know I was here. How will I explain this?

As I get to the truck, I fumble through my pockets for the keys. The cameraman stands next to the bed, shooting my profile as the key ring spills from my fingers and falls to the ground. Sloane’s hand is on my arm now, a warm, firm current. I jerk away, grab the keys from the ground, and turn on her.

“Leave me alone!”

Even as I say the words, I realize it’s too late. I’ve handed her a victory. I see it flash across the whites of her eyes: contact.

“I just want to get the whole story from someone who was there.”

The sincerity in her voice startles me as I scramble to find the button on the key fob to click open the locks. I stare back at her for a split second, and Sloane holds a hand up to her cameraman. The light clicks off. He slides the evidence of my visit off his shoulder. Black holes float in front of my eyes, and I wish for a moment they would suck me into a different dimension.

“You were there, weren’t you?”

My father’s voice rings in my ears: As far as this family is concerned, you don’t even know where that Doone boy lives.

I give my head a single shake, but Sloane doesn’t buy it. My thumb hovers over the button to pop the locks. She reaches out again, tentative, with the gentle stealth of an expert diffusing a bomb. She senses that at any moment I might blow. Her glossy manicure flashes across my sleeve, and once more her hand is on my arm.

There is no trace of the tough-as-nails reporter on Sloane’s face now, no hint of the pleased-as-punch smile she gave Coach Sanders earlier today as she fled the gym. Here, in the shadows, Sloane appears oddly human. Without the harsh light from the cameras filling in every contour, her eyes look puffy underneath, and there are dark circles seeping through her concealer. Her lipstick has worn off. Her smile is sad. I can tell she’s tired. For the first time ever, she looks like a real person.

Even her voice is different, now. When she speaks to me, she’s friendly, not official. “I’m only trying to find out what really happened that night.”

That’s why I’m here, too. I was there when Deputy Jennings read Dooney the charges: sexual assault. I’ve heard Sloane say the word rape over and over this week.

But what do those words mean? What really happened?

I came here to ask Stacey face-to-face. The only information I have is secondhand: Sloane’s news reports and gossip at school. No hard evidence at all. Sure, there are formal charges, but right now, it’s Stacey’s word against Dooney’s.

Is Sloane as confused as I am? Or does she have more information than I do? If she does, do I really want to know what it is?

My thumb plunges down on the button. The locks on the truck slide and click like the bolt of a shotgun. In a flash, I slip out of Sloane’s reach and into the cab, one fluid motion that causes her shoulders to slump in failure, and her voice to raise over the roar of the engine as it growls to life.

“She was raped. At least three different basketball players assaulted her that night. She was unconscious. She spent all day Sunday at the hospital.”

I flip on the headlights and see Sloane make a move to race around the front of the truck. I spin the wheel to cut her off, then hit the gas and take Dad’s advice:

Steer clear.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE


HarperCollins Publishers

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twenty


“PERMISSION SLIPS TODAY for the big field trip in a couple weeks!”

Mr. Johnston passes a stack of canary yellow pages to the person at the first desk in each row. Hand over hand, they flutter toward the back of the room until everybody has one.

I hereby give my consent . . .

It’s the second time this word has pinged against my brain today. It filtered up to my bedroom this morning from the TV in the kitchen while Mom and Dad had coffee. “Today in Iowa” was on Channel Thirteen. I wondered briefly if Sloane might air the footage of me at the trailer park, but there was no gasp of recognition from Mom, so I hit snooze and rolled over to grab another ten minutes.

Instead, all I could hear was that word, over and over:

. . . an ongoing conversation about consent. Whether the alleged sexual contact was consensual. Whether the victim was lucid enough to give her consent . . .

Mr. Johnston is stoked about this field trip. “The Devonian Flood Plain is about an hour and a half from here. We’ll leave during first period and get back about the time school ends for the day.”

Excitement buzzes around the room. The general consensus appears to be that a bus ride to look at fossils and fast food on the way back is more desirable than a full day of regular classes.

Rachel raises her hand. “Mr. Johnston, what if my mom won’t let me go?”

“Why wouldn’t she let you go?”

Rachel smirks. “Because she doesn’t trust TV stars like you?”