Tears spiked out of Abby’s eyes. No adult had ever hated her before, and she was reeling. But how could they not believe their daughter had been raped when all the evidence was right there in front of them?
“Is it you?” Abby asked. “Are you protecting someone?” She looked at Mrs. Lang. “Is it him?”
In an instant, Mrs. Lang was off the couch and she had Abby by one arm and was marching her to the door. Abby tried to pull away, but Mrs. Lang dug in her claws, leaving bruises on the soft skin inside Abby’s elbow.
“How dare you,” Mrs. Lang hissed, and then she kept hissing the words over and over all the way to the door. “Don’t come back, Abby. Do not come back. Not for a long time. Not ever.”
Then she shoved Abby outside and slammed the door. Through the glass, Abby watched her lock it. They were treating her like a criminal. They were locking their doors like she was some dangerous delinquent. As if she couldn’t just throw one of their stupid modern flowerpots right through the glass and get back inside if she wanted.
Abby walked to the street, the humid air thawing her as she went, and she realized that she was still wearing Gretchen’s sweater. It suddenly felt very precious.
When Abby got home, she saw that the answering machine light was blinking. One unplayed message. Her hand was shaking so hard, it took her three tries to press Play.
“Mary, this is Grace Lang,” Mrs. Lang’s tiny recorded voice said. Even though it was small, Abby could feel it filling her house with contempt. “I am calling because of what we have learned about Abby today—what she came to our house and admitted—and we are shocked. Please call us as soon as you get this message. This matter is very serious, and we hope there’s no need to get the police involved.”
Abby’s head felt light. A high-pitched whine rang in her ears as she pushed Erase, deleting Mrs. Lang’s message forever.
“I’ll save you, Gretchen,” Abby swore to herself. “They can’t stop me from saving you.”
Jenny (867–5309)
The next morning, Abby parked in the student lot and headed straight to the main office.
“Miss Toné,” she said, “I need to speak with Major.”
There was no emergency that Miss Toné hadn’t seen, and since Abby wasn’t visibly bleeding she made her wait until the first bell.
“I’ll give you a late slip,” Miss Toné said. “But you need to take a breath.”
Abby kept an eye on the window, trying to see if Gretchen was going to walk into school, but she never appeared. The bell rang and Major came through the door. He liked to roam the halls before first period, handing out demerits for bare shoulders, bizarre fads and fashions, or any sartorial expression of personal identity that had no place at Albemarle Academy. He had just finished writing up Jumper Riley for a dress code violation (hair touching his collar) when he saw Abby and stopped short.
“I’m Abby Rivers,” she said. “In tenth grade.”
“She’s been waiting to speak with you,” Miss Toné explained.
Wordlessly, Major beckoned Abby into his office. It had the standard yellow-painted cinderblock walls and institutional furniture. The only decorations were an American flag in the corner, a large framed photo of President Reagan smiling off into the future, and a poster tacked to the back of the door. One half of the poster showed a football player smeared with mud and kneeling on the grass, bearing the words “I quit . . .” On the other half was a giant crucifix atop a hill backlit by the setting sun, saying, “He didn’t.”
Major settled his bulk behind his desk.
“Major,” Abby said. “I need to tell you about something that happened with another student. My best friend? Gretchen Lang? I think a teacher needs to know.”
He turned to a file cabinet behind him, withdrew a manila folder, set it in the center of his bare desk, and flipped through the pages. Eventually, he looked up.
“It says here that you’re one of our scholarship students, Miss Rivers,” Major said.
The digression threw Abby off guard.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I am.”
Major nodded to indicate that this point was something they both agreed on.
“In fact, at this time, you’re our most senior scholarship student,” he rumbled. “That is a great responsibility, Miss Rivers. Our Albemarle family wants to reach down and find outstanding scholars among those less fortunate, then elevate them so that they might enjoy the opportunities of a well-rounded education. But first, you must help yourself.”
Abby had no idea what he was talking about, but she did her best to be agreeable.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Exactly. And that’s why I wanted to tell you about what happened to Gretchen Lang. She’s not a scholarship student,” she added lamely.
“No,” Major agreed. “I am familiar with Miss Lang’s situation. Now, school has already started and you’re wasting valuable classroom time, so what is it you have to tell me, Miss Rivers?”
Confronted with having to say it out loud, Abby did her best.
“She was attacked?” Abby said, trying to keep emotion out of her voice. “We were staying at Margaret Middleton’s house in Wadmalaw and Gretchen got lost in the woods, and while she was out there someone did something to her. She was gone all night, and now something’s really wrong with her.”
“She was attacked?” Major repeated.
“Yes, sir.”
“By?”
“By . . . a boy?”
“A student?”
“I don’t know,” Abby admitted.
Major leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and studied the poster on the back of his door for a long moment.
“So you believe that Miss Lang was sexually assaulted?”
Abby felt her heart start to beat again. He was taking her seriously. She nodded.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“And you believe that this crime happened when you were off campus at a slumber party in Wadmalaw on the Middleton family’s property?” he asked.
Abby nodded, then followed up with a belated, “Yes, sir.”
It felt good to get it off her chest.
“And why isn’t Miss Lang here telling me this?” Major asked.
Abby thought about what Gretchen would say if she was sitting there, the star student, scabby and stinking of perfume, hunched over in her chair, mumbling about Molly Ravenel.
“She’s a little bit confused,” Abby said.
“It might interest you to know that before you arrived this morning, I received a telephone call,” Major said. “Can you guess who it was? No? It was Gretchen Lang’s mother. She was worried that you and her daughter had had a falling out. She thought you might try dragging her daughter’s name through the mud. She told me she was concerned with the nature of your friendship with her daughter. The word she used, I believe, was ‘inappropriate.’ Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Abby’s head felt hollow. She was suddenly self-conscious about how young she was. How young and how stupid.
“I do not currently have an opinion on the nature of your friendship with Miss Lang,” Major rolled on. “But I am rapidly developing one. I noted your unexcused absence yesterday. I have noted the recent changes in Miss Lang’s behavior. Do not think I am unaware of students on this campus who are selling and consuming narcotics, Miss Rivers. I have made it my mission to discover who those students are, and I have been watching Miss Lang very closely. And after this phone call from Mrs. Lang, I am now watching you very closely as well. A worried mother’s allegations are not the same thing as proof, but if I find that you are in any way responsible for the change in Gretchen Lang’s behavior, if I find that you are her ‘dealer,’ I will turn you over to the authorities. Needless to say, that will be the end of your academic career.”