Reputation(112)

I zip up my wet suit to my chin and slide on booties, humming to myself. I feel good. Better than I’ve felt in a long time. It’s hard to believe there were a few days back in April when I wasn’t sure if I’d be arrested. Finally, several days into our dad’s stay at the hospital—the cancer had indeed spread to other organs, including his brain, and because he’d confessed, there was now an armed guard sitting outside his room—the NSA agent who had taken over the hack case, a stout man with a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, named Carruthers, met with me, Kit, and my new lawyer.

Carruthers said that the charges against me had been dropped. It wasn’t right that I’d had a discussion with Blue, and it wasn’t right that I’d put the idea to hack Aldrich into the hacker’s mind, but because no money had officially exchanged hands, I couldn’t be held accountable for everything Blue did. Blue had hacked the Ivies and Aldrich because he’d wanted to; he’d exposed the universities due to a vendetta he had against institutional learning as a whole.

The news of Blue’s arrest would hit airwaves and the Internet the next day, Carruthers went on, but Blue and only Blue would be to blame. My involvement, including what prompted me to want to look into Aldrich’s files, wouldn’t be part of the story. I was free.

And my story was still a secret.

I paddle over the shallow breakers. Farther out, a few of the younger guys twist around and break into broad grins at Sienna and Aurora, who are only a few steps behind me. Nothing sexier than surfer girls.

Cold, salty water splashes my face. We reach the break, push up onto our boards, and bob. A wave crests toward me, and I start to paddle for it, but the current’s too weak, so I stop midway through.

Both girls wait back at the sandbar. Sienna meets my eye as I sidle up next to her. “So have you seen what’s been going on online?” she hesitantly asks.

I spit out a column of water. “Another hack?” In the months that have passed, dozens of other businesses, institutions, political campaigns, and celebrities’ private photo albums have been hacked and released to the world. More reputations have crumbled. More people have been shamed. Practically every week, I cover another one at “The Source.” You could say I’m sort of the hack expert these days.

Sienna shakes her head. “No. All those posts on Facebook. The MeToo stuff.”

Out at sea, a pelican dives for a fish, coming up with the thing flopping around in its jaws. “Oh. Yeah.” The posts began popping up on my Facebook feed a few days ago. They’ve even been one of the meeting topics at work.

“Have you thought about writing something?” Aurora asks quietly.

The girls’ shoulders have broadened since they’ve moved to California. In the evenings, when I come home from work, I often find them hanging out in my apartment, wanting to show me a new poem they wrote, or a funny Instagram post, or to tell me about a new cold-pressed juice place they tried. It is hard to imagine I was afraid that after finding out I’d initiated the hack—and ruined so many lives—they’d never speak to me again.

I stare into the sky, thinking about Sienna’s question. Water streams through my fingers.

“I mean, it’s okay if you don’t.” Sienna’s response is quick, apologetic, like she’s spoken out of turn. “It’s your experience to post or not post.”

Another wave breaks over us. A couple of guys to our right catch it and ride it all the way to shore, but I hug the board with my inner thighs to stay put. Aurora and Sienna know everything about what happened to me the night at the frat—I’ve even told them more details than I disclosed that day in the hospital. I haven’t quite known how much weight to give it. It’s certainly not something I want to glamorize or exploit. I want to be an empowering figure for the girls, not a tragic one. Too many women have been cast in that role already. At the same time, what’s the difference between what happened to me and what happened to Sienna? Not much. My situation was perhaps more violent, but we were both forced into corners—and into silence.

Since coming back to California, I’ve tried to make strides to heal—really heal. I found a new therapist. New medication. A support group. I took up surfing again. I’ve opened up to my family—slowly, because old habits take time. I’ve opened up to Paul, too, who is an excellent listener—patient, kind, intuitive. I guess it’s turning into something, considering that Paul is moving out this way in two weeks’ time. He’s been hinting at it for months, but I staved him off, saying I felt more comfortable with the long-distance thing—we’d meet at a central point in Chicago or Minnesota and spend long weekends together. But he applied for a job at a music website out here and got it . . . so here he comes. I’m nervous about it, though Kit, Aurora, and Sienna are all cheering me on.

I guess the worst that can happen is that it doesn’t work out. But maybe I should think positively for once.

There are other new things, too. After the news of the frat broke, Marilyn O’Leary was under formal criminal investigation, and the Feds came up with a number of just how many rape accusations she’d buried and deflected: sixteen. That’s more than I even knew of in my Facebook group. It probably isn’t everyone, either—considering I didn’t come forward, I’m guessing others didn’t as well. But still: sixteen. It’s shocking. Their names weren’t released, but I felt like I knew them all the same.