Reputation(97)
“I don’t . . .” I whisper, closing my eyes. But I can’t deny it anymore. Not when it’s so clear he knows. It is horrifying, but he knows. The memories pound me, wet and hot, not just flickers anymore but with true, hard edges.
God, it was long ago. I certainly wasn’t the type of girl who went to frat parties—because, Jesus, frat parties were for idiots. But this girl I knew from the punk club, Andrea, said it might be “ironically fun.” And so I’d thought, What the hell?
Ironically fun. I dressed up like a girl going to a frat party, buying a tight red dress from Goodwill, applying sparkly eye shadow goopily all over my lids, sliding on platform heels, and practicing my dumb-girl laugh. This would be a performance piece, I figured. I’d be an undercover reporter. When I crossed the threshold into the house, I must have passed the skank test, because the frat guys—brothers? I didn’t fucking know—looked at me approvingly. Someone handed me a beer, and I chugged it.
For a while, it was fun. I drank beers. Guys came up to me and said they liked my dress, my shoes, my tits, my ass—totally unapologetically, like they thought they were being chivalrous and loving. It was all so despicable, but strangely intriguing—I felt like I’d gone undercover into a strange new land.
But then the room tilted. I was drunk so suddenly, in a sickening whoosh. I laughed loudly, found myself taking part in one conversation and then abruptly I was elsewhere, talking to someone else. Eventually I found myself with someone cute. He was tall with a face like a heartthrob on a reality dating show. Not my kind of guy, but then, I wasn’t really in my right mind.
I rose to my tiptoes, scanning the crowd for Andrea, but I couldn’t find her. I should have left then, but the guy I was talking to placed a hand on my arm like he owned me. No. You can’t leave yet. I almost slapped him—I certainly wanted to. But my limbs felt unsteady, and my aim was off. I felt weak. Scared, even. I’d never been scared of anything in my life.
What happened next was a toxic, confused blur: that same guy taking me by the hand, kissing me. I kissed him back at first, but then I had enough. Except the guy didn’t take no for an answer. We were in a dark hallway. The music was far away, a distant bass line. He backed me into a dark room even though I kept slurring that I wanted to go home.
My butt on the mattress. My shoes falling off with a thunk. I tried to fight because I’m a fucking fighter and this did not happen to people like me—liberated women, strong women, women who didn’t take any shit.
And then. The feeling of being split open. Wanting to scream, maybe actually screaming, but the sound being swallowed up by laughter and music and indifference.
Later, I woke up in a twin bed with dark sheets in a room I’d never seen before. I was wearing the short, trampy red dress from the thrift store, though the skirt had been hiked over my naked butt. It was like someone had used me up and then tossed me away.
As soon as I sat up, pain rippled through my body. A half memory rushed back, and I gasped. I heard snippets of loud music from the night before. I tasted the beer on the roof of my mouth. And then pain rocketed through me. I clutched my throat, remembering someone pressing his weight on me. Remembering screaming, fighting. The rest of the evening rolled back in vomitus, disjointed pieces. Except it couldn’t have happened to me. There was no way.
The hallway of the frat house was eerily silent. The living room was trashed with empty cups and bottles, cigarette butts, and an inflatable dildo sticking out of a lampshade. People were snoring on couches and chairs and even the sticky, grimy floor—was Ollie one of them? He must have been.
I wanted to throw up again at the sight of them. Had they all known what had happened to me? Did they just not give a shit?
A kid on the couch opened one eye. “Hey.” Then he sat up straighter. “Oh. Hey.”
He had broad shoulders and squinty eyes. The day before, I might have found him somewhat hot . . . but now, he repulsed me. I didn’t think this was the guy who had hurt me the night before, but what if he’d watched? Because suddenly, I had the distinct feeling that other people were in the room as witnesses. Cheering. Laughing.
“Sleep okay?” The guy walked around the couch toward me. He was at least six three. His biceps were gigantic. There was something predatory about his smile. “Want some coffee? Hair of the dog?”
Get away from me, I wanted to scream. But I felt dizzy, like I might pass out. Fight or flight—I’d learned about it in health class. Please don’t faint, I willed.
The guy must have sensed my fear because he stopped. “Hey now. You’re okay, aren’t you?” When I didn’t answer, he frowned. “There’s cool-girl code about what goes on here, you know.” His smile morphed. “You’re a cool girl, right? You certainly seem cool.”
“Y-Yes.” By this time, I’d backed up to the door. There was a menacing smirk on the guy’s face, like he found all of this entertaining.
Stop thinking about it, I scream at my brain now, but it’s like Ollie hit a switch. Here are all the thoughts that have been crowding my mind for years, suddenly running free.
“I didn’t think much about you until recently, though,” Ollie tells me, dragging me back to the present. “After the hack broke, when President Manning gave all those speeches. I remembered what those guys did to President Manning’s daughter. And then I realized nothing had ever come of that. It seemed even more poignant after those rape stories surfaced.”