I didn’t go back to school. Neither did Cal, Tim, or Parker. News broke early Monday morning about my attack, though my identity was kept private. The boys were at least eighteen, so their faces showed up on television screens all over the city. By the following week the story had gone national once the boys were connected with the Fantasy Slut League. It was the most sensational news story to hit the greater Raleigh area since the Duke lacrosse players scandal. I didn’t want to see or hear any comparisons between the two stories: the Duke players were innocent. Cal, Tim, and Parker were not.
Tim would prove the hardest to prosecute, I learned. DNA evidence found no traces of semen. That didn’t surprise me. I was certain every one of them wore a condom. I was surprised when DNA tests matched a pubic hair found inside me to Cal. Teeth marks on Parker’s hand corroborated my story of biting him. The marks on my wrists were consistent with being bound. With zip ties, I later learned. But nothing on my person pointed to Tim.
Hunter, Mike, and Aaron were humiliated for their participation in the league, but they weren’t charged with any crime because they had no knowledge of the rapes. The school could take no action against them because their sexual activities occurred off campus. Patrick Langston was able to dig up additional information I could never find: the girl responsible for feeding sexual statuses to the boys about their “drafts.”
Annabel Kingsley was the most popular senior at our school. I could never make sense of why she did it, unless she simply loved the power and control it gave her over all those girls. All four graduated quietly and disappeared from the harsh media glare. Their story couldn’t stack up to the rape cases, and I’m sure they were relieved to be forgotten.
Ryan visited me faithfully every day after school to check up on me and bring me my class assignments. My mother couldn’t be happier. She liked him immediately, told me over and over how good he was for me, and I knew she was right. I showed my appreciation as best I could, but I was still reeling from my attack. Sometimes I couldn’t remember the conversations I had with him when he popped by. Sometimes I cried on him for hours. Other times I tried to kiss him because I thought I should do that as his girlfriend, but it felt strange and scary. I was afraid of intimacy. It scared the hell out of me thinking I was too emotionally damaged to ever have sex again.
I visited Dr. Merryweather three times a week after the attack. Suddenly I didn’t think therapy was self-indulgent bullshit. I needed her. I needed her to help me sort out my issues. I would not stay wounded forever. I was determined to heal.
Amelia was the first to break her silence. She called me herself to tell me she was coming forward. Tara was the second. I was shocked when I learned she decided to press charges. She actually visited me one morning, and I didn’t recognize her.
“Yeah, I decided black hair was too much upkeep,” she said, sitting across from me at the kitchen table sporting her old strawberry-blond locks.
I grinned.
“And I guess the goth look really wasn’t me. Just something I hid behind, but I suppose you already knew that,” she continued.
I nodded, eyeing her surprisingly ordinary khaki shorts and white T-shirt.
“I’m not supposed to be telling you anything, but I think Tim is gonna cave and go for the plea deal. I admit that I’d be relieved to not have to testify in court.”
“Understandable,” I said. “I’m hoping the same goes for me, but the deal isn’t good. We’re talking years in prison. Those boys may try to take their chances. Well, Tim, anyway. He’s the only one who escaped DNA evidence.”
Tara scoffed. “Brooke, you think Parker and Cal aren’t gonna try to take Tim down if they know they’re going down? There’s no such thing as loyalty in those situations.”
I nodded, glancing at my cell phone. Ryan should have been here by now.
“Well, I better get going,” Tara said. “Again, sorry for being such a raging bitch to you before. You only wanted to interview me about cafeteria food, right?” She winked at me, and I giggled.
“Lame, I know. I’m not the smoothest investigator, okay? What do you want from me?”
Tara hugged me and disappeared out the front door, leaving me alone to wait for Ryan. Dad was still at work. Mom went to the grocery store for milk.
I went into the living room and turned on the TV. The four o’clock news was on, and I thought to switch the channel to MTV or Bravo. There’d be something mindless to watch on those channels, and that’s definitely what I needed right now. I froze, though, when an update flashed on the screen about the rape cases. Another girl had come forward claiming to have been raped by all three of my attackers and a fourth. There they were, same pictures as before, lined up in the center of the screen: Cal, Tim, Parker . . . Ryan?
Oh my God.
I stared, blinking several times because I knew I was mistaken. My Ryan, displayed at the end of the line, and I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.