“What are you talking about?” Alison asks. “What Polaroids?”
“Of Cressida naked in Hamidou’s bed, for one,” Kersti says, lowering her voice. “And a very disturbing note from Cressida to Hamidou.”
“Who gave that to you?”
“I have no idea,” Kersti says. “I thought maybe you—”
“No. I’ve never told anyone. I never let her take my picture.”
“So it did happen to you?”
“It started when I was eight,” she says, her tone flat. “In third grade. She came to my room one night and got into my bed. She told me she loved me like a daughter and offered to snuggle with me.”
“You don’t have to tell me—”
“I said yes, of course. I loved her, too. And the first few times, that’s all she did. Snuggle me. I felt so cared for, so loved. I was lonely at the Lycée and her coming to me at nighttime and lying down with me, it meant the world to me.”
Kersti sits down on the bench feeling hot and tired. Alison sits down beside her.
“She used to scratch my back and hum songs to me,” Alison remembers. “I would fall asleep like that, feeling so content. And then one night, she was scratching my back and her hand slid around to my chest. She fondled me for a while and I honestly didn’t know what to make of it. I was confused. I don’t remember being traumatized at all, not at the time. That came later. At the time, I just remember thinking that maybe that was how European moms snuggled.”
Alison looks up at the sky, squinting into the sun. “Anyway, it went on for years. She would masturbate me and then I would do it to her. I thought I was the only one.”
“Did you ever try to tell someone?” Kersti asks, not wanting to offend her. Knowing she’s out of her depth.
“No,” Alison answers. “I loved her. It was very confusing. I dreaded her visits, but part of me didn’t want it to stop. It was really the only affection I got. At some point I clued into the fact that it was wrong. I was ashamed. I thought it was my fault. I never would have told anyone. In fact, until I got together with you in Toronto, the plan was to basically take it to my grave.”
“What happened?”
Alison shrugs, looks away. “I guess you got me thinking about what happened to Cressida,” she says. “You got inside my head.”
“Did you know it was also happening to her?”
“I never knew for sure,” she says. “Until the night she fell.”
“What happened?”
“She stopped in my room when I was getting ready for volleyball,” Alison remembers. “She was very cryptic. She told me she had proof of what was happening. She never used Hamidou’s name, but she showed me a ledger. I don’t know what was in it, but she told me she was going to bury it somewhere until she could give it to Bueche and Harzenmoser.”
“Bury it?”
“Hamidou used to go through our things,” Alison says. “I’d come back to my room and I could tell she’d been in there. She would leave little clues. We had no privacy. I’m sure Cressida was paranoid. Plus, she was always very dramatic.”
“So she knew it was happening to you, but you didn’t know it was happening to her?” Kersti clarifies.
“I guess so.”
“No one else besides Cressida ever said anything to you about Hamidou?”
“God, no. It was like an unspoken rule for us, I guess. No one ever asked me and I never asked anyone.”
“What about Lille?”
“I always figured if it was happening to anyone else, it was probably Lille. She was so damaged. But I never had the courage to bring it up.”
“That must be what she was going to tell me in her letter,” Kersti says, thinking about how Lille’s fifth point had been left blank. “She never finished.”
“I don’t blame her,” Alison says. “Especially Lille. She had so much shame.”
“I wonder if Cressida went to every girl who she knew was being abused by Hamidou and told all of them about the ledger?” Kersti says, thinking out loud, suddenly remembering the look on Lille’s face when she burst into Cressida’s room after volleyball that night. What if Cressida had already showed Lille the ledger and told her of her plan to go forward with it?
“Alison, didn’t you think Cressida’s fall might have had something to do with the sexual abuse?” Kersti asks her. “I mean it happened the night she told you she was going to Bueche with proof—”
Alison looks away guiltily. Her body sags, her eyes cloud over. “The mind does extraordinary things to cope,” she says softly. “You wouldn’t believe the lies I’ve told myself, the denial, the rationalizations, the blind spots. I had to find a way to function and I did.”
In a way, Kersti understands that. Hasn’t she done exactly the same thing all this time?
“The guilt finally got me,” Alison says. “That’s why I came here.”
She looks away for a moment and Kersti can tell she’s struggling to hold back tears. She’s not the type to let anyone see her be vulnerable. “I’m also going to tell the school about Hamidou,” she says, her discomfort palpable. “Which I should have done twenty years ago. I could have prevented—”
“Don’t go there,” Kersti says gently. “You can stop her now.”
“I’m going to Bueche first,” she says. “And if it turns out Hamidou did push Cressida, I’ll do whatever I can to help Deirdre.”
“Do you think Hamidou pushed Cressida?”
“No,” Alison says. “I think Cressida tried to kill herself. And I get that.”
“But Cressida was going to expose the whole thing—”
“You know what I think?” Alison interrupts. “I think Hamidou really loved Cressida. I think she was probably in love with her, and I don’t think she could have pushed her off that balcony any more than I think she could have pushed me. She loved us, Kersti. That was the worst part of it. I know it’s twisted, but she really loved us.”
She stands up and Kersti has to shield her eyes from the sun to see her.
“So, no,” Alison concludes. “I don’t think Hamidou pushed Cressida, but I do believe she’s one hundred percent responsible for what happened to her. And for that she has to pay.”
After the ceremony, when everyone starts to mingle around the grounds and sip champagne, Kersti makes a beeline for Bueche.
“Excellent speech,” he says, popping a petit four in his mouth. “We’re very proud of you. You’ve represented the Lycée very well. Madame Harzenmoser wasn’t up to being here today, but she asked me to give you her regards and congratulate you.”
“Monsieur Bueche,” Kersti says urgently. “Something is about to come out that will destroy the Lycée’s reputation.”
She can see the panic darken his eyes. A vein starts to pulsate down the middle of his forehead.
“What did those girls spray-paint on the statue in ’74?” she asks him.
“This is hardly the time—”
“I know about Hamidou,” Kersti says, glaring at him.