What We Saw(56)

“Wanna ride shotgun, Pistol?”

Will’s face almost falls off when Ben says this. Ben, making it easy, surprising me one more time by being even better than I expect him to be. I smile and tell them I’ll meet them there, then head back into the deserted hallways.

On the way back to my car, I follow Principal Hargrove through the side door to the parking lot. He is leaving for the day, a briefcase in hand. I realize he’s started parking behind the school. The faculty spots in front are probably too close to the news vans. As I step outside, I see I’m not the only one who has figured this out.

Sloane Keating is dressed to the nines from the waist up: salmon-colored suit jacket, flat-ironed hair, and a full face of makeup. Anything the camera will see is perfect but she’s wearing jeans and Nikes down below. She puts the sneakers to good use keeping up with Principal Hargrove’s long strides toward his station wagon, shouting questions at him all the way.

How much do you know that you aren’t saying?

How many kids were at the party?

Why aren’t you insisting they come forward with any information they have?

Are you involved in the cover-up?

This final question makes Mr. Hargrove pull up short, halfway to his car. A flush of righteous indignation spreads from his cheeks in both directions, dribbling down his neck and scalding his bald spot.

“Ma’am, your questions are out of line.”

“Your refusal to answer the questions makes people suspicious.” Sloane says this pleasantly, like she’s discussing the state basketball tournament this weekend or the fact that the weather warmed up again last night.

Principal Hargrove takes a deep breath. “The boys who have been dragged into this mess are good kids and—”

“Who’ve been accused of rape.” Sloane is not backing down.

“They are innocent until proven guilty,” he fires back. “You’ve decided they’re guilty already.” The principal jabs a finger in the direction of the front parking lot. “You people are holding your own trial out there.”

“Nothing can be proven at all until we have the facts.” Sloane is firm and unwavering.

“The facts?” Principal Hargrove puffs. “The facts are that these guys come from good families. Their parents are good people, friends of mine. Their homes are stable. They are pillars of this community. All of that has been called into question by a young woman who has little supervision, and by most accounts has made some very questionable moral judgments.”

“Can I quote you on that?” Sloane is speaking into her phone and holds it back toward the principal, recording every word.

“No, you may not,” he thunders. Mr. Hargrove wipes his hand across his forehead. It’s a fruitless attempt to settle the hair he no longer has and the nerves over which he has clearly lost control.

“I’m telling you,” he says in a low voice, “stop chasing the narrative you want. Look at what’s right in front of you, for Christ’s sake. What do you gain by ruining these boys’ futures?”


Sloane furrows her brow in concern and nods slowly, thoughtfully. “See, Wendall, the question I’m curious about is, what do you gain by protecting them?”

Principal Hargrove’s eyes narrow. “You’re gonna have a scoop even if you have to make it up. Is that the way it works now? We just invent the news?” His voice creeps up in volume. “Mark my words, young lady, you’re not a hero. No washed-up movie star is gonna play you in the Lifetime movie version of this story.”

Sloane lets out a musical laugh that surprises me, all tinkling bells and fairy dust. When she looks back at him, her smile is warm and endearing—like she’s flirting over a beer at Applebee’s—but when she speaks, her voice is a deep freeze.

“So tell me, have you seen the video?”

The question is ice water. I stand frozen on the sidewalk, three feet from the back door as Wendall Hargrove jerks his head in silent disgust. He opens his mouth, thinks better of it, then stalks to his car in double time. He tosses his briefcase onto the passenger seat, slams the door, and achieves the only station wagon peel out to which I have ever held witness.

Sloane Keating watches him go, arms crossed, her back to me. She shakes her head as his car disappears, then taps at the screen of her phone while she strides toward the satellite trucks. Her voice is strong enough that she doesn’t have to turn around when she calls out, “Good to see you, Kate.” She knows I can hear her, and she keeps on walking without a backward glance.

By the time I pull into the parking lot at Happy Joe’s, Will is sandwiched between Rachel and Christy in one of the big round booths at the back. Lindsey is on one side about to fall off the edge, and Ben is on the other, saving what looks like just enough room for half of my rear end.

I slide in next to him, and he pulls me toward him. It’s cozy.

“How’s your head?” he whispers.

“Better now,” I tell him, which is partially true. My head doesn’t hurt so much any more, but it’s spinning after what I saw in the parking lot.

“Hey, Rachel,” says Will in his cool-dude voice, “put your arm around me, so I’ll look like a playa.” Rachel laughs and complies while Christy moans. Ben grins and holds a fist for Will to bump across the table.

“Don’t encourage him,” I tell Ben.