I shook because of it. I was scared of it. I didn’t know how to comfort her. I never understood the complete desolation one feels when her will, her rights, are stripped from her. And she doesn’t want to hear “I’m sorry” from someone who doesn’t have a clue. It’s offensive.
I crouched on the ground beside Lucy, letting her cry. Not shushing her. Not feeling embarrassed as people walked in and out of the coffee shop staring at us. Not even offering words of sympathy. I wasn’t concerned with anything but my dawning epiphany. It’s as though I heard Beth’s voice whispering from heaven’s gates, and she was forgiving me. Or maybe it was me, for the first time in months, able to let go of my past sins. Able to forgive myself. All because of Lucy, and her revelation to me. I didn’t want to be a victim. I didn’t want my world ripped apart. I wanted justice, but I realized it had to be sought by different means. I wanted to protect my body, my mind, because I was witnessing what happened to someone when her right to do that was stolen from her.
I drove Lucy to my house. We huddled inside my bedroom all afternoon, and I shared everything with her just like I did with Dr. Merryweather. She breathed a sigh of relief when I promised her I had abandoned my plan to set up Cal, and encouraged me to take my information about the Fantasy Slut League public. I suggested she go forward, but she argued the absence of hard evidence.
“Will you at least tell your parents?” I asked.
Lucy shrugged. “What could they do about it?”
“I don’t know, but they’re your parents, and they love you.”
The side of Lucy’s mouth turned up. “I suppose.”
“Will you think about it?” I pressed.
She nodded then took my hand. “Yes, Brooke. But I’m only considering what you’re saying because you’re so nice.”
I smirked. “I’m not a nice person, Lucy.”
“Yes you are. I know Cal was feeding you all kinds of bullshit about me, but you were always nice, even when I stopped talking to you for awhile.”
“I should have told you what I was doing with him a long time ago,” I said. “I just didn’t know who I could trust.”
“It’s understandable,” Lucy said. “I’m just glad you didn’t actually like him.”
“Gross. No way,” I said, and she grinned.
“I don’t think Beth handled what happened to her the right way, but I see why she did it,” Lucy said after a time.
I listened, not wanting to interrupt. I wanted to hear the perspective of another victim.
“It’s easy to sink into a bad depression. I did. It’s easy to withdraw. It’s easy to see no purpose in anything: your daily routine, your relationships with others. Everything becomes pointless or scary. For me it was pointless. I think for your friend, it was scary. And when you’re scared of the world, you want to escape it.”
I hung my head.
“I wish she were stronger. I wish she were still here. It’d be nice to have a friend who understands what I went through. Someone who experienced it, too.”
Suddenly I had an idea. I pulled the tarnished half-heart from underneath my shirt. I had started wearing the necklace again about a week ago, hidden under my shirts, resting against my heart. I learned from her mother that Beth was buried with a few of her most special personal belongings, and the half-heart necklace was one of them.
I unfastened the chain and gave it to Lucy.
“What’s this?” she asked, fingering the charm.
“Beth gave that half to me on my eighth birthday. She was buried with the other,” I explained. “I want you to have it.”
“Brooke, I can’t take this!” Lucy said, thrusting the necklace into my hands. I pushed back shaking my head.
“I want you to have it, Lucy. I really do. I know you didn’t have any connection to her in life, but now you can.” I searched for the right words, but I knew my sentiment would come out sounding sappy. “Maybe it can bring you some comfort or something.” I averted my eyes. I felt kind of silly and overly dramatic in that moment.
Lucy hesitated for a split second before fastening the chain around her neck.
“Thank you, Brooke,” she said softly.
“You’re welcome.”
Nineteen
Word spread around school about the boys. None of the girls besides Lucy and me knew about the actual league, but they knew to stay away from Cal and his cohort. No loud talk, just urgent whispers creeping through the hallways like smoke, sending signals and warnings. The impact was immediate. I checked the current scores for Game 3, and no one had earned a single point.
“Sexual frustration is a bitch,” Gretchen said, leaning over the back of Terry’s arm chair to get a better look at the computer screen. I heard the sharp intake of Terry’s breath.
“Stop looking at her ass,” I scolded. “She’s practically a child.”
“I’m about to turn nineteen, thank you very much,” Gretchen replied, standing up and turning to face her gawker. “Is sexual frustration a bitch for you, Terry?” she asked in a playful, sultry tone.